Baptist Bookworm

Monday, 2 September 2024

The Knowledge of Good and Evil

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

8^th September 2024

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

There is a rule for preachers with children
that you shouldn’t begin every sermon
with an illustration about what your child did this week.

Well, Bloomsbury, you’ve been spared that over the years…

But Liz and I do have a couple of God-children,
as well as some nephews,
and today I’m going to tell a story from our God-daughter’s childhood.

I hope she’ll forgive me,
but given that she’s currently doing a year of volunteering in Colombia,
I think it’s unlikely she’ll actually ever find out!

But anyway, here goes with the story.

Over the years,
our wonderful God-daughter has demonstrated the ability
to be something of a theologian,
not to mention a fairly sophisticated ethicist.

At a very young stage she decided to join her father in his vegetarianism,
eschewing the occasional chicken-burger and bacon sandwich
which keep her mother off that particular wagon.

But this love for animals and respect for all living creatures
took something of a turn for the worryingly extreme
not long after we began our stint as her God-parents.

What happened was that she contracted conjunctivitis
- never a pleasant illness at the best of times,
and a trip to the doctor resulted in a prescription for antibiotics and some eye-drops.

Well, the antibiotic tablets were duly if reluctantly consumed,
but her parents faced enormous difficulty getting the eye-drops in.

It became clear that this was more than the normal dislike
for having things put in one's eye, that we all share,
and eventually her mum exclaimed in exasperation:
"It's almost as if you don't want the eye drops to go in!!!"

Well, she went silent at this point...
And, it turned out, this was exactly the problem.
She didn't want the eye-drops in her eye.

When asked why not, she replied that it wasn't fair...
Fair on who?
Fair on the bacteria causing the conjunctivitis, that's who!

The bacteria, she said, have as much right to life as any other living creature,
and it’s not right of us to take action which would kill them.

So, there followed an explanation about the role of the human immune system,
and the fact that the bacteria were going to get it in the long run anyway.

But, she said – that’s fine, no problem, that’s nature.
And this is where it started to get interesting…

She would happily watch David Attenborough’s nature documentaries,
with lions killing and devouring Bambi-like gazelles,
and that’s fine, because it’s nature.

But the idea of a human taking a wilful action to kill an animal – any animal –
from cows and chickens to, it seems, bacteria,
posed, for her, a fundamental ethical problem.

Death isn’t the problem. Killing isn’t the problem.
This is no child-like attachment to the cute and the cuddly.

Rather, I think our God-daughter
was trying to get to grips with something important,
something which we might call
the fundamental nature of human fallenness.

Why was it that, in her childish ethical world,
it was OK for a lion to kill and devour a gazelle,
but not for a human to kill and cook a chicken?

Why was it OK for the human immune system to destroy pain-causing bacteria,
but not for a human to put antibiotic cream in her eye to hasten the process?

Well, in response to her reluctance, her mother told her, with great clarity,
that what she needed to do was to ask Simon and Liz!

Talk about a pastor never being off duty!

It seems that the role of God-parent
construed as ethical and theological consultant
is far from straightforward!

Well, what answer would you have given, I wonder?
How would you have explained to a small child
that while Eden-inspired vegetarianism (1:28-29) might be an acceptable choice,
refusing antibiotics simply isn’t an option?

I think that what we’re coming down to here,
is something profound about the fallenness of creation.

Let’s think for a moment about David Attenborough…
I’m sure you know his style of wildlife documentary.

The viewer is taken on an emotional journey upwards through the food chain,
from the small and cuddly to the large and predatory.

We begin with the fluffy bunny, innocently nibbling the grass in the field.
But then along comes the fox,
silently and swiftly stalking up behind our little furry friend.

Suddenly Flopsy realises she’s in danger, and tries to make bolt for the burrow,
but evil fox is far too fast, and the bobbing tail seems more like a target than ever
as the fox gets his jaws firmly round the bunny’s neck.

But then our focus shifts, as we follow Mr Fox stalking off with the prey in his mouth,
and we realise that he is taking it back to feed the young cubs in his den.
The camera magically tracks him and we see his little cubs,
who would certainly die without their meal,
and we start to feel that maybe the rabbit didn’t die in vain.

So, the fox-cubs grow in strength,
and in time they venture outside of the den to frolic in the woods…
but then, on the horizon, we spot Wily Coyote, waiting to pounce,
and so the cycle of death continues.

And what is interesting to me in this presentation of nature
is that we are all the time being invited
to pass moral and emotive judgements on the natural world.
The rabbit is cute but the fox is evil,
the fox-cubs are innocent but the coyote is wicked.

We find ourselves naming evil and good in the created order.

And here’s the question…

Just as Schrödinger’s cat is only known as alive or dead when the box is opened,
might it not also be the case that the natural world
only takes on characteristics of evil or good
when we observe and name it as such?

