Love that Heals

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

14 April 2024

Acts 3.1-10

This week Liz and I went to the National Theatre to see the amazing play ‘Nye’,
            which tells the story of Nye Bevan,
the boy from the Valleys of South Wales
            who became the Secretary of State for Health and Social Care
            in the post-war Labour government,
and spearheaded the creation of the National Health Service.
 
It’s not a spoiler to the plot of the play to say that he succeeded,
            and I don’t think it’s a spoiler to tell one further anecdote from the play.
 
When he is sitting with his father,
            who is dying of lung disease caused by inhaling coal dust,
            Nye Bevan promises to look after ‘everyone’,
and at the end of the play,
            after he has got the National Health Service Act passed through Parliament,
            he looks out at the audience and asks the question:
‘Did I look after everyone?’
 
It’s a powerful moment,
            and it raises the question that every society has to grapple with,
                        from the first to the twenty first centuries,
            of what to do about those who are sick.
How are we to respond, financially, practically, compassionately,
            to the reality of human frailty and mortality?
 
This question is also at the heart of our reading today,
            and in our reflection on this passage from Acts,
I’d like us to think about the transformative power of faith,
            and its relevance to our lives in the modern world. [1]
 
Let's journey back to a time
            when narratives shaped people's understanding of the world,
and the story of a nameless, marginalized beggar
            unfolds at the entrance of the Temple.
 
We don't know this person’s name, gender, age, or even nationality,
            but what we do know is that they were a child of God,
                        living with a crippling disability
            and relying on the kindness of others for daily sustenance.
 
This is someone whose life is defined by disempowerment,
            by reliance on others, and by a lack of agency to take their own decisions.
 
But on this particular day,
            their life would be forever changed.
 
Enter Peter and John,
            two disciples whose lives had only recently been turned upside down
            through their encounter with the risen Christ,
and whose response to this
            had been to root themselves in prayer and devotion to God.
 
In their encounter with the person begging by the temple gate,
            they demonstrate the power of healing through the name of Jesus Christ,
offering the beggar a precious gift that transcends material wealth.
 
Peter and John, not possessing money to give,
            offer something far more valuable -
they give the beggar at the gate a gift of healing,
            one that serves as a beacon of hope
            for all who seek solace in the power of faith.
 
This story is a testament to the profound impact
            that faith can have in a person’s life, both then and now.
 
We live in a world where many people, myself included,
            struggle to believe in the miracles of healing
            performed in the name of Jesus Christ.
 
In our world healing, for most of us,
            takes place in our lives through medical care,
            through Nye Bevan’s health service.
 
Yet, friends, the healing power of faith
            is not bound by time, space, or the confines of the material world.
These stories cannot be consigned to some pre-enlightenment society
            and dismissed as inconsequential for us today.
 
Because the healing power of faith transcends the barriers of time and place,
            reaching into our world, too.
 
I do very much think that in our 21st century church,
            we must remain open to the work of the Holy Spirit
            and acknowledge the presence of Jesus Christ in our lives.
 
Our faith in God is not merely a metaphor,
            and neither is our belief that Jesus is with us by his Spirit
            in ways that bring healing and wholeness to the world.
 
The way in which we frame that conviction, of course,
            will be a product of our time,
just as the way it was framed for Peter and John
            was a product of their time.
 
Disability takes many forms, as does healing.
            And we need to tread carefully when we speak of such things.
 
The social model of disability is a conceptual framework
            that shifts the focus from viewing disability as an individual's limitation,
            to understanding it as a societal issue.
 
It recognizes that disability is not inherent in the person
            but is a result of barriers and exclusion
            present in the environment, attitudes, and structures of society.
 
We need to keep alert to the difference between impairment and disability,
            and the social model distinguishes between impairment,
                        which refers to the physical, sensory,
                        or cognitive difference in an individual;
            and disability, which is the disadvantage or restriction imposed by society
                        due to the lack of inclusion and accessibility.
 
This means that it becomes a communal responsibility
            to remove barriers and adjust structures
            to enable full participation of individuals with impairments.
 
This includes, for example,
            providing accessible public spaces, transportation, and services.
 
The reason I’m drawn to the social model
            is that it promotes the empowerment and self-determination
                        of people with disabilities,
            by actively involving them in decision-making processes
                        that affect their lives,
            seeking to challenge negative attitudes, stereotypes, and prejudices
                        that contribute to the marginalization of people with disabilities.
 
It also encourages collaboration
            among people with disabilities, their allies, and various organizations
            to work towards an inclusive and barrier-free society.
 
So healing, in a contemporary context,
            for a person with a physical impairment,
may not be the removal of that impairment itself,
            but rather the removal of the obstacles to full inclusion
            within the communities that they are a part of.
 
But thinking more broadly for a moment than simply physical disability,
            a person may suffer from psychological and spiritual impairments,
            from misaligned faith or spiritual poverty.
These too can be mechanisms of exclusion,
            disabling in their outworking.
 
