A Sermon preached at
Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
19
June 2016
'Making a difference to one person'
Acts 3.1-10 One day Peter and John were going up to the
temple at the hour of prayer, at three o'clock in the afternoon. 2 And a man lame from birth was
being carried in. People would lay him daily at the gate of the temple called
the Beautiful Gate so that he could ask for alms from those entering the
temple. 3 When he saw Peter
and John about to go into the temple, he asked them for alms. 4 Peter looked intently at him, as
did John, and said, "Look at us."
5 And he fixed his attention on them, expecting to receive
something from them. 6 But
Peter said, "I have no silver or gold, but what I have I give you; in the
name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk." 7 And he took him by the right hand and raised him up; and
immediately his feet and ankles were made strong. 8 Jumping up, he stood and began
to walk, and he entered the temple with them, walking and leaping and praising
God. 9 All the people saw him
walking and praising God, 10
and they recognized him as the one who used to sit and ask for alms at the
Beautiful Gate of the temple; and they were filled with wonder and amazement at
what had happened to him.
John 9:1-16 As he walked along, he saw a man blind from
birth. 2 His disciples asked
him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born
blind?" 3 Jesus
answered, "Neither this man nor his parents sinned".
Listen to this sermon here: https://soundcloud.com/bloomsbury-1/2016-06-19-am-simon-woodmanmp3#t=41:09
The scene which Luke paints for us
in
our reading this morning from the book of Acts
is
as contemporary as it is ancient.
It could be any street, in any city, in any
country.
From
Bloomsbury to Bangalore,
the
picture is as familiar as it is troubling.
A man with a physical deformity has placed
himself
on
the pavement at a busy intersection,
and
is begging for money.
You may even have walked past him on your way
into church this morning.
Certainly,
if you regularly walk the streets of London,
you
will be no stranger to those who sit and beg.
Whether
they present you with a disability
or
a note written on a piece of cardboard,
the
message, the request, is constant:
‘Please can I have some money?’
And I wonder, what do you do?
Do
you walk on by,
ignoring
the person to the best of your ability,
pretending
not to have noticed them?
Do
you, perhaps, genuinely not notice them,
having
become so habituated to their presence
that
it is indeed possible to pass by unseeing.
Do
you mutter a prayer for them?
Do
you give them some money?
Do
you make eye contact and offer an apology,
or
perhaps more accurately
an
expression of sorrow for their condition,
before
moving on ?
Do
you offer to buy them a coffee,
or
a sandwich?
Do
you stop for a conversation,
to
try and find out more about their circumstances?
Do
you invite them to drop into Bloomsbury when we’re open,
from
10-4 during the week,
for
a cup of something warm and somewhere to sit?
I have done all of these things, and more.
And
what breaks my heart
is
that I genuinely don’t know
if
any of it has actually made any difference.
And it was no different in the first century,
with
our anonymous friend sitting outside the Temple in Jerusalem,
strategically
positioned in prime location
by
the gate called ‘Beautiful’,
with
the contrast between the soaring sublime architecture,
and
his own deformed body,
carefully
constructed to elicit maximum sympathy (and cash)
from
those entering the temple
to
bring their worship and offerings before the Lord.
How could a person with their eyes turned to
God
ignore
the plight of one of God’s suffering children?
I’m sure that many of those who came to the
temple
gave
to the beggar at the gate,
believing
that by doing so,
they
were offering to this unfortunate man
a
tangible expression of the care that God had for him.
After all, the Jewish scriptures were clear in
their commands
that
the people of God had a duty of care
for
those less fortunate than themselves;
from widows and orphans,
to
refugees and aliens in the land,
to
those with physical disability.
As the law code of Deuteronomy puts it,
‘cursed
by anyone who misleads a blind person on the road’ (27.18).
But then there was the dark side
to
the ancient Jewish attitude towards disability,
and
poverty more widely,
and
here we have to be very careful not to stand in judgment
because
our own society can all too readily
reflect
these same prejudices.