A fox killing a bunny isn’t an act of violence until we name it as such.
Watership Down only works because we have the capacity
to endue the created world with the characteristics of good and evil
that ultimately exist only within ourselves.

A natural disaster is only a tragedy when humans name it as one
– without our presence on the earth,
events such as earthquakes, tsunamis, and hurricanes
are simply natural phenomena which result in the death of some animals.
They only acquire moral significance because we invest them with such.

It is our capacity to name and comprehend good and evil within ourselves
that results in our understanding and naming
of the natural world as good and evil also.

Without our intervention, nature is just nature.
Good and evil in nature are human constructs.

And so, the fallenness of humanity results in the fallenness of creation.

We who consume the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of Good and Evil
have acquired the capacity to become like God,
and so we both create and destroy the goodness of creation
through our very understanding of it.

Just as in the Genesis creation story
God gave humanity the ability to name every living creature on the earth,
so also, after eating the fruit of the tree,
humanity acquired the ability to name creation as good and evil.

And so we see creation inexorably falling along with its keeper.

The innocence of God’s creation is named as evil,
and that which was created good is re-interpreted as tragedy.
The goodness of creation is undone,
as evil enters the world through the human thirst for knowledge.

It was Francis Bacon who asserted that ‘Knowledge is Power’,
and in saying this he struck the heart of the Genesis fall narrative.
Of course, what Bacon said so succinctly,
the Wisdom Literature of the Jews had already hinted at:
Proverbs (24:5) warns that, ^“wise warriors are mightier than strong ones,
and those who have knowledge [are mightier] than those who have strength”

This human search for knowledge gives us so much power.
Power for good, but also power for evil.
Power to kill, but also power to give life.
No longer are illness and death simply a part of the cycle of life,
a part of the goodness of creation
– they are instead understood as enemies to be fought.

The death of a friend of mine to meningitis at the age of 21
can only be understood by me as a tragedy – as something wrong in the world.
And of course, had his illness been diagnosed sooner,
and had antibiotics been administered earlier,
his survival would have been a cause for rejoicing
– an unambiguously good thing.

And yet when an animal dies unwatched in the forest to an unknown virus,
this is simply nature taking its course – it is neither wrong nor a tragedy.

The difference between the two lies in our capacity
to understand and name good and evil.
As we name it, so it becomes.

This is what distinguishes us from the rest of the animals in Eden
– we are the only created being with the capacity to eat the fruit of the tree.
This is what makes us human.

And having taken the knowledge,
having acquired the power,
we also, of course, assume the responsibility.

Knowledge, you see, brings its own consequences.

It was only after eating the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil
that man and woman gained the capacity to comprehend shame.
Up until that point, they walked naked in the garden – innocence personified.

They weren’t shamed in their nakedness
– because without the knowledge of good and evil,
their nakedness wasn’t shameful.
After all, when did you last see an animal try to cover itself in shame?

Just as the goodness of creation was named as evil by humanity
– so also the state of human innocence is ended
with the consumption of the fruit of the tree.

Knowledge begets not just power but guilt.

And as we take God’s good creation and name it evil,
there is much to be shameful of.

We have placed ourselves at war with God’s good creation
and in the fighting of this battle,
we damage the created order irreparably

Instead of living in harmony with nature
– part of the God-given cycle of life and death –
we rather find ourselves toiling to survive
fighting disease, afraid of death
determined to overcome creation at all costs
determined to exercise dominion in our own interests.

The state of humanity in our present is experienced,
as a time of innocence lost.
This is what the Genesis narrative is seeking to explore.

We may occasionally catch glimpses of innocence within ourselves,
but our overriding experience is of shame, and loss,
and of far, far too much knowledge to ever go back.
The flaming sword behind us makes sure of that.

And so we find ways to cope.
We make clothes to cover our shame,
we construct ways of containing our knowledge.
Household codes, the Ten Commandments, the Levitical law,
habeas corpus[1]
All attempts to put clothes on ethical nakedness.

And this unlocked human thirst for knowledge is so inexorable,
and the power and the guilt that it unlocks are so pervasive,
that we have to find ways to contain our lust for knowledge.

We have to find ways of not always seeking an answer to the question of
“What will happen if I push this boundary?”
We have to find or impose limits on human inquisitiveness.
We have to find ways of recognising that with the knowledge comes power,
and with power comes responsibility.

Jesus recognised this power and responsibility
when he twice said to Peter and the disciples,
“whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven,
and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven” (Matt 16:19; 18:18).

And he faced his own temptation to misuse great power for selfish purposes
when he confronted Satan in the wilderness.

Sometimes it really does seem that we have become like gods
with the power to name good and evil.

And the solution suggested by Jesus to this tendency to power
lies in giving back to God
the authority that is truly his alone.

It lies in taking a step back from idolatry,
and giving God his due.

As Jesus said to Satan in the wilderness:
'Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.'
And as he said to the scribes and the Pharisees:
Love your neighbour as yourself,
Love the Lord your God with all your heart and mind and soul and strength.