For such a person,
            healing might begin with the recognition of their own vulnerabilities,
and the understanding that true identity and fulfilment
            come from the unshakable foundation of Jesus Christ,
rather than from say, material wealth or worldly success.
 
Sometimes, freeing a person from their addictions
            can be the great act of healing that they need.
 
We can learn here from the example set by Peter and John,
            listening to the voice of the Holy Spirit,
addressing our own need for spiritual healing,
            and offering comfort and hope to those in need.
 
By doing so, we build a strong foundation for our faith,
            and create a community of faith
            within which healing and wholeness can flourish,
as people experience the transformative healing
            that flows from a relationship with Jesus Christ.
 
Together, as a community of believers,
            we can support one another on our journey
            toward a deeper, more meaningful faith,
and extend this healing grace to the world around us.
 
So let’s look a little more closely to the story of the beggar
            sitting at the entrance of the Temple, known as the "Beautiful Gate."
 
Reserved for esteemed visitors,
            this gate provides a backdrop for the profound interaction
            between the beggar and two disciples, Peter and John.
 
It is at this gate that the beggar, marginalized and in need,
            musters the courage to ask for help.
 
The beggar's initiative to engage with Peter and John
            challenges us to reflect on our own interactions
            with those who are less fortunate.
 
How often have we encountered individuals in need
            and simply offered a quick fix, a temporary solution
            that fails to address the root cause of their struggle?
 
As Christians, we must recognize that our ministry extends
            beyond momentary acts of charity;
we are called to pray and work for lasting healing
            and to empower individuals to reach their full potential.
 
Christian charity can all too easily become ‘toxic’,
            where our desire to meet another person’s needs
                        ends up perpetuating their dependence,
                        rather than procuring their liberation.
 
It’s not for nothing that the golden rule of community organising
            is to never do for someone else
            what they have the capacity to do for themselves.
 
Our calling in the face of need is not to engage in charity,
            so much as it is to build capacity
and create a context within which the person’s physical, social, economic,
            psychological, or emotional impairment
ceases to disable them from full participation in society.
 
In the case of the nameless beggar,
            Peter and John do not simply offer a handout;
they respond with the healing power of faith.
 
The beggar, once crippled and dependent on others,
            experiences a profound transformation
and is now able to "walk, leap, and praise God" (Acts 3:8).
 
This miraculous moment of healing
            not only restores physical health
but also revitalizes the beggar's spirit,
            enabling them to engage fully in the world around them.
 
So too then, we are called to emulate
            the profound compassion and faith demonstrated by Peter and John.
 
We must remain present and engaged
            in our ministerial, evangelical, missional,
            and transformational calling to the world.
 
As we encounter those in need,
            let us remember to offer not only material assistance
                        but also prayers for healing, guidance,
                        and the strength to overcome adversity.
 
It’s our calling to build a community
            that reflects the transformative love and grace of God,
where those excluded by others
            are included in the name of Christ,
where those disabled by society
            are enabled by the Spirit of the Living God through the body of Christ
 
By addressing the exclusions faced by those who are marginalized,
            and through empowering them to rise up
                        and enter into their full capacity for life,
            we create a lasting impact
                        that extends far beyond momentary acts of charity.
 
Just as Peter and John displayed unwavering faith
            and compassionate ministry so many centuries ago,
so too we can create a world that is more loving, more inclusive,
            and more reflective of the divine presence that unites us all.
 
So, we must ask ourselves:
            How can we, as a church community,
                        address the pressing issues of our time
            and ensure that our ministry practices
                        extend beyond mere charity?
 
The world today faces numerous challenges
            relating to health and wellbeing,
from unequal access to healthcare services,
            particularly in low-income and underserved communities;
to the rise in non-communicable diseases
            such as diabetes, cardiovascular diseases, and cancer;
to increasingly prevalent mental health issues
            with a growing need for improved awareness, prevention, and treatment;
to emerging and re-emerging infectious diseases;
            to the world's aging population;
to a global shortage of healthcare workers;
            to environmental factors such as climate change and pollution.
 
Addressing these challenges requires collaborative efforts
            from governments, healthcare organizations, and communities worldwide
            to develop innovative solutions and promote health equity.
 
And the mission of the church is to spread the gospel of Jesus Christ by all means,
            including healthcare and social justice initiatives.
 
This is why Christian Aid, who we have long supported here at Bloomsbury,
            put so much emphasis on health and wellbeing
            in the work that they do around the globe.
 
We will be welcoming a guest speaker from Christian Aid in a few weeks,
            and I’m sure they will tell of how, in the name of Jesus and on our behalf,
            they are bringing healing and wholeness
            to people trapped in disease and disability.
 
However, we must acknowledge
            that the church has sometimes fallen short of its calling
            to be a transformative and healing presence in the world.
 
And so I wonder about the potential for ministry
            that this story from the book of Acts presents us with.
 
