From Coventry to Paris

"Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it"

Not the words I had hoped to have in mind on this 75th anniversary of the Coventry Blitz, when the city has planned to gather in University Square, to form a chain of light leading to the Cathedral - destroyed by the Luftwaffe but rebuilt as a sign of hope.
In Coventry, the decision was made not to tidy away the past, for there is no hiding the fact that the wounds of history run deep, and it is vital to acknowledge them if healing is ever to be possible.
So, the medieval walls of our ruined Cathedral stand open to the sky, as much a part of the Cathedral today as they were when they were all the Cathedral there was. They act  as a constant reminder that humanity is flawed, that we get things unbearably wrong, cause incalculable pain to one another, and assuredly make God weep again and again and again.
They make me pause whenever I see them - and never more so than in this week of remembering. On Wednesday, at 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, there was silence in Coventry, as I stood with my colleagues from the university chaplaincy team looking out across the square to where the ruined Cathedral continues to dominate the skyline, drawing the eye on a journey from old to new, from past to present. The future was represented by the students in front of us, coming from all over the world, from places that were “allies” and from places that were “enemies” 75 years ago. Together we stood and reflected, not remembering exactly, for none of us was alive when the bombs fell, but each of us, I'm certain, experiencing in some way that bewildering cocktail of sadness and gratitude which is part of Remembrance tide.

But Remembrance here has an added dimension. The day after the Blitz, Provost Howard stood in the ruins of his Cathedral as a petitioner, a representative of the whole of the damaged and destructive human race, and spoke to God.
"Father, forgive" - he said.
A sentence with no object...It's not "Father forgive THEM" - projecting the violence and hatred out to the other, and thereby justifying acts of reciprocal violence and vengeance...
Rather "Father forgive" is a prayer for us all - for the many ways, great and small, in which we wound one another and mar God's image in us day by day.
I can't imagine those words were universally popular in the city, as people emerged from air raid shelters to pick about the rubble of their homes, or searched the morgues desperately for friends and family.
When we are in great pain, it's natural to want to hurt others.
When we see the innocent suffering, it's tempting to want the perpetrators to suffer in return.
But "an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind" - and whatever the pain, to meet violence with violence can never help.

On Wednesday, it was an extraordinary privilege, when the silence ended, to lead the Litany –words we know so well in our Cathedral, which speak into the shared guilt of a broken world but carry always the promise of transformation. Sometimes we might take those words and their promise for granted – but when you stand between the ruins of yesterday and the hope of tomorrow it’s impossible not to be moved to a fresh commitment, and to pray from the heart “Father, forgive”. 
Today, as I pray for the people of Paris, and for those who are so quick to take up arms to avenge the lives lost, the peace shattered, I'm trying to own the Litany as never before. God's love is never limited to the innocent, the victims, those whom we long to comfort and embrace. That's so hard to grasp...but grasp it we must if we are to be people of peace today and tomorrow.

For now, this Hasidic story offers a wise perspective as we try to move forward as best we can, by light available to us...

Only Then..

A rabbi asked his students, "When is it at dawn that one

can tell the light from the darkness?"

One student replied, "When I can tell a goat from a donkey?"

"No," answered the rabbi.

Another said, "When I can tell a palm tree from a fig?"

"No," answered the rabbi again.

"Well, then what is the answer?" his students pressed him.

"Only when you look into the face of every man and every woman

and see your brother and your sister," said the rabbi. 

Only then have you seen the light. All else is still darkness."

Lighten our darkness,
Lord, we pray,
and in your great mercy
defend us from all perils and dangers of this night,
for the love of your only Son,
our Saviour Jesus Christ.

Holy living, holy dying: part 2

Remembering P's triumphant assertion of resurrection, I found myself regretting once again the protective reticence that meant that even as he visibly wasted away, my father could not,  would not speak of death, or allow us acknowledge the uninvited stranger whose presence was about to derail us. A naive teenager, cherished and protected at every turn, I lacked the intuition to pick up the few hints he offered, and so I repeatedly bruised myself walking into the elephant that had apparently settled down comfortably in the midle fF our sitting room. Though he was a man of deep faith, Daddy was also a man of his time...for whom soul baring would have been unthinkably painful, so I have no idea how he negotiated that final journey, nor did I really manage to say goodbye....Tragically, we were all far too busy pretending we were bound somewhere else entirely.

This meant that later I had no real language for my grief either when it came, and the relationship with my then parish priest was not one to enable confidences. The school's massive performance of Brahms Requiem which ended that A level term for me helped a bit, and music and poetry provided a series of safety valves tbrough which to endure the un-endurable, but that great conspiracy of silence which isolated each member of the family just when we most needed one another undoubtedly left its scars. My longing to offer excellence in funeral ministry probably dates from then, for certainly the "one size fits all" service the Prayer Book presented gave cope for neither personal grief nor thanksgiving.  (More recently I watched the anger and confusion of many at a traditional RC funeral, which allowed no reflection of the departed in the liturgy, and feelings of professional frustration mingled with the overwhelming sadness of a farewell in which there was so little scope for gratitude). Learning the ways of grief at first hand at 18 is far from ideal, and has left me peculiarly bad at endings and goodbyes of every kind, and given the "changes and chances of this fleeting world",  this can be a bit of a handicap...so I am more than ever convinced that generous and early conversation is a really important element in a good death.
I want to have time to leave well, and perhaps to try and hand on whatever *ve learned of life and love along the way.For me that conversation will, of course, be shaped by the "sure and certain hope" that we go from love to Love...so that I trust that one day I can say with conviction "For all that has been, thanks: for all that shall be, yes."