Worship, you see, isn’t about making God feel good about himself
– it is about undoing the fall,
it is about recreating a new humanity
where once again God is in his rightful place.
It is about restoring order to creation.

There is no going back to Eden of course
– as Genesis puts it, the flaming sword behind us bars the way.
But there is a journey forwards into new creation,
and it is the role of the church to lead humanity in that journey.

We are those entrusted with the task of binding and loosing in a Godly way.
We are those entrusted with pointing to love of neighbour and love of God
as the clothing for human ethical nakedness.
We are those with the message of God’s intervention in the person of Jesus,
who died to redeem death, and rose to restore creation.
We are those who live the assurance
of a renewed heaven and a restored earth.
We are those who, with John of Patmos,
hear the voice from the throne in heaven saying:

Rev 21:3-4
See, the home of God is among mortals.
He will dwell with them;
they will be his peoples,
and God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.’

So, where does all this get us with the problem
posed to us all those years ago
by our young God-daughter?

What should we say to our friends by way of advice
as their child refused antibiotics on principle?

Sadly, in due time, each of us must grow from the childish innocence,
which so closely echoes the innocence of Eden,
into a more adult, fallen, responsible, expression of humanity.

And once we get there, there can be no going back;
the innocence of childhood is remembered as a golden age
with a flaming sword between there and now

One of the great disappointments of growing up, it seems to me,
is the realisation that Eden is behind us,
the realisation that innocence doesn’t last.

One of the tragedies of maturing
is the recognition that all is not right with the world
and that we ourselves have played our part in that tragedy

The growth into guilt and shame, into toil and responsibility
is part of the human condition
We each of us eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil
we each of us find ourselves naming God’s creation as evil
we each of us find ourselves at war with nature
we are each of us complicit in creation’s fall
It comes to us all, in the end.

Part of me wondered whether, given time,
she’d be popping antibiotics
without so much as a second thought

After all, it’s inevitable that all of us mature in time,
departing from a child-like understanding of the nature of the fall
and of the relationship between humanity and the created order.

And so, with some sadness,
we simply ended up saying to our friends about our God-daughter,
‘Don’t worry – it’s just a phase - she’ll grow out of it’

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

Monday, 26 August 2024

The Church’s Voice in Migration

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

1 September 2024

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

The rioting seen on the streets of British towns and cities last month
  is deeply interwoven with the issue of people migration.

In the wake of these harrowing scenes
  that we have witnessed across our nation this summer,
a stark reality has been laid bare:
  we are seeing the corrosive impact on people’s lives
  of fear, division, and misinformation.

The recent riots were fuelled by a toxic blend of prejudice and falsehood,
  and have exposed deep-rooted wounds within our society.

But these are not isolated incidents
  they are the culmination of years of complex factors,
including economic inequality, social unrest,
  and a strained immigration system.

And it’s within this context
  that I want us to take some time this morning
to examine the plight of migrants,
  those who have become scapegoats for our societal ills.

I spoke about the way society scapegoats minorities a couple of weeks ago,
  and offered some reflections with regard to the criminal justice system
  and the prison population,
and this sermon builds on those insights.

I am particularly grateful to Solomon
  who has encouraged me to tackle this subject,
and for the input he has had into shaping these thoughts.

Solomon has written his own reflection
  on the role of the church in relation to immigration
  and I encourage you to read it.
There will be a link to it on the church website
  along with the script for today’s sermon.

https://www.bloomsbury.org.uk/why-the-church-could-play-a-part-in-the-migration-debate/

The issue of migration presents us with a complex tapestry,
  one which is woven through
  with threads of economics, politics, and human suffering.

It is, as we often see, sometimes at tragic cost,
  a topic that can ignite passionate, and often divisive, debate.

Yet, amidst all the noise and contention,
  there is a clear, unwavering moral imperative
that calls us, as followers of Jesus, to action.

This morning, I want to suggest
  that the Church has a vital, even indispensable role
  to play in this conversation about migration.

In short, I believe that our faith compels us
  to create sanctuaries for the marginalized,
  and to offer a voice for the voiceless.

This room in which we meet for worship is called ‘The Sanctuary’,
  and this is a word which implies holiness, a place that is ‘sanctified’,
  but also a place of refuge, of safety, of support.

Our church Mission Statement speaks of this, saying:

Our mission is to discern God’s loving and inclusive will:
we nurture faith and build community,
we confront injustice, create sanctuary, and deepen relationships. [1]

The biblical mandate to welcome the stranger,
  and to care for the oppressed,
is a foundational principle not just of our church,
  but also of our Christian life both personally and collectively.

And this call to create sanctuary echoes through the ages,
  bringing a challenge that remains as relevant today as it ever was.

Therefore, because of this,
  the Church of Jesus Christ must be prepared to speak out for migrants
  calling for justice for the oppressed, and offering welcome for the excluded.