What would it mean for us to consider the profound connection
            between prayer and healing,
and to take seriously how our prayers
            can inspire us to take action in the face of adversity.
 
I think it is true that when we open our hearts, minds, and eyes
            to the possibilities of healing,
we become better equipped to serve those in need,
            and to create lasting change in their lives and our own lives.
 
It is crucial that we, as a Christian community of faithful people,
            continue to address the systemic inequalities
            that contribute to the suffering of marginalized populations.
 
We must speak out against the unjust distribution of resources
            and advocate for the rights and wellbeing of all people,
            regardless of their socioeconomic status.
 
People of colour, and people of low socio-economic background
            have, statistically speaking, worse health outcomes.
Marginalisation, racism, and poverty
            are literally killing people in our country, and in our city.
 
By taking prayerful action to address these,
            we honour the legacy of Peter and John,
who, through their faith and compassion,
            healed the crippled beggar at the Beautiful Gate.
 
This powerful narrative is a call to action,
            for us to embrace the healing power of prayer,
and allow it to guide us as we work
            to create a more just, equitable, and compassionate world.
 
Together, we can ensure that our Christian ministry
            extends beyond charity
and fosters true transformation
            and renewal in the lives of those we serve.
 
In closing, I think we need to note a duality present in this story.
 
On one hand, we witness the incredible healing power of faith and compassion,
            as demonstrated by Peter and John.
 
On the other hand, we are confronted with a critique of the modern church,
            which often neglects its missional calling to serve and bring healing
            to those on the margins of society.
 
Today, many churches have retreated to the affluent suburbs,
            inadvertently leaving behind the very people who need them most.
 
Yet it is surely to the deprived areas that we are called,
            areas home to the marginalized and vulnerable
                        to immigrants, widows, orphans,
                                    the abused, drug addicts, the elderly,
                        and yes, to those who beg, to those who are homeless
            we are called to those
                        who long for a message of hope and authentic living.
 
As a church in the city centre,
            we have to be alert to the needs on our doorstep,
            and to the injustices experienced by those who come through our doors.
 
The story of the healing at the beautiful gate
            challenges us to question our role as a church in the 21st century.
 
Are we truly attentive to the needs of the sick and suffering?
 
Do we view all people as beloved children of God,
            deserving of love, respect, and equal treatment?
 
These are crucial questions that demand our attention and reflection.
 
As a liberal and inclusive church,
            let us heed the call to serve those
            who are often overlooked and marginalized.
 
Let us embody the spirit of Peter and John,
            who courageously reached out to the beggar at the Beautiful Gate,
offering not only physical healing
            but also spiritual restoration and belonging.
 
May we commit ourselves to a ministry
            that is driven not by competition or the pursuit of success,
but by the unwavering love and compassion of Jesus Christ.
 
And in doing so, we can create a church
            that truly reflects the transformative power of faith
            and the boundless love of God for all people.
 

---

[1] This sermon draws on the commentary by Israel Kamudzandu on the Working Preacher website. https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/narrative-lectionary/peter-heals-in-jerusalem-2/commentary-on-acts-31-10-2

Where the Hell is Jesus?

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

7 April 2024

Acts 1.1-11  
When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. 

Genesis 28.10-19 
And he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.  

The question I want us to grapple with this morning is very simple to pose,
          but surprisingly difficult to answer.

And the question is this: Where is Jesus?

In a moment of casting around for an opening illustration to this sermon,
          I wondered if there were any ‘Where’s Jesus?’ posters,
                   in the style of a Where’s Wally? cartoon,
          and a moment or two on Google led to a definitive answer.
                   Yes, there are indeed many, many ‘Where’s Jesus?’ posters.
But two in particular struck me.

The first is one that I have on my study wall,

          and it makes me smile every time I see it.



It’s two door to door evangelists speaking to a woman,
          and asking her, ‘Have you found Jesus?’

And then, if you look closely,
          you can just see Jesus, hiding behind the curtain.

Francis of Assisi, in his search for Jesus,
          famously discovered that Jesus was to be seen
          in the face of the poor, the suffering, and the outcast.

Anyway, to the second picture…




‘Where’s Jesus? Seriously! Where the hell is he? People are starving.’

And this seemed to me to be a very good question.
 
Where is Jesus when people are starving?
          Where’s Jesus when bombs fall from the sky?
Where’s Jesus when people suffer and die in war and conflict?
          Where’s Jesus when people sit at borders
          hoping against hope for a new life?
 
This is almost the same question
          as the basic question of Christian theodicy,
          which asks why God of love allows suffering in the world.
 
But it isn’t quite the same question,
          and in some ways it may be more helpful.
 
The question ‘why does God allow suffering?’ is abstract,
          but the question ‘Where is Jesus when suffering happens?’
          is far more concrete and answerable.
 
One often cited (at least by me) answer to this question
          was offered by the theologian W H Vanstone
          in the wake of the appalling disaster in Aberfan
                   when the coal tip above the Welsh mining village
                   slid down the mountain and engulfed a farm, several houses,
                   and a school, leaving 116 children and 28 adults dead.
 
