So what's the story?
From Wellington Cathedral of St Paul
So what's the story? 22 May 2011 The Revd Dr Raymond Pelly
- Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16
- Acts 7:55-60
- I Peter 2:2-10
- John 14:1-14
http://wellingtoncathedral.org.nz/index.php/Sermons
I am the way, and the truth, and the life. Jn 14:6
In the Christian Year so far we’ve gone at breakneck speed through the birthing, the living, the dying and the rising of Jesus – not to speak of a look at the end-times in Advent. What do we make of all this? How do we read this unfolding story? The problem of overall meaning is exacerbated by the way we only look at one bit of the story each Sunday. Yes, we can see the whole in a fragment; but the danger of this itsy-bitsy approach is that it can leave us with little or no grasp of what the whole thing adds up to. From there it’s a short step to domesticating it, making it sound cozy and harmless.
I.
In barest outline then the story has three parts. It begins with the birthing of Jesus. We can relate to this. What is more authentically sacred than the birthing of child? And ‘family’ is an ideal – and for many a reality – that resonates with us. But a ‘holy family’? That’s a bit more problematic. What about the strains and stresses of real family life? And now sociologists tell us that many people are choosing life-styles that don’t fit with old-style families.
In any event, we’re left with a traditional Christian agenda for family, for the birthing and nurturing of children, for the sustainability of long-term relationships between men and women - and now in same-sex relationships – the bottom line being how all people can have a full and fulfilling life. So far so good.
II.
This gives onto the life of Jesus, the acting out of the promise people saw (and celebrated) in his birth. It’s fair to say that his track record qualified him to be called, ‘a man for others’. His short eighteen-month public life involved care for women, men, children, all who were sick, poor, or without hope. The energy with which he went about this was so extraordinary that people asked: did he draw on wellsprings of life stemming from the Creator himself? In any event, those close to him knew that this energy came from a practice of prayer beyond anything they had ever struck.
Jesus’ practice of care for others (then) is the second thing (after family) that has gotten into the bloodstream of Christian faith. One only has to think of the number of hospitals, schools, orphanages and other caring agencies to see the truth of this; or the number of religious orders devoted to the care of the needy – like Mother Aubert and her Sisters of Mercy in Island Bay, or our own City Mission. This is a long and wonderful story, despite points at which it has broken down or gone wrong.
III.
But finally we come to what has been called ‘the Endgame’ and this is where things got problematical – or should we say, political. Jesus, an unusually imaginative and insightful man, came to the conclusion that the collapse of social and personal life that were everywhere apparent in small-town and village life in Galilee had one root cause: corrupt religion centred on the Temple, and this in league with the Roman colonial occupying power (and their client kings, the Herods). All conspired together to meet their expenses – the Temple, for instance, was huge and costly to run – by taxing the largely peasant population of Galilee and other regions. The command centre of all this was Jerusalem; and the not infrequent peasant revolts against this regime were ruthlessly put down.
So Jesus set off on a kind of ‘Hikoi of Hope’ to this very Jerusalem, the centre of his world. It was a risky and dangerous thing to do. Not unexpectedly he was arrested and, after a show-trial involving the Temple authorities as well as the Romans and Herodians, executed by crucifixion by order of the Roman colonial governor. On Good Friday we remember this whole story. And out of it comes something else distinctively Christian: a ‘hunger and thirst’ for justice; a willingness to shed martyr’s blood in defense of the true God ‘who hears the crying of the poor’ and ‘comes down to deliver them’ (Exodus 3:7-10); to take up the cause of the kind of people on whose behalf Jesus made his journey to Jerusalem: the poor, the sick, the suffering. If this makes us feel uncomfortable, all I can say is, it should. For was not the good news he preached and acted out called ‘offensive’ and a ‘stumbling block’?
IV.
And what of Easter, the resurrection? In a word, the whole life of Jesus – all we have related so far – was highlighted (vindicated or justified) by God as fully in tune with (or expressive of) the very life of God in Godself. The ‘I am who I am’ of God (Exodus 3:14) translated into the, ‘I am the way, the truth and the life’ of the man Jesus. Or, to pick up another biblical text that we could put into the mouth of Jesus, ‘It is no longer I who live, but God who lives in me’ (Galatians 2:20, adapted). What had been spoken and acted out by one man in one place, now became the model and inspiration for people at all times and in all places. Now you couldn’t say ‘God’ without at the same time saying ‘Jesus’. Not only that, in the on-going Pentecost that was to be the inspiration of the Church, another extraordinary saying of John’s Gospel comes into view. ‘The one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these’ (Jn 14:12). Not only is Jesus not dead, he is explosively and surprisingly alive.
V.
To get the full force of the story, there are three things we should perhaps grasp. One of the great theologians of our time (John-Baptist Metz) has said that the memory (that I have just evoked) of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus is a dangerous memory. What does he mean by that?
First, we can’t speak about Jesus apart from the suffering of people in our world. Just as Jesus – in the spirit of the true God – shared the sufferings of his people, so also should we. In a liturgical context like now, it starts with the naming of real things that are going on in our world. Or, in our telling of the gospel story, we shouldn’t forget to mention, for example, that his mother Mary gave birth to Jesus on a straw mattress on the floor in a stable.
Second, we can’t speak about Jesus without believing in the possibility of radical and far-reaching change, of new and surprising (sometimes disturbing) outbreaks of life – it’s called ‘hope’ or, if you like, ‘the kingdom (or rule) of God.’ If as Christians we ever think we’ve got it all sussed, that we can just paddle along much as we’ve always done, think again. The sheer danger of what Jesus attempted comes out early on in Mark’s Gospel. After he had restored a withered hand, we read ‘The Pharisees went out and immediately conspired with the Herodians against him, how to destroy him’ (3:6). The memory, then, is as dangerous as the thing itself.
Finally, and putting all this together, the story of Jesus – read about, heard about, acted out or celebrated – is not like your average novel or TV drama in relation to which we can be spectators, find it more or less interesting, more or less engaging – installed as we are in some safe place. Rather it’s meant to be – and indeed is! – a living voice, words through which I am addressed personally in a way that can be life-changing for me. We’re dealing not with a memory as of something in the past, but with a living memory – as powerful as a flashback after a life-threatening accident, but one that is as positive as a flashback is negative.
I’ve run out of time. But I hope you can see what I’m getting at: the memory of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus is as dangerous as it is life-changing. And this is the point of the whole story or of any part of it. Or, as it was once put earlier in our history, ‘There is yet more truth to break forth from God’s holy word’.
