Tuesday, 16 March 2021

The absence of Jesus

 A sermon for Provoking Faith in a Time of Isolation

The online gathering of Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

4th April 2021 - Easter Sunday

Luke 24.1-12

This last year has been a time when the tension between presence and absence has been highlighted for all of us.

The coronavirus pandemic, and the lockdown restrictions and distancing measures that accompanied it, have meant that in so many ways we have been absent from one another.

The streets of Bloomsbury have been eerily quiet.

No tourists. Hardly any students.

Shuttered shops, closed restaurants, the only sound it seems sometimes is the wailing of the ambulance sirens.

Our economy has been profoundly affected.

Our working lives have been affected by severe stress.

Our usual work patterns have broken down.

Some of us have been dealing with emergencies, others have been furloughed, or working from home.

For me, it has felt at times as though I have been absent from my own life, a year in frenetic stasis: busy yet confined, on call and on hold at the same time.

And all of us have felt the pain of being absent from our friends, from our families, from our church community.

And yet, through all this we have been able to connect with other people in our community and around the world in unexpected ways.

The miracle of Zoom has meant that I have been able to join with more group meetings and webinars than I ever thought possible, sharing a view of my living space with people on the other side of the world.

I have also enjoyed many more one-to-one conversations with people than in a long time, learning to be vulnerable together in the strangely intimate setting of the video call.

So in that sense, I have found this last year to be a time when I have been profoundly present to other people.

We have reached out across the internet in search of connection, and discovered new depths in relationship, new honesty in communication.

One of things that has been a great source of encouragement to me is to observe how many aspects of our church community have thrived as a result of this deeper communication.

We’re meeting less, but I think we’re also listening more.

The discussion panel that now forms a regular part of our Sunday services has allowed us to hear a huge variety of perspectives on issues of life and faith.

More people have stepped up to take leadership roles, and we have come to appreciate many hidden strengths of individuals in our congregation.

These are gifts from God, which have been especially precious at a time like this.

We have been absent from one other, but we have also been present to each other. We have been scattered, but we have also been gathered, as our regular lockdown communion liturgy has reminded us.

So we may not have been to church, at least in the sense of visiting 235 Shaftesbury Avenue, and our Sanctuary has spent a year as empty as a cave.

But we have still gathered in the presence of God, for worship, prayer, and community.

God has been present to us, even as we have been absent from the places we normally go to encounter the divine.

Which brings me to our story for this morning, of Mary, Mary, Joana, and the other women discovering the empty tomb in the garden on that first Easter morning.

This, too, is a story of absence and presence.

I’m sure, as the women set off to visit the tomb, the events of Friday were still uppermost in everyone’s minds.

The cross, the moment of divine dereliction, of ultimate abandonment, is the tale of absence, with Jesus taken from those who love him, and executed outside the city wall.

Jesus had gone, and with him all the hopes and dreams that life could be different, all the love and vitality, all the healing and wholeness that had characterised the last three years, all gone.

All that was left for the grieving women, the despairing disciples, was a body in a tomb. And the women did what the men didn’t, and went to the tomb to face their fears, to anoint the body, to say one final farewell.

And what they discovered was yet further absence. The body itself had gone, leaving an empty cave.

Easter morning is the moment of supreme absence.

And yet, at that moment, when all had ended, the new beginning was already at hand.

The two men in dazzling clothes reminded them of what they already knew but had forgotten: that Jesus must go from them in order to be present with them.

In his absence, his presence becomes known in a new and more profound way.

And so the women told the men, but the men didn’t believe them, until one of the men confirmed it, because, well, patriarchy is nothing new, and women then as now often found their voices obscured by the voices of men.

But the wonder of that first Easter morning was that it was, in fact, the women who first proclaimed the mystery of the empty tomb.

And the women were right, the body was gone, the tomb was empty, and Jesus was no longer absent, but is rather eternally present.

The post-resurrection ‘new normal’ is not a return to the days before the horror of the cross.

There is no undoing the events of Good Friday, and the resurrected Christ bears the marks of the crucifixion eternally.

But the new possibility for divine presence, that the emptiness of the tomb heralds, is the new reality for those who seek God in Christ.