Vanstone said that God was not at the top of the mountain pushing it over,
          but at the bottom with those suffering,
          receiving the impact of the disaster in his own body.
 
Where was Jesus when Aberfan slipped?
          Vanstone says, he was at the bottom of the mountain.
 
And so, we might wonder,
          why does the book of Acts
          so clearly depict him ascending into heaven?
 
From the perspective of Jesus’ disciples,
          those who had known him in the flesh, as it were,
who had wandered the streets and byways of Palestine with him,
          sharing food and laughter,
          and seeing people transformed by his physical touch,
it certainly seemed as if Jesus had gone from their midst.
 
The story of the ascension captures eloquently the sense of isolation
          felt by these early followers who no longer had available to them
                   the person of Jesus to consult with, and engage with,
                   in ways both trivial and meaningful.
He had gone from them.
 
Of course, the isolation had begun at the cross,
          that moment of absolute departure,
          as the earthly Jesus was nailed to a tree and hung until he was dead;
          with the earthly life of the saviour coming to an end at that point.
 
But then there was the strange interlude of the resurrection,
          as people discovered that in some way
          Jesus was still present with and within them,
          able to continue affecting their lives
 
And then we come to this strange story of the ascension,
          which marks the transition from encountering Jesus as a man,
          to encountering him by the ongoing presence of his spirit.
 
And so Luke tells us that Jesus has ascended into heaven.
          But the problem with this, is that it can be very hard to know
          quite what we mean when we say that Jesus is in heaven.
What does it mean to assert that Jesus has gone from the earth
          but is still alive and present with God?
 
These are deep mysteries, and there are no straightforward answers.
 
In fact, before we can even begin to answer what it means
          to say that Jesus is ‘in heaven’,
          we need to have some idea of what we mean by heaven in the first place.
 
Where is heaven, for heaven’s sake?
          Is it above the stars?
                   Is it in a galaxy a long time ago, and far, far away?
 
          Is it a place on earth, as Belinda Carlisle once sang?
 
          Is it a celestial carrot to be used alongside the stick of ‘hell’
                    to enforce conformity
          and perpetuate the privilege of the elite
                    by controlling and consoling the recalcitrant masses?
 
Would we be better, as John Lennon famously challenged us,
          imagining that there’s no heaven, and above us only sky?
 
Certainly, in our modern, scientific, post-enlightenment worldview
          it becomes very hard to sustain the notion
          that heaven is in some way ‘up there’.
 
We don’t have a cosmology that thinks heaven is ‘up’ and hell is ‘below’,
          because we know that the fires that erupt from below
                   are a function of the movement of the earth’s tectonic plates
                   and not the breaking through of the fires of eternal torment.
 
Similarly we know that the sky above us
          is peopled by stars and galaxies held in place by gravitational forces,
          rather than by spirits of bright light that might be angels or even gods
                   looking down on us from on high.
 
So, what are we to make of a passage like today’s reading from Acts,
          where we are told quite clearly that Jesus,
                   recently returned from his journey to the hellish depths of the earth,
          is now lifted up on a cloud into heaven.
 
What are we to make of the promise that he will return
          in the same way that he went?
 
And, if we think for a moment of our Old Testament reading from Genesis,
          what are we to make of Jacob’s vision
                   of a ladder stretching from the earth to the heavens
                   with angels ascending and descending upon it?
 
Well, firstly perhaps, I ought to clarify what I think we should NOT make of it:
          This is not an invitation for Bible-believing Christians
                   to re-write their science text-books
                   in favour of a first century understanding of the cosmos,
          any more than the creation and flood narratives from earlier in Genesis
                   are an invitation for us to reject the insights of science
                   regarding the age of the earth
                   or the origin of species.
 
So, was there a ladder from heaven to earth?
          No, I don’t think there was.
                   It was a vision, a dream,
                             that revealed something of profound truth to Jacob.
                   But it was never a historical reality.
 
And I suggest a similar approach to the story of Jesus’ ascension.
 
Did he historically ascend on a cloud at the end of his earthly life?
          I suspect not.
And to try and make it so it to rather miss the point.
 
This is not a story about what happened to Jesus’ body.
          It’s a story about heaven and earth.
 
So, to return to the question of where, or what, is heaven?
          If it is not, literally, ‘up there’,
                    then where the hell is it?
 
Tom Wright describes heaven as ‘God’s space’,
          a bit like an extra dimension to the world as we normally encounter it.
 
It’s the world as it should be,
          the world as it might be, the world as it sometimes can be;
          and maybe, just maybe, it is the world as it one day will be.
 
We catch glimpses of God’s space all the time,
          if we teach our eyes and minds to pay sufficient attention.
 
From the beauty of a sunset over the sea,
          to the miracle of a baby’s first cry,
          to the selfless act of generosity and kindness,
          to the sacramental spaces of baptism and communion.
 