There was a strand of ancient thought
that
regarded physical deformity, and other innate disadvantages,
as
a curse from God.
In some way the disabled person was held to deserve
their disability,
the
impoverished person was held to deserve their deficiency.
In an ancient echo of contemporary debates
around
the deserving or undeserving poor,
those that enjoyed power, wealth, and health
believed
that they had received these things
as
a deserved gift from God,
leaving those from whom such benefits had been
withheld
to
fill the role of undeserving scrounger.
This is what lay behind the disciples’ question
to Jesus
in
our reading from John’s gospel,
as
to whose sin had led to the man being born blind.
Jesus, of course, is very clear in his
response:
neither
the man himself nor his parents should be held responsible.
There are no people deserving of stigma,
isolation, or disability.
There
are no poor people undeserving of kindness.
What matters for Jesus, and indeed for Peter
and John,
is
not how the person got into their plight,
but
how they can be rescued from it.
And so it is that Peter utters his famous line,
‘silver
and gold have I none, but what I have I give you.’
And on such a sentence the world turns upside
down.
In this simple statement from Peter, the basic
transaction
which
lay at the root of the Jewish Temple system was subverted.
The beggar knew how it was supposed to work,
the
worshippers knew how it was supposed to work,
the
temple officials knew how it was supposed to work.
The Temple system represented middle class
religion,
and
was primarily populated by those who had money.
The moneyed worshippers’ job was to give alms
to the poor;
whilst
the job of the poor was to receive the handouts.
It was a tried and tested system, and everyone
felt better in the process.
The small acts of kindness,
directed
towards an undeserving (or even culpable) poor,
appeased
the conscience of the rich,
whilst
at the same time highlighting their ultimate powerlessness
to
effect genuine change.
It is into this context that Peter and John
conduct their transgressive act
against
the system of inequality
that
everyone had become complicit in.
They don’t give alms to the beggar.
They
don’t give him silver, or gold, or even a few copper coins.
They refuse the transaction of handing over
money
in
exchange for a temporarily salved conscience.
Rather, Peter looks the beggar in the eye,
and
reaches out a hand to him and lift him.
This is deeply subversive stuff,
because
it is challenging all the implicit and unspoken assumptions
about
the way the world works.
The poor are not to be lifted up,
they
are not to be looked at as equals.
They are to be ignored, vilified,
blamed,
stigmatized, and done unto.
They are there to provide the ‘weak’
to
the temple system’s ‘strong’.
If Peter and John had simply given money to the
man,
they
would have become complicit in the very system
that
kept him in his poverty.
But they took a different, more Christ-like
path,
which
challenged the system
and
opened the door to transformation.
But doing this was not without consequences;
the
events of the next three chapters in Acts
all
arise from this specific incident
of
healing of a lame man in the temple grounds.
And
as with the story of Jesus and the healing of the man born blind,
transformatory
acts such as these
bring
a cost to those who enact them.
If you take action to subvert systems of
control,
you
are distorting the imbalances of power
on
which our hierarchical religious institutions
and
stratified societal structures are built.
And those powers will fight back,
and
will seek to close down the transgressive power
of
raising up someone whose ‘place’ in life
has
been predetermined as disadvantaged.
And so Peter and John were both arrested and
put on trial,
while
Jesus faced the worst that the Pharisees could throw at him.
And so it will be with us also.
Let’s bring this story up to date, and hear it
speak to our world.
Have you noticed that our church, here at
Bloomsbury, has a Beautiful doorway?
I’ve been reading the history of Bloomsbury
again recently,
and
the story of how we came to have such an imposing façade is fascinating:
this
was the first Baptist church to be built on a main street in London,
and
so a grand statement was called for.
Not
just one spire, but two!
Most
inspiring, one might say!
But our beautiful gateway, with its Normanesque
arch,
has
always marked the entrance to a building
designed
to minister to the poor and the disadvantaged.