Holy living, holy dying. Part 1

All Souls Tide...a fitting season for a clergy study day on funerals. Lots of excellent material, delivered by the ever - splendid Sandra Millar,  who really could sell snow to Eskimos.  I'm confident that all present will have gone home pondering the mission potential, the vital importance of building relationships, both pastoral and professional, and feeling encouraged that, despite prevailing g secularism, many people do still want us to speak of faith, to give an account of the hope that is in us.
I enjoyed a fresh chance to engage with material I had first encountered at the national conference, Taking Funerals Seriously, but I drove home reflecting in particular on what might be termed "holy living, holy dying".
The room was shocked into deep silence when Sandra reminded us "We are all going to die". Despite the ample evidence, despite all our attendance at deathbeds and graveside,  I am not sure that clergy are any better at believing this than anyone else. We know it. Of course we do. But it is unbelievably difficult to actually imagine a world of which we are not part, a future for our family that excludes us. Years ago, during ordination training, we were invited into a meditation on our own death, and it proved to be one of the most profound and important experiences of training, provoking deep deep sadness, many tears, but an ultimate stillness.

"Teach us to live so we may dread our graves as little as our bed" wrote Thomas Ken in a verse redolent with an appropriate fear of Judgement. Yesterday, my thoughts went in a slightly different direction, thinking on how the way we live will shape the way we die. I long to live generously, with open hands and heart, though I fear that too often my hands are clenched, to hold on in case there turns out not to be enough. Of what?....Time? Life? Love? Who knows?
But if I could live my aspiration, then maybe I could make a gift of my death too.

 A priest I knew did just that, deciding against treatment that could only prolong, not cure. He talked and preached openly on his hopes and his fears, and as his body weakened he seemed stronger day by day. His journey towards death was rapid, and he died on Easter Sunday, as his congregation packed the church to sing of resurrection, with all the shining alleluia of the day. His funeral was a profound and powerful statement of transcendent hope. There were so many there, it was impossible to see much of what was going on, but his coffin was loaded with sunflowers, and as it was carried out their warm gold was a like a wave of joy, rippling through the congregation. The choir sang Handel "Hallelujah! For the Lord God omnipotent reigned.  The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdom of our God and of his Christ, and he shall reign for ever and ever. Hallelujah!" and at that moment I am convinced that we all knew this for truth.

Shared Conversations observed

One way and another, last week was a good time for reflection and for growth.

Not only did I find myself reflecting on the nature of loss and change, as I spent three nights in a house whose wooded estate had been one of my most favourite childhood playgrounds, but I was there in the privileged position of chaplain to one of the Regional Shared Conversations.

For those who aren't up to their elbows in the Church of England, these are a series of opportunities offered to every diocese in the country for exploration of one particular question

"Given the significant changes in our culture in relation to human sexuality, how should the Church respond?"

Over three days, participants from a cluster of dioceses, and from all shades of opinion, engage in facilitated conversation, sharing their stories, their understanding of Scripture, and their ideas of possible futures for the Church of England. To be there on the sidelines as three southern dioceses explored together was an extraordinary privilege - which changed my own perspective, enabling me to understand something of the pain felt by those whom I had previously dismissed as having a purely black and white view of life. For the first time I was able to learn, in informal tea-time conversations that were anything but casual, of the pain that is experienced not only by the LGBTQ community, with whom as a lifelong liberal I instinctively ally myself, but also that of the conservative evangelicals who see the Church they love departing from her true self. 

Suddenly viewpoints and issues had human faces. Faces I was growing fond of. It was impossible to see one group or the other as "them"... they were, and are, family.

On Thursday afternoon, after all the official conversations (which were quite rightly reserved for those who came as representatives of their dioceses), after the plenaries, after the late night conversation over drinks and copious supplies of chocolate (this was a conference centre sans bar!), I presided at the Eucharist. Immediately beforehand, the lead facilitator had encouraged all to attend, saying that those who felt unable to receive the Sacrament (whether because of their sense of impaired communion with one another, or because of their reservations about my ministry as an ordained woman) would nonetheless be an important part of our worship, their pain at not receiving a testimony to the pain of a broken Church. 

So... they were all present - and nearly all of them received. It was quite overwhelming to stand before them at the Peace, looking slowly round at people whom I had come to respect and like, to proclaim "We are the Body of Christ" - and then to move behind the altar and in just a few short minutes take that Body, present now in bread and wine, and break it. It was impossible not to project into a future in which that Body would be broken again, to think about just who would be missing from the table if the Church split - and to feel keenly the pain of loss.