There are moments in life when the boundary between here and there
                   becomes transparent enough
          to let the glory and peace and joy of God’s space
          break into the complex and conflicted world of this present darkness.
 
In fact, we pray these moments into being every time we speak the words
          of the Lord’s prayer:
Your kingdom come, your will be done,
          on earth, as it is in heaven.
 
We speak aloud our longing for, and commitment to,
          the idea of God’s space invading our space,
          in ways that transform and redeem the present,
                   turning despair into hope,
                   loss into comfort,
                   and sin into salvation.
 
Christian orthodoxy is not that heaven is ‘up there’,
          or indeed that Hell is ‘down there’.
 
Rather, we believe that there is a new world coming,
          and that it is breaking in upon this world.
 
It is in the light of this conviction
          that we need to hear the story of the ascension,
if we are not to miss the true point of the story.
 
The ascension of Jesus is the ultimate ‘touching place’
          of heaven and earth.
 
That which Jacob saw in a dream,
          becomes fully realized in the person of Jesus,
          in whom the boundary between our space and God’s space is transcended.
 
In Jesus, the God of heaven becomes present to us,
          just as we are brought near to the one
          who would otherwise be absent from us.
 
In the life and ministry of the earthly Jesus,
          we encounter God with us,
          walking and talking, and laughing and crying,
          and living and dying with us.
 
In the resurrection of Jesus,
          we encounter God defeating the power of death,
          and releasing us from the tyranny of the grave
          that otherwise haunts our waking moments
          and keeps us from being most fully alive.
 
In the ascension of Jesus,
          we encounter God eternally embracing humanity
          in all our fallenness and brokenness,
          as the Messiah, still bearing in his body the marks of the crucifixion,
                   is embraced by heaven.
 
The earthly Jesus is the resurrected Jesus, is the ascended Jesus.
          In Jesus, earth and heaven meet.
 
One of the early heresies about Jesus,
          which still carries a lot of traction to this day, even among Christians,
was that Jesus has three phases, or stages, of existence.
 
I call this the caterpillar heresy,
          because a caterpillar has three stages of existence:
                   Caterpillar, Chrysalis, Butterfly.
 
And, as anyone who has read The Very Hungry Caterpillar knows,
          the first two stages are just something to get through
          on the way to the true final form of the glorious butterfly.
 
Well, I want to suggest that it is an error
          to try and impose a caterpillar understanding of existence onto Jesus;
          and yet I observe many people trying to do so.
 
There heresy runs like this:
          First Stage; divine logos, agent of creation,
                   eternal disembodied word of God.
 
          Second Stage; incarnation, earthly Jesus,
                   born of a virgin, baptized, buried, and died.
 
          Third Stage; Resurrected and ascended Christ,
                   with mystically transformed body
                   able to enter locked rooms
                   and fly on clouds to return to the heaven from which he came.
 
Well, the ascension story helps us gain another perspective on this,
          because the Jesus who opens the boundary,
                    between God’s space and our space,
          is the human Jesus.
 
It is Jesus the man who opens the gates of heaven,
          and brings the transforming love of God to bear on the earth.
 
And just as the kingdom comes on earth, as it is in heaven;
          so also those of us on the earth are redeemed to heaven
with our earthly bodies as much a part of our experience of salvation
          as Jesus’ scarred and broken body was a part of his ascension.
 
Here’s the thing I’m trying to say:
          Heaven is not about where we go at the end of this life,
          and it was not where Jesus ‘went’ at the end of his life.
 
Rather, heaven is the alternative reality that breaks into this life,
          and in that Godly reality, Jesus is Lord of all things;
and so it is Jesus who brings the two realities together
          as God’s space and our space touch.
 
The ascension isn’t about where Jesus has gone,
          rather it is about how Jesus opens the doorway to God’s space
          in the midst of human time and history.
 
The ascension is about the true and lasting value of being human.
 
This life is not a stage we are passing through,
          on our way to somewhere else.
 
Rather it is the reality, within which
          salvation is wrought and redemption received,
          through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus.
 
And so those who follow Jesus through his life, death and resurrection,
          become those who are sent to the whole earth,
commissioned by the Spirit to bring to all
          the good news of reconciliation between heaven and earth.
 
We are those who learn to say, with Jacob,
          ‘Surely the LORD is in this place-- and I did not know it!’
 
We are those who learn to see the possibilities of heaven
          in the midst of the ordinary.
 
We are those who learn to proclaim the alternative reality of God’s space,
          and to live that reality into being in our lives and in our world.
 
Heaven is not where we go to escape this life,
          it is this life redeemed.
 
As Rob Bell memorably put it in his book Love Wins,
          ‘Here is the new there’.
 
He says that,
 
Taking heaven seriously ... means taking suffering seriously, now.
          Not because we’ve bought into the myth
                   that we can create a utopia given enough time,
                   technology, and good voting choices,
          but because we have great confidence
                   that God has not abandoned human history
                   and is actively at work within it, taking it somewhere. [1]
 
The task of the Christian is to drag the future into the present,
          it is to pursue the life of heaven in the here-and-now.
 