From our location on the boundary
of
the wealth and privilege of Bloomsbury,
and
the grinding poverty of the St Giles Slums,
to the commitment from the very beginning
to
have a person employed to reach out
into
the diverse communities around the church,
this building has always sought
to
bring wealth and poverty together
in
ways that are genuinely transformational.
Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church, at its best,
has
never just been about giving to the poor.
George M’Cree, the first community worker of
the church,
writing
in 1876 tells a story told about the first Minister, William Brock.
He says,
There
are ministers who have never cultivated
the art of shaking hands with people.
‘My
brother,’ said an aged minister to a friend of mine,
at whose ordination he preached,
‘never
shake hands with a poor man.
Take
off your hat to him, brother, if you like, in the street,
but never shake hands with him.
Maintain
your dignity, brother!’
Dr
Brock had great dignity, but he also had great humanity.
He would shake hands with anybody and
everybody,
whether rich or poor, young or old.
To
use the expression of a young man to me,
‘Dr Brock’s heart always seemed to be
in his hand.
What a shake of the hand he would give
you!’
Can you hear the resonance to our passage?
This is a church where, from the very first
minister,
we
have sought to reach out and touch,
where we extend the hand of friendship,
where
we do not stand on our dignity.
And still, week by week,
people
queue at our Beautiful gate to ask for alms.
Some of us sat here in this worship service
this morning
will
have been standing outside the church since 9 O’clock or earlier,
to
ensure that we have got a ticket for lunch.
Most of those who queued, however, will now be
elsewhere,
coming
back in time for lunch at One.
People queue for food, and as a church we
provide food.
Then
they come back the next week, and the next.
Except they aren’t going to come back next
week,
because
we’re closing down the kitchens and the basement for four months
to
make the place even more beautiful, I mean, functional.
I wonder how we will feel, next Sunday,
coming
into our church without seeing a line of hungry people
queuing
in the street for food that we will provide?
How will we feel coming into church,
without
our basement already full of hungry lonely people
who
have popped in for a cup of coffee,
before
we ask them to leave so we can have our worship service?
How will we feel after the service next week,
when
those same people are not coming back
after
spending an hour on the streets
waiting
for us to finish our worship
so
that they can get their lunch?
Will it feel strange? Will it feel like
Bloomsbury?
And it causes me to wonder how much of our
identity,
both
personally and corporately, is tied up in the giving of alms.
It causes me to ask myself
how
much of my desperate attempt
to
assuage myself of my guilt at my inherited privilege
is
predicated on the giving of alms?
Do we feel guilty for closing things down for a
few months?
But of course, come October, we can re-start
the lunches,
and
of course the queues will come back,
because
as Jesus said, the poor will always be with you (Mt. 26.11).
But what if we didn’t just feed the poor?
What
if we didn’t just invite people to queue for food?
What if we didn’t have a queue of people
outside our beautiful gate
making
a public statement to the world every Sunday morning
that
this is the kind of place that gives food to the poor?
What would it mean, instead,
for
us to take people by the hand and lift them up, as Peter did,
so
that they no longer needed to queue for bread?
What would it mean for us to look people in the
eye
and
see the person behind the circumstance?
As we go into this break,
I
want us to prayerfully consider the things we might do
with
our refurbished building in October.
Let’s not simply restart things because we have
always done them,
or
because we miss doing them,
or
because without doing them we feel guilty or inadequate.
Rather let’s ask the question
of
what it is that we can do, before God,
that
is genuinely transformational for the needs of our city.
Let’s ask what the needs are,
and
be prepared to listen to those
who
might tell us that the genuine needs
are
not what we think they are.
Let’s be prepared to let go of our own programs
and structures,
and
instead construct new systems
built
on relationships that are genuinely transformational.
Peter said, ‘silver and gold have I none, but
this I give you’.
It doesn’t have to be about giving alms,
providing food,
or
providing a service that service users can access.
Maybe it can be about building a place of
refuge,
of
safety, of friendship.