We must stand in solidarity with those
  who are forced to flee their homes
due to conflict, persecution, or economic desperation.

And we must advocate for policies that uphold human dignity
  and protect the rights of refugees and asylum seekers.

The Plight of Migrants
One of the key texts for defining human dignity
  within the teaching of Jesus
is his description of the ‘least of these’
  in the parable of the sheep and goats in Matthew 25:35-40.

Here, Jesus identifies himself with those he describes as ‘the least’.

It’s not a straightforward parable to interpret,
  as it isn’t entirely clear who Jesus is referring to as ‘the least’.

But the broad point is clear
  which is that whoever they are,
  wherever the ‘least’ are in our world,
  there Jesus is to be found in their midst.

Jesus says, “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat,
  I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink,
  I was a stranger and you invited me in,
  I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me,
  I was in prison and you visited me.”

I think this passage offers us a profound lens
  through which to view the plight of migrants.

These people often embody the very qualities Jesus describes here:
  they are hungry, thirsty, strangers,
  naked, sick, and imprisoned
  —not necessarily in literal terms, but certainly in spirit.

They are the hungry who have fled famine and economic ruin,
  the thirsty who yearn for safety and security,
the strangers in a foreign land,
  the naked lacking basic necessities,
the sick without adequate healthcare and denied recourse to public funds,
  and those imprisoned by circumstances beyond their control.

And we know that their stories are heartbreaking.
  They are the parents forced to make the impossible choice
  between starving at home,
  or risking perilous journeys for their children's future.

They are the children who have witnessed unspeakable horrors,
  their innocence shattered.

They are the young people who dream of education and opportunity,
  only to find their paths blocked by war and poverty.

Migration is not a choice;
  for many it is a desperate act of survival.

To understand the courage, the hope, and the fear
  that drive these individuals,
we must look beyond the headlines and the statistics.

We must learn to see the human faces behind the numbers,
  to recognize the shared humanity
that binds us to these brothers and sisters,
  whatever their country of origin.

Because wherever the least and the weakest and most vulnerable are,
  there is Jesus in their midst.

The human cost of migration is immeasurable.
  It is the loss of homes, families, and communities.
It is the trauma of displacement, the uncertainty of the future.
  It is the erosion of dignity and hope.

Yet, amidst this suffering,
  there is also a profound opportunity for compassion and solidarity,
as those of us who follow the command and example of Jesus,
  turn towards, rather than away from those displaced,
finding ways of creating and offering sanctuary,
  challenging the unjust systems that perpetuate suffering,
  and seeing the spark of the divine in each human face.

Western Responsibility

The prophet Isaiah, with typical prophetic fire,
  condemned those who “crush the poor and grind the faces of the needy.”
  (Isaiah 1:17, 3:15)

His words echo to us across the millennia
  as a damning indictment of injustice and oppression.

As we grapple, as individuals, as a community of faith, and as a society,
  with these complex issues of migration,
it is essential that we examine our own complicity
  in creating the conditions that force people from their homes.

For centuries, Western nations have played a dominant role
  in shaping the global order.

Colonialism, with its legacy of exploitation and division,
  has left enduring scars.

Economic policies, often driven by short-term interests,
  have contributed to the widening gap between rich and poor nations.

These historical and ongoing actions
  have created a world marked by inequality, instability, and conflict
– the very factors that compel people to seek refuge elsewhere.

It is therefore imperative that we in the West
  engage in a process of honest self-reflection.

We must acknowledge the ways in which our collective past and present actions
  have contributed to the suffering of others.

This is not to absolve migrants, or anyone else,
  of responsibility for their own choices in the present,
but it is to recognize the systemic factors that have limited their options,
  and our society’s role in creating and perpetuating
  systemic injustice at a global scale.

Only through a deep-seated commitment to justice and equity
  can we begin to dismantle the structures that perpetuate migration crises.

And this is what our Christian faith,
  rooted in the prophetic tradition of the Jewish people
  calls us to do.

This tradition calls us to a radical shift
  in our approach to international relations.

It is time to prioritize the well-being of people over profit.

It is time to invest in sustainable development,
  fair trade, and conflict prevention.

It is our calling to support policies that strengthen fragile states
  and empower marginalized communities,
and to critique the actions of aggressors
  who perpetuate the legacy of colonialism
  on vulnerable populations.

By doing so, and only by doing so,
  can we can begin to meaningfully address the root causes of migration
  and to create a more just and equitable world for all.

The Church’s Moral Call

The prophet Micah, continuing the tradition of Isaiah
  and adding his own piercing clarity,
outlined God’s essential requirements for God’s people:
  he said they are “to act justly, and to love mercy,
  and to walk humbly with their God.” (Micah 6:8).

This simple yet profound statement
  encapsulates the very heart of our shared faith.
It is a call to a life of righteousness, compassion, and humility.

As the Body of Christ, the Church is called to embody these values
  in every aspect of its life and mission.