What does this look like? Well, Rob Bell gives a list, to get us started
          and suggests that signs of the coming kingdom might include:
 
·        Honest business,
·        redemptive art,
·        honourable law,
·        sustainable living,
·        medicine,
·        education,
·        making a home,
·        tending a garden.
 
These, he says, and so much more,
          are ‘sacred tasks, to be done in partnership with God now’ [2]
because they represent God’s space breaking into our space.
 
They are heaven coming to the earth.
 
You see, what we believe about the future
          shapes the way we behave here-and-now.
 
If we believe that we’re departing this doomed planet,
          to ride up to heaven on cloud to be with Jesus in the sky,
then why should we care
          about the world of the here-and-now?
 
And worryingly there are many Christians who believe just this,
          and are holding on for a better day,
ignoring the reality of the climate crisis
          and failing to work for peace and justice,
because they believe that all they need to do
          is keep themselves pure until Jesus returns to sort it all out.
 
But the ascension of Jesus challenges us to see it differently,
          and having thus seen, so to live differently.
 
If God’s space is coming to our space,
          then we have our own part to play in seeing that kingdom come.
 
This has to make a different to the way we live,
          it has to affect our discipleship,
          it has to challenge our relationship to our possessions,
          it has to challenge our relationship to our neighbours,
          it has to challenge the decisions we make and the ideologies we live by.
 
Because if it doesn’t
          then we deny in our lives the miracle of the ascension,
and we tear heaven from the earth,
          and consign God’s space to somewhere else.
 
I’m going to close with a parable told by Pete Rollins:
 
Just as it was written by those prophets of old,
          the last days of the Earth overflowed with suffering and pain.
 
In those dark days a huge pale horse rode through the Earth
          with Death upon its back and Hell in its wake.
 
During this great tribulation the Earth was scorched with the fires of war,
          rivers ran red with blood,
                   the soil withheld its fruit
                   and disease descended like a mist.
 
One by one all the nations of the Earth were brought to their knees.
 
Far from all the suffering, high up in the heavenly realm,
          God watched the events unfold with a heavy heart.
 
An ominous silence had descended upon heaven
          as the angels witnessed the Earth being plunged
                   into darkness and despair.
 
But this could only continue for so long
          for, at the designated time, God stood upright,
          breathed deeply and addressed the angels,
 
“The time has now come for me to separate the sheep from the goats,
          the healthy wheat from the inedible chaff”
 
Having spoken these words
          God slowly turned to face the world
          and called forth to the church with a booming voice,
 
“Rise up and ascend to heaven
          all of you who have who have sought to escape
          the horrors of this world by sheltering beneath my wing.
 
Come to me all who have turned from this suffering world
          by calling out ‘Lord, Lord'”.
 
In an instant millions where caught up in the clouds
          and ascended into the heavenly realm.
          Leaving the suffering world behind them.
 
Once this great rapture had taken place
          God paused for a moment and then addressed the angels, saying,
 
“It is done, I have separated the people born of my spirit
          from those who have turned from me.
It is time now for us leave this place
          and take up residence in the Earth,
          for it is there that we shall find our people.
 
The ones who would forsake heaven
          in order to embrace the earth.
 
The few who would turn away from eternity itself
          to serve at the feet of a fragile, broken life
          that passes from existence in but an instant.”
 
And so it was that God and the heavenly host left that place
          to dwell among those who had rooted themselves upon the earth.
 
Quietly supporting the ones who had forsaken God for the world
          and thus who bore the mark God.
 
The few who had discovered heaven
          in the very act of forsaking it. [3]
 

---

[1] Rob Bell, Love Wins, p.45.
[2] Love Wins, p.46
[3] http://peterrollins.net/2011/05/left-behind/

The Empty Tomb

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Easter Sunday 31 March 2024 11.00am

 

Daniel 7.9-14  
Mark 15.47-16.8a

There are some days
          when it can seem as if death has had the last word.
 
We live in a world where death, and terror, and oppression
          seem constantly to get the last word on life,
          and it is, truly, deeply depressing.
 
And after all, none of us are getting out of this alive,
          and for much of our time here
                   we are party to the desires of others
                   to make life far less than it could and should be.
 
People kill people, people terrorise people, people bully people.
          And it has always been so.
 
But what are we to do?
          How are we to respond to the darkness of our world?
 
Denial and business-as-usual can only get us so far,
          and yet reality is too hard to face
          for any sustained period of time.
 
So what is the path through this valley of death?
          How are we to negotiate these treacherous waters of chaos?
 
Well, it seems to me that for much of the time,
          both as individuals and as a society,
                    we just stare ever deeper and harder
                   into the murky depths of the tomb.
 
Our media holds the dark cavern of death before our eyes
          and invites us to look long upon the monsters
                   that inhabit the labyrinthine passages
                   of our darkest fears, and nightmarish dreamings.
 