Though I was not part of the official conversations, those 3 days in Sussex helped me to understand that we will, truly, be a diminished Church if schism comes. We will lose not just a bunch of uncongenial opinions (whatever your perspective) but family members, with whom we are deeply connected. Who knows if family bonds can hold.... but come what may, last week's experience has enabled me to see people, not simply issues. My mind has not changed, but my heart is open in a way that it was not before - so I am praying for an outpouring of grace, so that a work of reconciliation may yet be possible.

All is harvest, a homily for the All Souls Requiem at Coventry Cathedral

This past week has given me plenty of food for thought.
You see, I spent Monday to Thursday just a few miles away from the place where I grew up.
Driving south, the memories came thick and fast.

The woods that surrounded the conference centre where I was staying had been the scene of some magical afternoons building dens with my father – and seeing them in their full autumnal beauty made me long to leave the car and plunge into the undergrowth – to see if somewhere a little girl and her Daddy were still playing.

On the second afternoon I found myself in a country church with a small group of people I'd met only the day before, singing Faure's Requiem just for the sake of it, because we could. The church, too, had been somewhere I had visited with my parents, who were avid church-crawlers, and, singing the Pie Jesu I recalled standing to sing it at my father's funeral. More, a trip into the nearby town for some necessary supplies sent me past the cemetery where my parents are buried. This is somewhere I rarely visit, not because I don't love and miss them deeply – but because it is some 200 miles away from home – and because they are, quite simply, not there. I was, therefore, a little surprised at how important it seemed to turn off the road, and spend some time among the graves, searching. In the event, it didn't seem to matter at all that I didn't actually find them.

What mattered was that I had stopped, and remembered.

Even in the shock of losing them both, just 6 months apart, before I turned 19, I had somehow grasped that that what had happened to the bodies of those beloved people who had been all my world was painful, sad – but not the reality.
I understood it as I ordered a stone with the one criterion – that it should be one that weathered, that would soon be softened by the elements, covered with lichen....and hoped that in the same way, the immediate searing grief of abandonment would gradually be softened by time. Now I know that I was right, that memories remain but the sadness has largely gone.
And I think that's as it should be.

There are moments, like last week for me, when past and present collide, and we can remember with thanksgiving all those whose lives have been a gift to us, can commit them again to God's care, and perhaps reflect for a few moments on our own mortality.

I think this is what today is for

We stand and look back with thanksgiving – for these beloved people are OUR saints...their light of their lives has brought warmth and beauty to our journey and of course we miss their physical presence beside us.
But listen.
“This is the will of him who sent me...that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day”
That is the sort of promise we can rely on...and one that we see reflected in creation, as we know that the dying leaves of autumn will give place, in due course, to the new life of another spring. Change and loss are part of living in time – but the inheritance we hear about in the letter of Peter is of a different order – imperishable, undefiled, unfading – above all a LIVING hope.
It is, truly, something to look forward to.

Here I'm stopped in my tracks by the voice of my older son, who contends, always, that I am too easily persuaded by the beauty of words...and he is right that words are of value only if they match experience. He is right, too, that I have no direct experience of the reality of that promise – but I HAVE experienced the enduring wonder of a love, which is not changed or broken simply because we can no longer see or touch those who have been a gift to us.
That love colours our memories, giving them a warmth and beauty that makes the ordinary things of life seem an extraordinary treasure
That love, a pale reflection of God's love for each one of us, is nonetheless truly stronger than death so that even from a purely human viewpoint, love never ends.

But remember what Jesus says
“I should lose nothing of all that he has given to me”
In other words, the guarantee of our future well-being, of that inheritance prepared in heaven for us is nothing to do with our own care and attention...for I know that I too often lose or damage things that are precious.
Our living hope for the future, for ourselves and our loved ones, is nothing less that Jesus's own care for us...something on which we can always, ALWAYS rely

He will not let us go.

So today we pause to look back...and we look forward.
To do so in the golden beauty of autumn days is to do so without fear – as we recognise that death and hope walk hand in hand, that in God's economy nothing is ever lost or wasted, that all in the end is harvest.

Cathedral Harvest

One way and another, this is not a great week to be celebrating Harvest.

Hospitals bombed and students shot on their college campus.

Teenage jihadists and the continuing pain of refugees across the world

And now, so close to home, Saturday evening shoppers caught up in pain, terror and tragedy.

Truly, there's little to give us hope when we look at the News.

And yet - and yet - we are called to give thanks.

And somehow we have to believe that those words we've just heard about God's care for the birds of the air and the flowers of the field mean something in a world that often seems harsh, unpredictable, downright hostile. That the truth of God's presence throughout creation - in the beauty and in the pain - is as fundamental and sustaining today in Coventry as it was 2000 years ago in the gentler landscapes of Galilee.

We come together this morning with so many different things on our hearts - carrying all sorts of grief and pain - and we are called to give thanks.

And I know that's not easy. 

Not easy at all.

But nonetheless

“We mustn't forget to say a great big thank you”.

So ran the favourite harvest hymn of the schools on my last patch - – so let me begin by voicing some of my own particular thankfulness.