And so we come to today, to Easter 2021, at the end of a year of absence.

And my question is this: what does resurrection mean to you?

What does it mean for us to say that Jesus is raised from the dead?

As we plan to return to our lives, as our city starts to come back to life, and as our church takes a deep breath, in the hope and expectation that soon we'll be singing the gospel of life together again, we need to ask ourselves what the truth of resurrection means for us.

We, like the women at the mouth of the tomb, are not witnesses to Christ’s resurrected body. Jesus is not, physically at least, ‘with’ us.

Like the women, we simply know him through his absence.

Yet Christ is present with us, in ways that the disciples waiting in Jerusalem that first Easter morning had yet to comprehend.

The risen Christ is with us by his Spirit; Christ has been with us as we have been scattered by the pandemic, and Christ will be with us as we cautiously emerge from our own times of confining to find the new life that awaits us.

Christ is with us as we gather, as we worship, as we pray;

Christ is with us as we confess our sins and find forgiveness, as we break bread and drink wine;

Christ is with us as we re-member the broken body of the cross in the communion of God’s people, which is the body of Christ.

So, what does it mean for us, today, to say that Jesus is raised from the dead?

This is no cheap cosmic publicity stunt for the events of Good Friday.

Rather it is a profound assertion of faith that the one who died on the cross is present, even though he is absent.

There is a mural in our side-chapel at Bloomsbury, which depicts the city in the 1960s, with the quote from the Book of Revelation, ‘Behold, the dwelling of God is with all people’.

And as we consider our city in 2021, transitioning cautiously from silence and stillness to movement and bustle;

and as we hope for a journey from a time of death and suffering to a time of life and living;

we know that the resurrected Christ is present in the midst of it all, still drawing the world to life.

The resurrection is an expression of the conviction that death does not get the final word on life.

It is the eternal hope that calls to each of us who must face the truth of our human mortality.

It is the promise of new life. It is the expression of ultimate love.

The absence of the empty tomb is the assurance of God’s eternal presence.

God is with us, Christ is Risen.

This is good news. Hallelujah.


Wednesday, 10 March 2021

Mothering Sunday Prayers

and these prayers for Mothering Sunday reflect this aspect of God's loving care

Mothering Sunday Call to Worship

God of love, mother of us all, we give thanks for the life that you have brought to birth in us.
Loving God, thank you for your tender care.

God of love, mother of us all, we give thanks for your steadfast love for each of us, your children.
Loving God, thank you for your tender care.

God of love, mother of us all, we give thanks that you sustain us and support us throughout our lives.
Loving God, thank you for your tender care.

God of love, mother of us all, we give thanks for the church which nourishes us, and enables us to grow. 
Loving God, thank you for your tender care.

God of love, mother of us all, we give thanks for the gift of those who love us, and those whom we love.
Loving God, thank you for your tender care.


The Lord’s Prayer for Mothering Sunday

God of all love, divine mother of us all, your name is holy to us.
May your loving embrace enfold our lives and our world.
You sustain us every day of our lives, from birth to death.
You do not turn your face away from us, 
and you enable us to not turn away from others.
Inspire us to live lives of love, but keep us safe from those who enact hatred.
For your loving embrace is eternal, unbreakable, and unconditional;
today, as it always has been, and always shall be. 

Opening prayer for Mothering Sunday

Great God of all love, we come into your presence today
as people in need of your loving embrace.

We recognize that our independence of spirit,
and our desire to make our own way in the world,
have sometimes taken us far from you;
and we acknowledge the many ways
that we have pushed you away.

We are sorry for those times when we have turned our faces
away from your loving gaze.

So today, trusting in your unconditional acceptance,
we open our lives to the light of your love;
and we ask that you will forgive us those dark places
in our souls and in our lives
where we have tried to keep you out, and ourselves hidden.

Help us today to hear you calling us once again,
speaking words of love, forgiveness, and acceptance.


Prayers of intercession for Mothering Sunday

God of love, mother of us all,
            we give thanks for the life that you have brought to birth in us.

We thank you for the gift of this day,
            and for our own lives, these precious gifts of incarnation.