The rolling news agenda of analysis and voyeurism
          keeps the darkness alive in our imaginations
          and the light of life dimmed to the point of being extinguished.
 
It’s the Easter story,
          re-visited in each of our lives,
          day by day, week by week.
 
We stare death in the face on Friday,
          and we sit in horror and shock on Saturday,
and then on Sunday
          we set out to revisit the grave of all our hopes and dreams.
 
Like a child who cannot leave alone the scab on their knee,
          we pick away at our pain,
          we subvert our capacity to heal,
          and we scar ourselves further.
 
We keep going back to the tomb.
 
This is why terrorism works, of course.
          And this is why the Romans crucified their criminals.
 
The symbolic murder of the representative few
          kills life in the hearts and souls of the many.
 
Those who have stood and gazed upon the cross
          cannot rid themselves of the visions of horror that haunt their nights.
 
Those who have seen videos of beheadings in the desert,
          and read news reports of bombings in airports and subways,
          cannot rid themselves of the terror.
 
And so we keep going back to the tomb.
 
We construct a narrative of fear,
          and then we step into that story
          and we live it into being in our lives, and in our world.
 
We just keep on going back to the tomb.
 
But here’s a thought:
          What if the greatest force of evil in our world
                   is not fundamentalist Islam,
          what if it’s not warlord dictators or elected warmongers,
                   what it's not even homophobic evangelical Christianity?
 
What if the greatest force of evil in our world
          is the capacity of human beings to deceive themselves
                   into believing that truth is a lie
                   and that a lie has become the truth?
 
What if the greatest force of evil in our world
          is how easily we exchange the truth of God for a lie,
          worshipping and serving the creature rather than the creator? (Rom. 1.25)
 
What I mean by this
          is that we idolize our fears,
                   and we allow them to control our actions,
          and in so doing we make ourselves subservient
                   to something of our own creation.
 
We convince ourselves that the tomb contains terrors,
          and then we construct our lives around that falsehood.
We live the lie of fear into being,
          and we manifest that fear in our thoughts and our actions.
 
I’m thinking of the Baptist pastor who said to me
          that he would love to welcome gay people into his church,
          but that he is afraid of being judged by God if he does so.
 
I’m thinking of the person who seeks to control
          and manipulate others to their will
          because they are deeply afraid of being wrong.
 
I’m thinking of the person who is afraid to speak out against injustice
          because they are afraid of the consequences
          for themselves and those they love.
 
I’m thinking of me, and I’m thinking of each of us;
          as we all, in our own ways, allow the terrors of the tomb
          to dictate our thoughts and our actions.
 
We keep going back to the tomb.
 
And then, in an attempt to live with ourselves, and our fears, and our guilt,
          we scapegoat those who do not fit our construction of reality.
We put our fears onto the weak and the vulnerable,
          and then we put them out of our camp
          in a desperate attempt to sleep easier in our beds.
 
Whether it is the scapegoating of those with minority sexuality,
          or those of a different complexion,
                   or those of a different gender,
          or those of a different nationality,
                   or those of a different social standing,
          or those of a different religious belief,
                   or those of a different political opinion....
 
We take the fears and lies
          that inhabit the sepulchres of our minds
and we place these deceptions onto those who are not like us,
          in a vain attempt to rid ourselves of that which haunts our dreams.
 
And yet in all of this we miss the simple truth
          that was revealed to Mary, Mary, and Salome
          that first Easter morning:
 
This is the truth:
 
The tomb is empty.
          The monsters are not real.
The decomposing corpse
          of our shattered dreams and nightmarish fears is not there.
The tomb, is empty.
 
The women hadn’t gone to the tomb of the crucified Jesus
          to encounter an empty tomb.
They had gone to pour oils on a dead and broken body,
          as one final act of love and devotion
          to their shattered dreams and crushed hopes.
 
They knew Jesus to be dead;
          they had seen him die.
They knew him to be in the tomb;
          they had seen him laid there.
They knew that the stone was firmly across the entrance
          and that they would not even have enough strength
          to roll it away to see once again the corpse that lay within.
 
Yet still they went to the tomb, in despair and fear and futility;
          as we all go, in our own ways,
          to gaze again upon the tomb of our own fears.
 
But at the tomb of Jesus,
          the women discovered that the tomb itself was a lie.
 
The stone was rolled away,
          and the dead body they feared to find wasn’t there.
 
The simple truth that confronted the women
          is the same truth that confronts us:
 
The tomb is empty.
          Its power is void.
Its deception is exposed,
          and its hold over us is broken.
 
This is the message of Easter.
 
But how are we to hear this message?
          How do we take deep within ourselves
                   the revelation of resurrection;
          that offers us a way through the valley of death,
                   and guides us through the waters of chaos?
 
Mark’s gospel tells us that when the women got to the tomb
          they looked up, and then they looked again (15.4).
It was only on second sight
          that they saw the tomb to be empty.
 