I love being here as your Canon Pastor...

I really really do.

I love being part of an amazing group of people who give time, energy and buckets of love to the Cathedral day by day, way beyond any call of duty...

I love the place that the Cathedral and its story of brokenness and healing holds in the hearts of friends and visitors from around the world.

And of course I love that I get to participate in worship which includes such fantastic music week after week after week.

It's a delight, a privilege and something I need to pause, notice and enjoy from time to time.

But it's fair to say that at Harvest, I rather miss engagement with all those playgroups, schools and nurseries that were part of life before...

Harvest, after all, is just made to be a messy celebration – a time for leaf prints and grain collages...for sticky fingers kneading dough to make the harvest loaf...A time to help children remember the thankyous that are due to a whole string of different people- and at the very end of the chain, the One we might forget to thank...the One who is the source of everything.

Because, actually, that's the point of celebrating.

An annual opportunity to pause and say, “Thank you! Thank you for all those good things that have come our way this year.”

To pause and think; to pause and thank.

Of course, thankfulness is an attitude central to Christian belief.

It's part of the name of this service. The Cathedral Eucharist is nothing more than the Cathedral Thanksgiving.

But we're in trouble if we limit thankfulness to this time and this place....Our worship times here should be simply the tip of the iceberg – of our Christian community, of course, - but of our thankfulness too.

We should be a people defined by our gratitude as much as by our love.

We really should, always and everywhere, give thanks.

Unfortunately, generally we don’t. 
We look at the world, at all that we have to enjoy, and we take it as our right. We no longer see God in it. Instead we attribute the blessings we enjoy to human ingenuity...

And yes, it can be hard to glimpse God in a tin of chopped tomatoes, a loaf of a pizza or an Indian takeaway.

But God is there.

God is HERE.

If we open our eyes, wherever we look we see signs pointing the way to the creator.

Despite the way we treat it, the world is so much more than a gigantic supermarket, or a mine from which we extract what we want, using or discarding to suit ourselves as if nothing has any value.

Creation is, rather, part of the love song of our God who delights in creating...whose artistic genius gives us the wild flowers of the field,whose care provides for the needs of countless flocks of song birds on the wing.

Have you noticed God at work today?

Last week, as a small group of us kept vigil for peace on the Queen's steps, a long line of people made their way into the Cathedral for a “Mindfulness” event. Mindfulness is, of course, very fashionable right now – and bookshops are full of titles encouraging you to become more aware of yourself and of the world around you, with the claim that this will bring health and happiness. I have to confess to more than a pang that the queues last week were not for our vigil – but on reflection, those practising mindfulness are surely responding to the invitation Jesus gives us in this morning's gospel

“Consider the lilies. Look at the birds...”
Wonder at creation.
Savour its beauty.

What's that if it isnt mindfulness?

A conscious focus on the gifts that surround us – and a constant attitude of thankfulness too.

The great medieval mystic, Meister Eckhardt, once said,

"If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough."

I’m not sure, though, if I quite agree.

Saying thank-you is important, certainly.

It’s a great thing to be mindful of one’s blessings and say so from the heart.

But on another level, SAYING thank you is only a small part of the full meaning of gratitude.

Thanksgiving is both an attitude and a response, it’s both faith and works.

We need, in other words, to DO our thank yous too.

Think for a moment about how wildly profligate God is in creation.

Thousands of thousands of seeds, each with the potential to create a whole new life.

Myriad creatures so small they can only be glimpsed through a microscope.

Intricate webs of life held in balance.

Gift upon gift upon gift.

Simply amazing.

This year we've been overwhelmed by the harvest from our single apple tree in the Canonry garden...

One tree

Five huge boxes of apples.

Wonderful abundance – but I caught myself grumbling...thinking “What a nuisance! What on earth am I going to do with so many apples?” (part of the answer is that there is a box beside the community table...please do help yourselves)

Really. How dare I? How dare I??

Harvest reminds us of God's unlimited generosity...and yes, that can be overwhelming, more than our hands can hold...but that generosity should call forth a response that overflows as well...

The more we receive, the more we must open our hands to pass on the gift.

It seems to me that my own besetting sin is the fear that there might not be enough. Perhaps you're the same.

Time and again, though I want to give, I want to be generous, I hear a little voice at the back of my mind:

“Have you made sure you’re saving enough for old age…

Did you remember that all your children have student loans to pay off? Take care of the pennies. What shall I eat? What shall I drink? What shall I wear?..”

So instead of practising thanksgiving in all that I do, I fret, mither and worry, lapsing into self-protective meanness.

And – guess what – Jesus was right!

Worrying doesn't improve anything. It only casts a shadow over a beautiful world, where all, ALL is gift.

Let’s face it: we do not need everything we may want in order to live abundantly.

Indeed perhaps the more we have the more cluttered our spirits become.

It's possible that we stand now at a juncture in human history where we will be forced to face certain realities- that we cannot continue to plunder the earth's resources for our own ends, that our economies, both personal and political, cannot and should not grow forever, and that we may have to be content with what we have, or even a little less.