We pray today for all those who are being brought to life.
            We pray for unborn babies, for expectant parents,
                        for excited and fearful grandparents,
                        for good families and loving relatives.
            We pray also for all those whose experience of new life is unexpected,
                        troubling, or traumatic:
            We pray for refugees, for victims, and for all those
                        who fear for the health and future of their children.

We recognise in you the mystery of life,
            and your willingness to recommit yourself to your children
            in the midst of all our failings and faults.

Loving God, thank you for your tender care.

God of love, mother of us all,
            we give thanks for your steadfast love for each of us, your children.

We thank you that you never turn your face from us,
            and that your gaze is ever of love and not despair.

We pray for all those who struggle with the responsibilities of childcare,
            for those who find their own deepest fears and doubts
                        reflected back at them in the lives
                        of those whom they have brought into being.

And so we commit to your loving protection
            all those whose parents have failed them,
and we pray for those who seek to provide care and nurturing
            where others have been unable to do so,
            and in so doing echo your own love for each created soul.

So we pray for adopted parents, for step-parents,
            for foster carers, social workers,
            and all those who work in the juvenile care system.
May they discover in their role,
            the love that you extend through them to those in their care.

Loving God, thank you for your tender care.

God of love, mother of us all,
            we give thanks that you sustain us and support us throughout our lives.

We thank you for our bodies,
            and we thank you for those who care for them
            helping us keep healthy, and intervening when we face illness.

With each passing year,
            we grow ever more aware of our own mortality,
            and we are grateful for our own continuing lives.

So we pray today for those who are reaching the end of their lives,
            for those who are very old, and for those who are very ill.

Give comfort and assurance in place of fear and doubt,
            and hold in your eternal embrace
            all those who long for your loving touch.

We pray for nurses and doctors,
            for hospice workers and hospital chaplains,
            and for all those who work in healthcare.

And we ask that, when our own lives draw to their conclusion,
            we will know good care and love
            as we make our own journey into your eternity. 

Loving God, thank you for your tender care.

God of love, mother of us all,
            we give thanks for the church which nourishes us,
            and enables us to grow. 

We thank you for this body, which is your gathered congregation
            drawn together in this place, and at this time.

We pray for one another,
            with all our diverse needs and cares and joys and sorrows.

May we experience your love for us
            as we discover our mutual love for one another.

Help us to discern one another’s needs,
            and to be active in carrying one another’s burdens.

Loving God, thank you for your tender care.

God of love, mother of us all,
            we give thanks for the gift of those who love us,
            and those whom we love.

We thank you for friends and family,
            and in silence now we name in our hearts before you,
            all those whom we love, and who love us.

Thank you, loving God for your tender care.


Monday, 8 March 2021

Did you see Lazarus?

A sermon for Provoking Faith in a Time of Isolation
The online Gathering of Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
14 March 2021

Luke 16:19-31

The Rich man and Lazarus by James Tissot. 

Our gospel reading for this morning,
            the troubling and difficult parable
            of the rich man and Lazarus,
raises for us the issue of the extent to which
            actions committed in this life
            have eternal consequences.

In many ways it is a deceptively simple story,
            which seems to owe its origin
            to the Egyptian story of Setme,
                        who observes the elaborate funeral procession of a rich man
                        and the absence of any procession for a poor man
                                    who is being carried to the graveyard.
            Setme thinks the rich are much better off,
                        but his son expresses the desire that Setme, at his death,
                                    will experience the funeral of the poor man.
            Setme is initially devastated that his son seems to be wishing him ill;
                        but then his son takes him on a tour of the realm of the dead,
            and Setme sees an elegantly dressed man seated close by the god Osiris.
                        It turns out that this is the poor man, dressed in the rich man’s clothes,
                        and he is being honoured because his good deeds
                                    had been more numerous than his sins
                                    and he hadn’t been compensated during his earthly life.
            The rich man, however, had more sins than good deeds,
                        and is seen being punished by having a hinge-pin
                        from the gate to the realm of the dead impaled in his right eye.