Our unwavering commitment to love, peace, and justice
  should compel us to speak out against the injustices that drive migration.

Friends, we cannot remain silent
  in the face of suffering and displacement.

Our faith demands that we stand in solidarity
  with those who are marginalized and oppressed.

History offers us both cautionary tales and inspiring examples.

The dark chapters of colonialism and exploitation
  are a stark reminder of the consequences
  of unchecked power and indifference.

Yet, amidst the shadows, there are also beacons of hope.

South Africa’s transition from apartheid
  is a testament to the power of forgiveness,
  reconciliation, and the pursuit of justice.

The courage and resilience of its people, guided by faith,
  paved the way for a new era of hope.

The theology of Desmond Tutu,
  with his emphasis on God as liberator, the importance of human dignity,
  the power of forgiveness and reconciliation,
  and the call to action to challenge injustice
continues to offer a Christian pathway
  to hopeful engagement with oppressive powers.

Similar stories of courage and compassion
  can be found in countless other places around the world.
And these examples inspire us to believe that change is possible,
  that a more just and equitable world is within our reach.

So what then, should we do?

Taking Action

The Apostle James writes,
  "What good is it, my brothers and sisters,
  if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds?
  Can such faith save them?
  Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily bread.
  If one of you says to them, 'Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,'
  but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it?"
  (James 2:14-17).

Faith without action is like a body without a soul.
  It is an empty, lifeless thing.

Our belief in a loving and just God
  must be accompanied by tangible acts of compassion and service.

And so the Church is called to be a beacon of hope
  for those who are marginalized and oppressed.

This means advocating for just immigration policies
  that uphold human dignity
  and protect the rights of refugees and asylum seekers.

It involves supporting organizations
  that provide essential aid and support to migrants,
  helping them to rebuild their lives.

And it requires fostering understanding and compassion within our communities,
  challenging prejudice and promoting a culture of welcome.

Each of us has a role to play in welcoming the stranger.
  And many of us have been involved in such actions for many years.

The West End Welcome project, a spin-off from London Citizens,
  is a joint project between ourselves here at Bloomsbury,
  and our friends nearby at the American Church and the Westminster Quakers.

In 2020 through the UN community Sponsorship Scheme
  we brought over two sisters, originally from Syria,
  who had been in a refugee camp in Iraq.

Many of us here today were part of supporting this,
  and I was with them just last week.
The latest news is that they have recently passed their Life in the UK test
  as part of their journey to becoming British Citizens.

I could tell you other stories from our recent life together as a congregation,
  of how we have meaningfully supported people
  who are trying to make a new life for themselves in our country,
and I am so pleased that this is part of our story as a congregation.

Whether it is through volunteering our time,
  donating to charitable causes,
or simply extending a warm welcome to those who are new to our community,
  our actions can make a difference.

So let us be a people who not only profess faith
  but also live it out in tangible ways.

A World Out of Balance
As we have seen, the biblical narrative
  is punctuated by stories of God's concern for the poor and oppressed.

Yet, today, we live in a world
  characterized by a staggering disparity of wealth and power.

A handful of individuals possess resources beyond imagination,
  while millions struggle to meet basic needs.
This is not merely a statistical anomaly; it is a moral crisis!

How can we reconcile the opulent lifestyles of a few
  with the abject poverty of many?

How can we justify a world where conflict and displacement
  are often rooted in the unequal distribution of resources?

These are questions that demand our urgent attention.

And as Christians, we are called to be agents of change.
  We cannot remain silent in the face of such injustices.

Our faith compels us to challenge the status quo
  and to work towards a more equitable world.

It is time to dismantle the systems
  that perpetuate poverty and inequality.

It is time to invest in policies
  that prevent conflict and promote sustainable development.

It is time to create a world
  where every human being has the opportunity to flourish.

And our calling is to be a Church that speaks truth to power,
  that advocates for the marginalized,
and that works tirelessly to build a more just and compassionate world.

Conclusion
So in conclusion, the Church has a unique and indispensable role
  to play in addressing the global migration crisis.

Our faith compels us to be a sanctuary for the marginalized,
  and a voice for the voiceless.
We simply cannot remain silent
  in the face of suffering and injustice.

So let us commit to continuing to educate ourselves
  about the complex issues surrounding migration.

Let us forcefully advocate for policies that uphold human dignity
  and protect the rights of refugees and asylum seekers.

And let us open our hearts and homes and communities
  to those who seek refuge among us.

As we strive to build a more just and compassionate world,
  let us hold tight to the words of the prophet Micah:
who calls us "to act justly, and to love mercy,
  and to walk humbly with our God."

Through our partnership with Citizens UK,
  we are part of a powerful alliance
that is taking decisive action to create a welcoming country
  for those seeking a new life here,
and also speaking out with courage
  to bring about change at a national level.

They say, ‘We want to make sure that everyone in our country can live with dignity.’