“Tis a gift to be simple…” says the old Shaker song…but it’s a gift that we are strangely reluctant to grasp even if we remember the second line “Tis a gift to be free”

We seem determined to shore up our fragile selves with all sorts of material props…we focus not on thanksgiving but on thanksgetting…like a child who asks his friend on Boxing Day, not “what did you give?” but “what did you get for Christmas?”

But at harvest festival we have a chance for a rethink, a moment of mindfulness.

We come together to celebrate all that we have received, and we express that celebration by giving of our best, our first fruits, just as people have through many centuries.
And, make no mistake, we all have something to offer. 

It may be that God – and God's people – don't particularly want a box of windfalls brought in to the Cathedral....but there are many other gifts, skills, talents, that we can bring as an expression of our gratitude. 
What will you bring? 
What will you bring?

Harvest festival sounds cosy, reassuring, a link with the golden days when churches were full and summers were hot.
But we know that the world is a rather different place, where pain and confusion, loss and fear are all too present.
So - I would like to issue a challenge - because, you see, every single one of us is part of God's harvest - and when we count our blessings, we need, too, to become a blessing for others.
So we can live out our thanksgiving by becoming people for whom the world is thankful.
People committed to ways of peace and hope.
People who comfort the broken and champion the weak, as we recognise God at work in the whole human family - not simply those whom we identify as "people like us".

If you and I can remember that we are celebrating thanks-giving, and not thanks-getting, if we can live lives that reflect the boundless generosity of God, in the way that we use our time, our talents, ALL we have been given, then we can honestly say with Meister Eckhardt that a "thank you" expressed in word and in deed, will be enough.

So let us indeed be mindful...and let's ask for grace to recognise God at work in all God's children. 

Let's ask to see God at work in every corner of the world, from farmland to city street, from refugee camp to community college.

Let's ask for grace to recognise God, too, in all the times and seasons of our lives, - to discover the surprising gifts that are ours even when the way seems dark and full of pain and confusion.If we can manage that, then we will not have to worry about tomorrow – for we'll know that God will be with us then, as God is today.

And strengthened by that grace – our thankfulness can flow as never before. So let’s thank God, for life, thank God for food, family and friends, thank God for the means of grace and the hope of glory, and thank God for being able to express our gratitude in acts of love, sharing and giving. Amen.

Christ the Cornerstone - a sermon for Evensong and Cathedral Praise. Ephesians 2:11-22

Walls, borders and boundaries.

The news is full of them at the moment – human devices created to keep what we call “civilisation” in order.

After all, if people simply had the right to wander freely across God's earth – anything might happen.

We might, heaven help us, discover that strangers and aliens were actually parents and children, teachers, hairdressers, nurses, taxi drivers,  - people just like us.

And we might be tempted to repeat the radical transformation we saw in Berlin in 1989, to tear down the barriers we have imposed upon ourselves and make fresh efforts towards peaceful co-existence, trusting that there are sufficient resources for all, if we work from a position of need and not greed.

We might.

But perhaps we might not...because, you see, we humans remain anxiously small-minded and often small hearted.

We find it much easier to organise the world along the lines of “them” and “us”...
And that has been so since time immemorial.

As Paul writes to the Ephesians, those divisions are constantly in his mind.

His readership, Gentile Christians in Asia Minor, were very much outsiders from a Jewish perspective...excluded by law and by custom.

Even the very fabric of the Temple was designed to keep Gentiles at a distance, as a structure of several barriers. Outside the Temple there was a yard, called the court of the Gentiles, and a wall. On the wall at intervals was placed a warning for a Gentile not to go a step further on the penalty of death. On the other side of that wall, the next court was reserved for Jewish women. Another barrier kept them from penetrating further. Inside that barrier only Jewish men were permitted, but they too were excluded from an inner zone for the priests alone. But even then, a final barrier existed where only the high priest could enter the sanctuary of the holy of holies, and that only once a year!
"KEEP OUT" was pretty much the motto of the place, expressed in its every stone.

Writing this on Heritage Open Day, when our doors have been freely open and visitors have streamed in by the hundred, it’s tempting but facile to make a comparison. Buildings can shout so loudly that sometimes it is just not possible to hear the message of those who speak from within – and sometimes those buildings need to be interpretted, to make sure that architecture does not accidentally subvert purpose.

For the 1^st century Jews, though, architecture and purpose were as one and the message was clear. The Temple was a statement of the identity of the Jews as God’s chosen people…and God stayed secure behind the curtain that ensured that the holy of holies remained just that. Sacrosanct. Holy. Set apart…

It worked like this – in order of holiness...

God

Priests

Jewish men

Jewish women

and then – firmly outside, the Gentiles, non Jews – that is to say EVERYONE ELSE….- which would, of course, have included US.

And, says Paul, those Gentile outsiders were a very sorry lot, with nothing to look forward to at all.