            The lesson from the Egyptian story seems to be
                        that whoever is good on the earth,
                                    will find that underworld is good to them.
                        Whilst whoever is evil on the earth,
                                    will find that eternity goes badly for them.

This conviction that wrongs will be righted,
            and imbalances redressed, in the afterlife
Was also common in Greek and Roman mythology,
            with the idea of some kind of judgment after death
                        resulting in punishment or reward in eternity
            being found in both Plato and Plutarch.

Interestingly, the Jewish view was less clear-cut,
            and there are a variety of traditions within the Hebrew scriptures
            as to how the Jews thought cosmic justice might work.

What we need to be very alert to is that our contemporary understanding of ‘hell’,
            with all that it means to us,
owes far more to Greco-Roman mythology
            and to some of the developments of theology in the middle ages,
than it does to either the Jewish tradition
            or to the teaching of Jesus.

In the Hebrew Bible,
            there was a tradition, originating from the book of Deuteronomy, which asserted
                        that those who are good will have good lives
                        whilst those who are bad will have bad lives.
And the logic of this was that
            if someone was having a bad life,
            they must in some way have deserved it.
Whilst those who had many good things in life,
            were free to enjoy their blessings that came from God.

However, this rather simplistic cause-and-effect theology
            certainly wasn’t the only attempt to understand the relationship
                        between behavior, and reward and punishment.
The book of Job, for example,
            is an exploration in narrative form
            of why it might be that bad things happen to good people,
            and the conclusion of Job is that the eponymous hero didn’t deserve his fate;
                        rather his troubles were sent to him to test his faith.
However, he still eventually receives an earthy reward
                        for his faithfulness through his difficulties,
            with a new wife and family and possessions given to him
                        at the end of the story
            to compensate him for those that had been taken from him.

It’s actually fairly late in the Jewish tradition
            that the idea of reward and punishment occurring after death
            starts to become part of the thinking.
And even by the time of Jesus, it is a far from universal belief
            that God judges and then rewards or punishes people after death.

For example, the Jewish group known as the Sadducees
            were well known for not having a belief in the afterlife at all (Lk 20.27).
Whilst the Pharisees had a fairly well developed understanding
            of an afterlife that comprised either reward or punishment.

There are three key words which it’s worth knowing about
            if we’re going to try and get to grips
            with the background to the story of the rich man and Lazarus,
and these are Sheol, Hades, and Gehenna.

The first of these, Sheol, is an Old Testament, Hebrew word,
            which is used to describe ‘the place of the dead’
It occurs 65 times throughout the Old Testament,
            and mostly does not appear to mean anything more than ‘the grave’, or just ‘death’,
                        rather than to any understanding of ‘life after death’.
What we know of Sheol from the Old Testament is that it is down, dark, and silent.
            It is the unknown void into which people pass
            and from which they never return.

When the Hebrew Bible, or the Old Testament as we call it,
            was translated into Greek,
The Greek word Hades was used for the Hebrew word Sheol.

And this brought with it into the Jewish tradition
            all of the Greek connotations that the word Hades had already acquired.

In the tradition of Greek mythology
            the name Hades was primarily used to refer to the god of the underworld,
                        who, together with his brothers Zeus and Poseidon
                        had defeated the Titans to rule over the entire cosmos.
            Zeus got to rule the air, Poseidon got to rule the sea, and Hades got the underworld.

            In time, Hades also came secondarily to refer to the underworld itself

Within the Greek mythology,
            it was possible for people to make visits to Hades,
                        with Heracles learning the secret entrance to and from Hades.

And so it was that the Hebrew concept of Sheol,
            the place of silence and darkness,
started to acquire the characteristics of the Greek underworld Hades,
            where people could have adventures,
            and where exciting or terrible things happened.

This fusion of Sheol with Hades
            led to the development of the idea within Judaism
                        of the afterlife as a place of punishment and reward,
            with Hades being somewhere
                        that both the righteous and the unrighteous might go.
            So, in Acts 2, Jesus is spoken of as going to Hades at his death,
                        returning from there at his resurrection (Acts 2.27,31).