And they go on, ‘We believe that refugees, migrants and asylum seekers
  are everyday people who deserve to flourish
  and live fulfilling lives in their homes and communities.
But millions of people in the UK are suffering
  at the hands of unjust immigration policies.
There is a hostile environment which ruins lives
  and prevents people from integrating
  and contributing to their communities in the way they want to.
This makes people feel hopeless and helpless, but they're not.
  Together, we can build a safer and more just country for everyone.’

As we leave this sanctuary today,
  let us carry with us the words of our partners at Citizens UK.

Their commitment to a more just and welcoming society inspires us all.
  Let us be a congregation that embodies their spirit,
              that reaches out with compassion,
  and that works tirelessly to create a world
              where every person is valued and respected.

Together, we can build a future where the words "refugee" and "migrant"
  are synonymous with hope, not fear.

Let us be that change,
  in the name of our saviour Jesus Christ.

Let us pray:
A moment of silent prayer
Gracious God, we pray for peace and justice in our world.
  Open our hearts to the suffering of those forced to flee their homes.
Grant us the courage to speak out against injustice
  and to welcome the stranger among us.
May your love and mercy guide us
  as we work together to build a more just and compassionate world.
In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.

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

Monday, 12 August 2024

Water and Blood - Escaping Scapegoating

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

18 August 2024

1 John 5:6-13

At a pro-gun rally a few years ago
the former American President Donald Trump
made a striking reference to the issue of knife crime here in London.

He was addressing the National Rifle Association,
which lobbies strongly against gun controls in the US,
and said that an unnamed London hospital
was “like a war zone for horrible stabbing wounds”
with “blood all over the floors”.[1]

And whilst it is likely that he was merely half-remembering
and then spinning a sensationalist story from the Daily Mail,
it is also true that violent crime, including knife crime,
has been steadily increasing across the capital in recent years.[2]

The causes of the current spike in violence are complex,
and there certainly isn’t an easy solution to it.

But that doesn’t stop people wanting to find a one,
and of course we’d all like it to be
as fast and straightforward to implement as possible.

So, is the former President correct
in his assertion that the reason we have knife crime in London
is because we decline to arm the civilian population with guns?

I don’t think he is, and even if he was,
I’m not sure there’s a great appetite for derestricting guns in the UK;
so maybe we need to look elsewhere…?

Maybe we just need more police on the streets,
with more powers to stop and search?
And maybe we just agree to live with the erosion of liberty
and the systemic racial profiling that such an approach inevitably brings?

Or maybe we should just keep locking people up,
to adapt another slogan from Donald Trump.

If we keep removing people from society by sending them to prison,
maybe that’ll sort the problem?
Or maybe it won’t, and maybe we already lock too many people away,
and maybe our new Prisons Minister James Timpson
will be able to bring about genuine prison reform.

Andrea Coomber, chief executive at the Howard League,
a leading prison reform charity, is optimistic,
saying
‘We look forward to sound, evidence-led policy from the new government
that prioritises rehabilitation, productive sentences
and the use of prison only where absolutely necessary.’[3]

We currently have the highest rate of prisoner per population in Europe,
with 134 prisoners per 100,000 people,[4]
which compares with 67 in Germany,
and there are more prisoners in England and Wales
than in any other country in Europe;
more than the Netherlands, Portugal, Belgium, Austria, Scotland, Sweden,
Switzerland, Finland, Norway and Northern Ireland combined.[5]

Overcrowding, unsanitary and dehumanising conditions,
and lack of access to mental health care services,
mean that those who do spend time in prison
emerge largely ill equipped to take up a meaningful place in society,
and all too soon they are back in prison or living on the streets.

All of which raises the question
about whether this is the kind of society we want to live in,
and what we might do about it.

As a church we’re involved in the London Prison Ministry,
and I’m grateful to those who are already part of this.
If you’d like to know more about how you can get involved in this in London,
please do speak with me.

But I’m left with the question of why it is that we, as a society,
have got to a place where we are content to simply lock people away,
to put them out of society,
as the best solution we have to the problem of their behaviour.

Sure, some people who have deep and violent mental health problems
may well need to be locked away
for their own and everyone else’s protection.

But most of the people in prison are not in that category when they go in,
even if they are closer to it when they come out.

Many studies have shown that prison is highly ineffective
as either punishment or deterrent,
and yet we still turn to locking people up
not as our place of last resort, but our solution of first resort.[6]

And all this got me thinking
about the Old Testament story of the scapegoat,
which you can find in the book of Leviticus 16.10.

The French philosopher René Girard describes this ancient practice.
He says, ‘The ritual consisted of driving into the wilderness a goat
on which all the sins of Israel had been laid.
The high priest placed his hands on the head of the goat,
and this act was supposed to transfer onto the animal
everything likely to poison relations between members of the community.
The effectiveness of the ritual
was the idea that the sins were expelled with the goat
and then the community was rid of them.’[7]

This Jewish practice of scapegoating emerged in a culture
where there were already many different rituals of expulsion,
as people were declared unclean, or unworthy, or unpalatable,
for a whole host of reasons.