Traditional Jewish teaching suggested that the coming of Messiah would bring only destruction for them. They had, after all, no place in the “commonwealth of Israel” - Paul's shorthand for the elect, the people defined by their relationship as God's chosen since the days of Abraham. And worse of all, these non Jews existed “having no hope, and without God in the world” - not, perhaps as atheists (the ancient world tended to believe in some sort of god for sure ) – but as those who found that the religion they practised made little difference to a life that was nasty, brutish and short.

As a rather cheesey Wayside pulpit (is there any other kind? Discuss) put it quite well

“No God, no hope"..and then, adding a “k” and a “w” 
“Know God, know hope”

No God. No hope.

The situation for centuries. A world in waiting.

But – something incredible happened...that something that made it possible to add the "k" and the "w"....

Something that tore the temple curtain apart and changed everything for always.

The crux of this passage – and the crux of our faith.
The cross – the ultimate expression of God's solidarity with God's creation, of his all inclusive love for the world.

Yesterday at the Reader's Service I found myself silenced by some words in a hymn that I otherwise love; words that suggested that, at the moment of Christ's death, a mighty righteous anger at the heart of all things was finally extinguished.

“On the cross as Jesus died, the wrath of God was satisfied”, the author wrote – and everything in me longed to shout out “NO! At that moment God finally proved to an awestruck humanity that God is totally FOR us...that there is nothing that God will not do and has not done to communicate God's love for us."

And the power of that love broke down all division. Matthew tells us that it split the curtain in the Temple so that suddenly there were no outsiders at all. Everyone was included. Everyone could have access to God – all the time. Including people like us.

He [Jesus] has abolished the law with its commandments and ordinances, that he might create in himself one new humanity in place of the two, thus making peace, 16and might reconcile both groups to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it. 17So he came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near; 18for through him both of us have access in one Spirit to the Father

Where there had been divisions, there was now a new community of faith and worship...founded on that utterly compelling love which the world saw – and sees – in the person of Christ.

If that sounds exciting – it should do – though it's easy to lose sight of the excitement amid the familiar ways of life and of worship.

But, you know, it is what brings us here...

WE are not simply the constant beneficiaries of God's love at work in the world, but we are also inheriters of that new way of being, that new humanity reconciled to God and to one another – though that might not always be as obvious as it should be.

Last week, as we celebrated our Queen's long reign, there were many memories shared of her visits to Coventry, and to this place where, of course, she came to lay a foundation stone. A corner stone is similar, but not identical in purpose. It was the first stone to be placed at a construction site when a building got under way,its function to set the pattern for the building as a whole.

So if Christ is our cornerstone – not only is he the one on whose love we build our lives, but also the one whose life provides the template, sets the standard for all of us who follow after.

This new community of love founded at the cross is now the place where God dwells on earth...not in a building but in a people.

The Church.

The household of faith -where those who were once excluded are now part of the family,

So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, 20built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone.

That's our genesis as a community of reconciliation...but it's important to note that the Church's potential as a dwelling place for God depends on COMMUNITY – on being joined together.

The Church to whom Paul wrote stood for the overcoming of those deepseated divisions that had split his first cenutry world into Jews and Gentiles...Today that Church MUST stand

for the overcoming of divisions forced on the world by tradition, class, color, nation, for only in our unity can we represent God's presence in God's world. The cross of Christ, lifted up and proclaimed, draws all people to our loving God, and speaks of an end to all division. And that is what we must show to the world, where the pain of division continues to hurt and destroy.

It's part of our calling to welcome and hospitality...which won't mean automatic assimilation...

When we speak of those who have joined the church as having experienced “conversion” - this won't automatically turn all who enter our doors for worship into people Just Like Us. Paul recognises this as he explains that unity comes through the blood of Christ...

The idea of blood shed to achieve conquest was very much part of life in the Roman world...and those conquered were quickly brought into conformity and uniformity with Rome's ways.

In the upside down world of God's kingdom, blood shed in apparent defeat brings diverse peoples together and invites them to share in God's mission in Christ...

So – nobody can be excluded.

We are asked to be reconciled with all people...not just those who fit in with our notions of what a church (small c) should be like....because actually, the point of Church (capital C) is that it is a community for all. It won't always seem that way (though look around at your neighbours at "Later" and you might feel more optimistic) - but that's our calling. 
Not a club for the likeminded but a home for the excluded...

We will all struggle with different kinds of people.... It may be people of other faiths, or alternative lifestyles. It may be those of a particular political hue...For me, I'm conscious of the very real danger of being illiberal in my liberalism...of wanting to exclude those who see the world in terms of black and white, “in” and “out”.

But...I'm not called to exclude them. 
I'm called to love them.

In case you're still not sure what you can do to practice reconciliation yourself, someone online suggested a quick route to discovering those groups with whom you most need to make peace. Try praying for yourself the prayer of the Pharisee in the Temple – and fill in the blank.

“O Lord, I thank you that I am not like ___________________.”

Then change your prayer

Ask God to help you to recognise His image in that group of people...and to enable you to work with them in the service of his kingdom, that together you – we – may be built into a dwelling place for God...and a sign of God's kingdom on earth.

Because that, after all, is what we are for.