Sometimes in the later Jewish tradition,
            Hades was thought of as a place not so much of punishment,
                        but more like a holding cell,
            where people are detained until some future judgment day.
But sometimes, as in Jesus’ parable,
            it is a place where punishment is already taking place.

The New Testament uses the word Hades only ten times:
            four times in the gospels, a couple of times in Acts,
            and four times in the book of Revelation where it is always teamed up with death.

The third word that we need to know about as a place of judment,
            in addition to Sheol and Hades,
            is the word ‘Gehenna’, a word adapted from the Hebrew ge hinnom,
                        the valley outside Jerusalem
                                    which had been a site of child sacrifice in 2 Kgs 23.10
                        and became a pit for burning garbage.
This word, Gehenna, is usually translated into English as ‘Hell’,
            and typically refers to the place where bad things are burned away.
So, for example, Jesus says it is better to cut off your sinful hand and throw it away
            than it is for your whole body to be thrown into Gehenna.

And that’s it, as far as Hell is concerned.
            We have the dark silent void of the grave in Sheol.
            We have the Greek mythological underworld of Hades,
            and we have the fiery city rubbish tip of Gehenna.

The problem with the word Gehenna being translated into English as ‘Hell’
            is that just as when Sheol became Hades it inherited all the baggage
                        of the Graeco-Roman understanding of the underworld,
so when Gehenna becomes ‘Hell’ it inherits all the medieval imagery of Hell
            that isn’t part of the Jewish or early Christian tradition.

Hell, as far as the biblical witness is concerned,

contains no pitchforks, no Hieronymus Bosch, no Dante’s inferno,
            no limbo, no purgatory,
            In short, no hell as we often think of it.

And it is within this context
            that we need to encounter Jesus’ story of the rich man and Lazarus.

Jesus is not offering a description of a future post-mortem existence
            where the damned and the saved can see each other across the divide.
He isn’t setting forth a comprehensive account
            of what happens to people when they die.

Rather, he is telling a story
            to make a very important point.
And the key to understanding that point
            lies in just who he is telling the story to.

The clue lies just a few verses earlier, in v. 14:
            ‘The Pharisees, who were lovers of money,
                        heard all this, and they ridiculed him.’

Jesus’ story is aimed at the Pharisees:
            the one Jewish group that had an especially well developed concept
            of who was going to spend eternity suffering apart from God,
            and who was going to spend eternity safe within the embrace of father Abraham.

This parable isn’t Jesus systematically setting out
            his own cosmological understanding
            of the relationship between the here and the hereafter.
Rather, he is engaging, as he does in so many other places,
            with those who think they have a monopoly on the ‘right’ answers
            to the questions of life and death.
And Jesus tells this story to show the Pharisees,
            that their carefully wrought certainties
            might not be so certain after all.

The Pharisees were convinced that by their meticulous religious observances,
            and by their careful ethical practices,
they had earned themselves the right to call the shots
            on who was eternally in,
            and who was eternally out.

And it is precisely this certainty,
            that Jesus is seeking to overthrow in this parable.

The Pharisees were rich, both materially and spiritually,
            and they believed they were rich because they were blessed,
            and they believed that because they were blessed,
                        they would spend eternity with God.
They also believed that those who were not like them,
            and were poor in body and spirit,
                        were that way for a reason,
            and that their poor state would also continue into eternity.

So imagine the effect of Jesus story,
            when the rich and apparently blessed man finds himself in Hades,
with the poor man Lazarus safe with Father Abraham.

Jesus is taking the clinical and judgmental logic of the Pharisees
            and turning it against them.

The warning could not be more stark:
            those who judge others
                        are at most risk of themselves being judged;
            those who do not exercise forgiveness and compassion towards others
                        may not experience forgiveness and compassion themselves.

There are some of us Christians who are very quick to point the finger
            at those whom we are quick to condemn,
And there is a warning here that we ignore at our peril.

It’s interesting that the rich man doesn’t do anything overtly evil to the beggar.
            This rich man is not a wicked or a cruel man.
            In many ways, he was probably a very good man.
But, and it is a very big but, he simply fails to see Lazarus:
            he is blind to the suffering of the poor,
            he cannot see beyond his own comfort and his own security.