Like the blind men earlier in Mark’s gospel (8.25, 10.51)
          it was a miracle of seeing that opened their eyes
          to the reality of the new world of the empty tomb.
 
And we, like the women, need to learn what it is to look again,
          we need to learn to see through the lies
                   and deceptions of death,
          to the truth of new life
                   that lies beyond our mortal expectations.
 
In our fears and our imaginations the tomb remains filled with horrors,
          and we are prevented from seeing reality
          by the stone of impediment that blocks our sight.
 
It is only when we are enabled to look again,
          that we can see the stone to have been rolled away,
          and experience the reality of the empty tomb.
 
But this is not something which we can do for ourselves.
 
Like the women at the tomb of Jesus,
          we do not have the strength in ourselves
                   to roll away the stone and let in the light
                   that will reveal the cupboard within to be devoid of terror.
 
The intervention we need in our lives
          is the same as that experienced by the women.
There is nothing we can do to move the stone;
          but by grace, it has already been rolled away for us.
We need only have eyes to see it. [1]
 
We live our lives out of our narrative of fear and death,
          afraid of the darkness within ourselves,
and yet if only we could have the eyes to see it,
          the doorway to the darkness of our souls has already been opened,
          and the light is streaming in to banish the terrors of the night.
 
This is an invitation to a radically new way of being human.
 
It is an invitation to learn to live in an entirely new way,
          where our thoughts and actions are determined
                   not by darkness but by light,
                   not by death but by life.
 
It is an invitation for us to step across a threshold
          and discover the true life that awaits us
          when we confront our fears and find them groundless.
 
Maybe we, like the women, need to hear the divine messenger
          telling us to not be afraid.
 
Maybe we need our own moment of divine encounter,
          to open our eyes to the reality of life reasserted in the face of death.
 
Maybe we need to meet the risen Christ for ourselves,
          present by his Spirit in the place of our deepest fear,
          speaking words of peace and new life to our troubled souls.
 
But see what happens to the women next…
 
Their fears are confounded, and they discover the empty tomb.
          They encounter the messenger who seeks to calm their troubled minds.
 
And then they are told to leave the tomb,
          and head back to the real world,
          back to Galilee, back to normality,
          to encounter the risen Christ in their homes,
                   in their families and communities.
 
We are not called to sit and stare at the empty tomb,
          any more than we are called to linger our gaze forever on the cross.
 
Because new life is for living,
          and if we allow our fears to silence our witness
          to the good news of the empty tomb,
then we simply roll back the stone
          and fill the void once again with the terrors of our imagination.
 
‘Do not be afraid’, says the messenger,
          ‘Go to Galilee and meet the risen Christ’.
 
But Mark tells us that the women fled from the tomb, seized by terror,
          and said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. (15.8).
 
And there, in its original form, Mark’s gospel ends.
 
Here, the story stops where Mark intends it to stop,
          and the rhetorical force of the hanging ending is compelling.
 
Those of us who read Mark’s account of the empty tomb,
          are invited to identify ourselves with the women.
 
We are invited to see ourselves in their desire to revisit the tomb,
          and to gaze once more on the death of hope.
 
We are invited to share with them their futility
          in the face of the immovable stone.
 
And we are invited to look again with them
          and to realise that the tomb of terrors is thrown open
          and revealed to be empty.
 
But we are also invited to consider what we will do next.
 
Will we, like the women,
          go from here in silence, struck dumb by our encounter?
 
Or will we go seeking the risen Christ,
          and meeting him on the way.
 
New life does not come easily to the world,
          and we do not leave our fears behind us without a struggle.
 
But there are days when life springs unexpectedly
          from the barren soil of existence,
and hope is reawakened
          in the souls of those who thought faith had long gone.
 
Death and resurrection,
          brokenness and healing,
marginalisation and empowerment,
          sin and reconciliation,
          injustice and transformation:
All these shape the very pattern of the Christian life. [2]
 
And our experience of resurrection, healing, empowerment,
          reconciliation and transformation is a pure, unearned gift of God.
 
But it is also the ultimate test of,
          and the only hope for, a disciple’s faith.
 
What difference will the empty tomb
          make for us tomorrow, this week, this year?
 
Where will we face down our fears and find them to be groundless,
          where will we speak words of new life to those trapped in cycles of death,
what opportunities will we take to breathe new life into those we meet,
          knowing that Jesus has gone ahead of us to meet us there.
 
How, I wonder, will Mark’s story of the empty tomb
          find its completion in the narratives of our lives,
as we re-write our own stories
          based on life rather than death.
 
As Desmond Tutu puts it in his book, ‘An African Prayerbook’

Victory is Ours

Goodness is stronger than evil;

Love is stronger than hate;

Light is stronger than darkness;

Life is stronger than death;

Victory is ours through Him who loves us.

---

[1] A quote from Ched Myers et al, Say to this Mountain, p. 206
[2] Say to this Mountain, 209