Migrants, crumbs and the Syro Phoenician woman - a sermon for "Later" at Coventry Cathedral, Trinity 14, 6th September 2015

This time last week I was at Greenbelt contemplating another night under canvas. It had rained hard all afternoon – and I was feeling slightly grumpy about my decision to camp, having commuted to the festival from the comfort of my own bed for the past 10 years.

In the event I was perfectly comfortable, despite a rather leaky waterproof.

Camping at Greenbelt was a good choice.

I was there with my family, my friends, and the wider festival community whose presence makes those 4 days of faith, art and worship an essential highlight of my year.

Yeah, it was damp and chilly on the camp-site on Sunday and Monday – but the truth is that I wouldn't have changed places with anyone else in the world, no matter how much you paid me.

But at the same time as 6,000 festival goers settled down for the night in our muddy field, across Europe thousands of refugees were also struggling to get to sleep in camps that had nothing to do with faith, fun or creativity...

The refugees whose very existence has prompted the language of crisis ...whose desperate faces fill our screens...who, surely, if we listen, will call us back to ourselves and to our true humanity.

They are people on the edge, right enough.

People like the woman we encountered in our gospel – an outsider, on the fringes...less important than the dogs who scratch and scramble for crumbs under the table.

Someone who doesn't belong, who has no rights.

But a mother, desperate to do the best for her child.

Just as Aylan's parents, and thousands like them, were desperate to do the best for THEIR child.

But oh dear God – we're slow to learn, aren't we?

Living on an island seems to make us alarmingly well – insular.

And yet – and yet...LISTEN...to these words written by another Dean John...John Donne of St Paul's, writing almost 400 years ago

No man is an island,

Entire of itself,

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thy friend's

Or of thine own were:

Any man's death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind,

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

We can't pull up the drawbridge...because we are interconnected.

These are our brothers and sisters, crying out in despair.

And we can't hide behind the differences of race or creed or language.

Whatever Cain thought, there are times when we are most truly our brother's keepers...our differences swept away in the face of our common humanity.

I know it's not easy. Not easy practically, politically, even emotionally.

We're not good, on the whole, at dealing with outsiders

.

We are, all of us, more comfortable with familiar situations, familiar people...and that can make the Christian life a challenge.

We know the theory – God's love embraces all...but we tend to organise our lives, even our churches, into zones of like-mindedness.

And we're not alone.

1st century Jews, Jesus among them, had had many centuries to establish themselves as a race apart...God's chosen people...The ultimate insiders, secure in an identity reinforced by law, faith and practice. But in our gospel today Jesus encounters someone from the other side of the tracks – and is challenged and changed by the encounter.

He has crossed into Gentile territory, where Jewish law, Jewish custom have no remit – and comes up against a woman driven by that most compelling force, parental love.

She pushes her way in, intent on claiming the healing she believes her daughter deserves.

Like so many others, she throws herself on the mercy of Jesus. Kneeling at his feet she entreats his help.

And what happens?

For reasons that may be obvious, I’ve never tried to tell this story in a primary school assembly, but if I did, I know that the children’s answer to that question would be. What happens?

“Jesus makes the child better”

That’s what we’d all expect.

Jesus goes about doing good, healing, rescuing,- surely that’s the essence of his earthly ministry. Of course Jesus is going to comfort the mother and heal her child, without further ado.

Except that he doesn’t.

Not at first.

First, we find ourselves thrown off balance, our expectations flouted by words of such staggering rudeness that they are almost unbearable. Jesus, JESUS of all people, tells that frantic mother that she and her child are no better than dogs….and I don’t think we’re under any illusion that he meant cute and cuddly spaniel puppies.

He is saying without compunction that as Gentiles, the woman and her daughter are not fully human, and they’re therefore beyond the scope of his love, his healing.

“It’s not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs”

It’s extraordinarily hard to hear this. We want to retain our soft focus image of Jesus, the source of endless compassion…but this abrasive stranger shakes us.

However, this woman is made of sterner stuff, and refuses to go away quietly.

Instead, she responds in kind, picking up Jesus’s words and turning them back on him without missing a beat.

We may be dogs, but surely you’re not so mean that you begrudge us even the left-overs.

She refuses to take No for an answer…

And in doing so, she stops Jesus in his tracks.

Against his own expectations, he is forced into really seeing her, - another human being, a child of God…and what he sees makes him change his mind in a radical way.

Hang on...

Jesus change his mind?

Surely not!

As God’s Son, Jesus must be perfect…the unmoved mover, no shadow of turning, right?

Well, it seems to me that since Jesus is fully human, he must have lived and learned. Even Mrs Alexander was prepared to accept that Jesus went through all the normal stages of physical development – “day by day like us he grew”

So too, surely, he learned and grew in relationship…and maybe sometimes he changed his mind. It seems to me that today's gospel presents Jesus rethinking the scope of his whole mission, as he responds to that Gentile woman whose love for her child is every bit as fierce and determined as any Jewish mother's.

His eyes, his ears, his heart are opened...and another miracle of scandalous grace occurs.

And oh, how badly we need that scandalous grace today.

We find it so hard to admit we might be wrong.