And his failure to recognise the humanity of Lazarus,
            is a failure that carries eternal consequences.

You see, whilst we may not want to extrapolate from this parable
            to a medieval view of punishment in the afterlife,
neither does it offer us the opportunity
            of thinking that our lives carry no eternal value.

This is no mandate to eat, drink, and be merry
            for tomorrow we die.

In fact, quite the opposite.
            It seems that the message of Jesus is very clear.
            How we live today determines, in a very real sense, how we shall be eternally.

If we live life for the rewards of the here and now,
            without heeding the call of God to have regard for the lives of others,
then the contribution of our lives to God’s eternity
            might turn out to be less than we would like to think it is.

We need perhaps to be less concerned with our avoiding hell in the hereafter,
            and more concerned with the circles of hell that we create and perpetuate
            for others to inhabit in the here-and-now.

Albert Schweitzer, the theology professor and world-class organist,
            gave up his life of wealth and status,
and became a missionary doctor in Africa.

When asked why, he pointed to the parable of the rich man and Lazarus.

In his mind, the parable seemed spoken directly to Europeans,
            and he said ‘We are the rich man,
                        [whilst] out there in the colonies sits wretched Lazarus.’

This situation has not changed,
            and it is not limited to Africa.

Listen to how Tom Wright puts it:

We have all seen him.
            He lies on a pile of newspapers outside a shop doorway,
                        covered with a rough blanket.
            Perhaps he has a dog with him for safety.
                        People walk past him, or even step over him.
            He occasionally rattles a few coins in a tin or cup, asking for more…
            As I see him, I hear voices.
                        It’s his own fault, they say. He’s chosen it.
                        There are agencies to help him. He should go and get a job.
                        If we give him money he’ll only spend it on drink.
                        Stay away – he might be violent.
            Sometimes, in some places, the police will move him on,
                        exporting the problem somewhere else. But he’ll be back.
            And even if he isn’t, there are whole societies like that.
                        They camp in tin shacks on the edges of large, rich cities.
            From the door of their tiny makeshift shelters
                        you can see the high-rise hotels and office blocks where,
                        if they’re very lucky, one member of the family might work as a cleaner.
            They have been born into debt, and in debt they will stay,
                        through the fault of someone rich and powerful
                        who signed away their rights, their lives in effect, a generation or two ago,
                        in return for arms, a new presidential palace, a fat Swiss bank account.
            And even if rich and poor don’t always live side by side so blatantly,
                        the television brings us together.
So we all know Lazarus. He is our neighbour.

And Lazarus is currently living in hell,
            and it is a hell that others have had a hand in creating.
            It is a hell that we have had a hand in creating.

And Jesus calls those of us who are not currently living in hell,
            to see Lazarus sitting in poverty at the bottom of the pile,
            and he calls us to dip our finger in the water of life
                        and to offer it to Lazarus to cool his tongue.

Poverty is not to be sanctified,
            and neither is wealth to be vilified.
Poverty is not a gift from God but a problem,
            often the result of sin by numerous people,
            which needs relieving.
Wealth may indeed be a blessing of God and the result of hard work,
            but also, as the Greek dramatist Menander put it,
                        ‘property is a veil for many evils’.

Jesus’ parable attacks a particular kind of wealth,
            it attacks the wealth that does not see poverty and suffering.
It attacks the idea that possessions are for one’s own use,
            and that they are owned without responsibility to God and other people.

This is not, as some have feared, an opiate for the poor
            which will keep them satisfied with a handout.
The parable does not tell us how the wealthy are to assist the poor,
            but it insists that the poor are brothers and sisters of the wealthy,
            and that the injustice of the juxtaposition of wealth and poverty
                        cannot be tolerated within God’s eternal perspective.

Our lives matter eternally to God,
            and when the dross is cast into Gehenna to be burned away,
            and when we pass through Sheol to the arms of Father Abraham,
            there will be a question to answer.

And it may well be this:

Did you see Lazarus?

This sermon borrows extensively from Klyne R. Snodgrass, Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus, Eerdmans, Cambridge: 2008; and Tom Wright, Luke for Everyone, SPCK, London: 2001.