And the idea of the scapegoat was that it took the place
of those whose sin or circumstance
might otherwise render them unacceptable to society.

One of René Girard’s insights is that all societies,
whether ancient or contemporary,
are prone to scapegoating.

There is something deeply human
about wanting to rid ourselves of the thing
that has come to represent our deepest problems in society.

We can see it most clearly with the benefit of hindsight,
or as we identify places where other societies and cultures
have engaged in scapegoating,
but it’s much harder to identify from within when we do it.

So, we can look at the Suffolk witch trials of the 1640s,
and we can see how women who didn’t fit the expected model
of what a woman should be,
were hunted, tried, and executed,
as society put on them all its fears about disaster and disease.

We can see it in the way people who were homosexual
were treated by society through much of the twentieth century,
as they took the blame for everything
from the breakdown of family life, to the Aids epidemic.

We can see it in the way some sections of the Christian church
still treat those whose theology or identity is at odds with the mainstream,
blaming these transgressors for bringing God’s wrath
down upon the wider Christian community.

But can we see it in ourselves, and in our society?
Who or what represents your deepest fear?
Who would you be gladly rid of
from your life and your community?

Our society, I want to suggest, scapegoats offenders.
But hear this very carefully:
this is not to say that offenders are innocent.

Actually, in order for them to be effective scapegoats,
they can’t be innocent.

A scapegoat has to be guilty of something for the process to work.
As the first letter of John reminded us the other week,
‘If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves,
and the truth is not in us.’ (1 John 1:8).

Everyone’s guilty of something,
that’s the beauty of the scapegoating system.

What happens, though, is that the guilt that is rightly theirs
becomes magnified, to the point where it starts to take on the guilt
of everyone else in society,
so that by putting the scapegoat out into the wilderness,
the rest of us can sleep easier for a few nights
until it’s time to do it again.

And as a society we are remarkably efficient at scapegoating.

We have a sophisticated and nuanced legal system
which defines the fine line between transgression and innocence,
and we punish those who have transgressed,
putting them behind walls and doors away from the rest of us,
in the shared conviction that by doing so
we will rid ourselves of what ails us.

Except, of course, it’s not working.

Violent crime continues to rise,
because violence is not solved
by ever increasing punishments for those who are violent.

It might be alleviated by investing in mental health support,
in family support, in better social care,
in better education, in mentoring schemes,
in rehabilitation programmes,
and in restorative justice initiatives.

And our lack of these things is a stain on our society
for which we all share collective guilt;
we, after all, are the shared architects of our society.

And so we collude to rid ourselves of this guilt
by scapegoating the guilty,
requiring that they bear all our sins away to their prison cells,
in the hope that we will never see them again.

Can you see the circularity of the system that we’re stuck in?

This is not a new phenomenon;
as I’ve said, it’s as old as society.

The ancient Jewish practice of scapegoating an actual goat
at least had the benefit of punishing an animal rather than a human.
Whereas we have a tendency to reduce humans to animals,
as we lock them up in the crowded hutches we call our prisons.

But what is to be done?

Well, I think it all comes down to the question
of what kind of life we want for ourselves.

What kind of life do we want for our families,
for our friends, our neighbours?

Perhaps more challengingly,
what kind of life do we want for our enemies,
for those who offend or upset us,
or do us wrong or harm?

To put it another way,
what kind of society do we want to live in?

And this is where our passage from the first letter of John
offers a valuable insight into our situation.

The challenge that it brings us is a stark choice:
are we going to live in such a way
as to bring life into the world,
or are we going to make choices
that perpetuate the stranglehold of death?

John offers his readers a tantalising vision
of an alternative way of being human,
a new kind of life which is lived in the here-and-now,
but which has an eternal quality to it.

Rather than prolonging those patterns of behaviour which lead to destruction,
he invites us to catch a glimpse
of a different way of doing human relationships
where the end result is not death,
but a quality of life that has eternal significance.

Putting it plainly, he says,
‘God has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son’ (5:11).

There is something about Jesus which changes everything,
there is something to be experienced in encountering Jesus
which opens new possibilities for living.

And this something is called,
in language strongly reminiscent of John’s gospel, ‘eternal life’.

Now, I want to be clear that ‘eternal life’,
in the way that it’s used in John’s gospel and the letters of John,
is not a synonym for heaven where you go when you die.

And by the same token, not having ‘eternal life’
is not a code for going to hell to be punished eternally.

Rather, when the Johannine writings talk about ‘eternal life’
they are speaking about a quality of life
that we can access in the here-and-now,
but which has an eternal value
that transcends our lived reality of right now.

And this ‘eternal life’ is not something that any of us can find for ourselves,
rather it originates with the love of God,
is perfectly present in the person of his son Jesus,
and is brought to us by the Spirit of Christ
who is at work in and through us,
drawing us closer to the example of Jesus Christ.