We cling to the notion that we don't really need to listen to the voice of strangers, because we already know the truth. It’s hard not to sympathise with the Jews, who believe themselves to be the insiders, on a fast track to Salvation. We don't have to look far in our churches, or in ourselves, to find traces of that same approach.

Time, then, for us to be challenged.

Today's gospel concludes with a second encounter, as Jesus heals the deaf man, transforming his life and his world with that great “Eph phathah” “BE OPENED”.

That, surely, is the call to us as we confront the heartbreak of men, women and children fleeing for their lives, and risking those lives again and again as they seek a place of safety, somewhere they can call home.

Preaching back in July I quoted some words of radical welcome ...and because they were well received the Precentor decided to print them on the cover of our service books. They have generated tremendous interest in the weeks that followed...and I would want to say loudly and clearly “HERE I STAND. I CAN DO NO OTHER”

Here's what I said...

We extend a special welcome to those who are single, married, divorced, widowed, gay, confused, filthy rich, comfortable, or dirt poor. We extend a special welcome to wailing babies and excited toddlers.

We welcome you whether you can sing like Pavarotti or just growl quietly to yourself. You are welcome here if you are ‘just browsing,’ just woken up or just got out of prison. We don’t care if you are more Christian than the Archbishop of Canterbury, or haven’t been to church since Christmas ten years ago.

We extend a special welcome to those who are over 60 but not grown up yet, and to teenagers who are growing up too fast. We welcome keep fit mums, football dads, starving artists, tree huggers, latte sippers, vegetarians, junk food eaters. We welcome those who are in recovery or still addicted. We welcome you if you are having problems, are down in the dumps or don’t like ‘organised religion.’ (We are not that keen on it either!)

We offer a welcome to those who think the earth is flat, work too hard, don’t work, can’t spell, or are here because granny is visiting and wanted to come to the Cathedral.

We welcome those who are inked, pierced, both or neither. We offer a special welcome to those who could use a prayer right now, had religion shoved down their throat as kids or got lost in the city centre and wound up here by mistake. We welcome pilgrims, tourists, seekers, doubters… and you!*

But...speaking our welcome is one thing. Living it is quite another.

We can long to BE truly inclusive, reflecting God's boundless hospitality in our every moment....but we don't always get that right.

So- we need to pray...to ask God to speak that great “Ephthaphah” over us too....

We need God to open OUR ears, eyes, minds, hearts..

We need to allow ourselves to be challenged and changed, as we encounter a God who listens and changes his mind, whose unlimited love seems almost to surprise himself.

We need to be open to the realisation that with God there are no boundaries...that there is grace enough to include us all

We need our eyes opened so we may SEE our brothers and sisters as God does, as beloved children, neither better nor worse, more or less beloved than we ourselves.

... our ears opened to hear their voices – and our tongues loosed so that we can be their advocates, speaking for those silenced by circumstance.

Today the 3 readings the church offers all share a single theme

James makes it so very clear.

“If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? He asks

If we don't act on our faith, it is ultimately pointless...for our faith should be transformational, enabling us to go beyond our innate caution, our fear of the unfamiliar, to offer the clothing, food, shelter that our brothers and sisters so badly need.

We don't need to be fearful. God's generosity abounds.

To welcome the stranger will not lead to penury for the hosts.

To exclude them may just be the end of our claim to humanity....for actually, there is no “us” and “them”. Each of us, from the politicians who make decisions to open or close borders to the refugee family camped at Calais is created in the image of God...and God loves each of us equally.

No favourites.

“God loves the rich and poor.” the Old Testament reading from Proverbs proclaims...going on with stern words for those who try to restrict that love...

Whoever sows injustice will reap calamity.

Those who are generous are blessed.

Do not crush the afflicted at the gate

for the Lord pleads their cause.

The afflicted at the gate...a picture as compelling as the images that have shaken the world this week.

And but for the grace of God, we could find ourselves waiting there too.

A friend in ministry offered a prayer space, with stations that included a pop up tent and an invitation to pray for refugees...As she tidied up, she found this reflection, written from the viewpoint of a Syrian mother....another desperate woman longing to save her family.

Listen.

IT’S A JOURNEY I DIDN’T WANT TO TAKE.

BUT HERE I AM, RUNNING FROM FEAR AND MESS AND WAR.

WANTING TO FIND PROTECTION AND SHELTER. WANTING TO SAVE MY FAMILY.

IF WE HAD BEEN BORN IN DIFFERENT PLACES, THIS COULD HAVE BEEN YOU. IT COULD HAVE BEEN YOU.

It could have been you.

Or me.

No man is an island, entire of himself.

We belong together – children of the same heavenly Father....alike dependent on his love and his mercy – which are without limit.

So, in the end, there's no need for any outsiders.

We all belong and there is enough and to spare for all….

Nobody need be content with crumbs from under the table.

Again and again, God’s reckless mercy sweeps us off our feet, his love compels us to come in, and we find that we are all alike included in a boundless welcome.

May God give us grace to share that welcome with all who need to know that they are not alone, that the human family can and will care for its own, in God's name.