Where each person who comes is known and valued
as
person loved and unique in God’s sight,
and
where we take them by the hand and raise them up.
And so you might want to take time over the
summer
to
get to know our partners a bit better.
You might want to find out more about the Simon
Community
who
run our Evening Centre on Tuesdays,
offering
acceptance and opportunities for progression
to
those who live on the street.
You might want to follow up the contact we have
had with Ella’s home,
offering
a safe place for women who are trapped in prostitution.
You might decide to get involved in London
Citizens,
taking
their two day training
and
learning to join with others in addressing issues
of
the living wage, affordable housing, and refugees.
You might volunteer to work with C4WS
who
run our night shelter each winter.
You might want to spend time on the Ekklesia
website,
learning
a new way of engaging the political debate
from
a radical Christian perspective.
You might want to visit the Soho Gathering,
and
broaden your understanding
of
the glorious diversity of human sexuality.
All of these, and so much more,
are
areas of Bloomsbury’s ongoing ministry
which
are seeking to look people in the eye,
extend
a hand of equality, and raise people up.
They are about transformation.
However, in all of this we need to remember
that
transformation is God’s responsibility, not ours.
We are not the ones who do the miracle.
We
just have to be prepared to look the person in the eye,
and
to reach out our hand in openness and trust,
to
see the individual behind the circumstance.
This is a risky task, it’s dangerous because
it’s disruptive.
It
messes with our systems, and plays havoc with our expectations,
every
bit as much as Peter and John’s actions
outside
the Beautiful Gate to the Temple
subverted
the systems that the Temple had in place
to
ensure the poor got enough money
to
tide them over until tomorrow.
But what if what we hear isn’t what we were
expecting.
What if our Community Minister, Dawn,
our
very own George M’Cree of the 21st Century,
comes
back to us and says that there are new and different things
we
can do with our building
which
will be a transformatory gift
to
those who come through our doors.
What if we hear suggestions from the margins
that
we might use our resources differently
to
the way we had planned to use them?
Well, I say ‘bring it on’.
Let’s hear from one another.
Let’s
allow the vision for the future
to
arise from the midst of the present,
informed
by the values of the past.
Have you ever sat in church and thought,
‘if
only we could do that?’
Do you have a burning passion for a ministry or
an outreach project
to
which you could become so committed
that
it would drive you to your knees in prayer to see it happen?
Do you have a message from God to us
that
we need to hear?
What if money was no object,
what
would you do through this place?
And yes, I know we are running a budget
deficit,
many
of you heard my sermon on giving a fortnight ago,
and
if you didn’t, I’d encourage you to catch up on it.
It
matters.
And yes, we need more income to sustain
ministry
even
at the levels of our present commitment.
But as Peter said, ‘Silver and Gold have I
none, but what I have I give.’
And
my question is this: What could you give?
The transformatory encounter is not predicated
on money.
That
is a secondary issue.
It’s not even predicated on there being
a
large Sunday morning congregation filling our pews,
although
that would be nice!
I firmly believe that if the mission is right,
if
people are being transformed
through
encountering the living power of Christ at work in our midst,
money and volunteers and members and
worshippers
will
come forward to join the work.
It has always been the case in the past.
If we are community of radical inclusion
where
all are equal regardless of social standing,
economic
circumstance, ethnicity, gender, or sexuality,
then
we will draw to us those from all walks of life,
and
the body will grow.
There are some of us here today
who
have first-hand experience of poverty, homelessness, and exclusion.
It may be that if this is you,
you
are not normally used to being listened to.
It may be that your experience of church
is
of being silenced even as people give to you.
To which, I want to say, ‘not here’.
All our voices are worthy of being heard,
and
so if you have ideas and opinions
about
what this place should look like, be, and do,
as
we look to the future,
I
invite you to speak,
to
talk to those who you have sat with at lunch,
to
speak with Dawn, Ruth, or me.
On behalf of this place,
I
reach out my hand
not
to give to you, but to raise you up.
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