To be without this eternal life is to be spiritually dead,
but to discover it is to discover a new way of living
that breaks through our spirals of unforgiveness and scapegoating,
to draw us into ‘the highest kind of spiritual and moral life’.[8]

If who we are eternally is the redemption of all that we are now,
then there are certainly eternal consequences
to whether or not we live the eternal life of Christ
into being in our midst.

But what is it about Jesus that gives us this new quality of life?
What is it about the story and example of Christ
that brings this gift of eternal life to those who encounter him?

To answer this, we need to go back
towards the beginning of our passage for this morning,
to the strange phrase, repeated in verses 6 and 8,
that Jesus comes by the water and the blood.

Scholars have spilled much ink over this slightly strange phrase,
and in true John-style it probably carries a range of meanings.

Some see an echo here of the baptism and death of Jesus,
as he was baptised in the waters of the river Jordan,
and as his blood was shed on the cross.

This would mean that those of us who encounter him in a life-giving way
do so by meeting him in the waters of baptism,
and again and again in the poured out wine of the communion meal.

The Spirit that descended on Jesus at his baptism is with us,
bringing us to the new life of forgiveness for our sins
as we too are washed clean of our guilt,
and raised from death to new life with Christ.

I think there’s something in this,
and if you’re someone who has not been baptised but would like to be,
please speak with me.

But the image of water and blood
goes to other levels of meaning beyond baptism and communion.

There may well be an echo here of the process of human birth,
where babies are born into the mixture of blood
and the waters of the amniotic fluid.

At this level of meaning,
the assertion that Jesus comes into the world
through the water and the blood
is a statement of his total humanity, as well as his total divinity.

Writing against those who were arguing
that Jesus was adopted by God at his baptism,
John is using this image to show that he believes
that Jesus was God’s son from his birth.

The implication for those who follow Jesus
is found in another echo of John’s gospel,
this time the story of Nicodemus,
who argued back when Jesus said that people needed to be born again
in order to enter the new life of the kingdom of God.

Jesus replied to Nicodemus,
‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God
without being born of water and Spirit.
What is born of the flesh is flesh,
and what is born of the Spirit is spirit.’ (John 3:5-6).

Those who want to live the eternal life that Jesus brings
can do so as the Spirit brings them to new life.

But we’re not done with this image yet.
It speaks to us of encountering Jesus in Baptism and Communion,
and of being born anew into the kingdom of God,
but it also takes us straight to the moment of crucifixion.

We had this in our reading earlier from John’s gospel:
the centurion takes a spear and pushes it into Jesus side,
and blood and water flow out.

By this image, the way we enter into eternal life
is through the cross of Christ.

And this takes us back to scapegoating,
back to violence, and back to spilled blood.

The practice of taking our collective guilt,
putting it onto an identified other,
and then putting them out of society,
is both ubiquitous and ineffective.

It doesn’t solve the problem it sets out to solve,
and it creates more problems in the long run.

But within Christian thought,
the sacrifice of Jesus is something different.

The significance of Jesus being truly innocent
is that when the collective guilt of society is placed on him,
and when he is crucified for the sins of the world,
it is a once-for-all sacrifice which is effective eternally,
in all times and in all places.

The insight here is that people can only be freed
from their compulsion to scapegoat others
when something decisively breaks that cycle,
and that something, within the Christian tradition, is the cross of Jesus.

The spiral of death is disrupted by the sacrificial death of Jesus,
and those who encounter that disruption
are given the capacity to enter into a new way of living
where life, and not death, is dominant.

Those who know that their sins have been forgiven by Jesus’ death,
can discover that they no longer need to offload their guilt onto scapegoats,
and so they can start to see new ways of dealing with human sin
that take us in the direction of eternal life, rather than death.

So the person who has embraced eternal life in Christ Jesus
will see pathways to restoration and rehabilitation in others,
where many will see just evil and danger.

The person who has been born again from above,
will see possibilities of forgiveness and new life
where others see just punishment and death.

The person who has been baptised into Christ’s body,
and who shares in the spilled blood of the cross at communion,
will know that they are a sinner saved by grace,
and that they should not judge others,
lest they too be judged.

The person who believes that in Jesus, God became flesh, and died and was raised,
will know that the potential for new life
can emerge from even the darkest of lives,
and so they will resist any attempt to write off anyone as beyond redemption.

In short, it is through our encounter with Christ,
that we can stop scapegoating others.
And if we can do that,
we can start to live in ways that bring life and not death.
And if we can do that, we can offer good news
to those who are still trapped in spirals of death,
that there is hope and forgiveness
and restoration and redemption,
and resurrection to new life.

So when we come to playing our part in society,
in our voting, and our actions, and our speaking,
we are called to be the voice of the alternative way,
we are called to resist the insidious narratives of scapegoating,
we are called to see the divine spark in the darkest heart,
we are called to visit those who are in prison,
and to bring liberty to those captivated by evil.