Play with your ears

PONTING_1911_Dog_Listening_to_Gramophone_Antartica-620x481The 2018 summer organ concerts at St Modwen’s finished last Wednesday. We went out with a bang.

The player was Ben Bloor, a kind-of-local lad, who’d been chorister and organ scholar at Derby Cathedral, then went on to organ scholarships in Oxford where he read music, Westminster Cathedral, St George’s Windsor, and Rochester Cathedral. He is now successor to Ralph Downes and Patrick Russill at Brompton Oratory—at the tender age of 27. He wears his virtuosic gifts with quiet affability, earthed humanity, and wry humour. He is someone who would have provoked in me, when I was his age, naked envy.

The concerts began in 2017 when the new organist, Tony Westerman, arrived. He has many contacts in the local organ scene and I said to him that it would be wonderful to have “a bit of culture”. I pretended that this was for the sake of the church and the town, but in truth my motivation was entirely selfish. It was I who wanted a bit of culture. Thanks to Tony’s organisational skills, I sure got it.

The concerts have been a remarkable and unexpected success. Burton is within 11 miles of two cathedrals with great musical traditions: Derby with its wonderful acoustic to the north-east, and Lichfield to the south-west. Coventry and Birmingham are not that far away either. So if Burtonians want organ music, they haven’t far to go.

I wasn’t expecting great numbers, and told people that I’d be happy if we made double figures. At the first 2017 concert there were, IIRC, over 30, and the most we had in that season was over 60. I’m told we sometimes had more than Lichfield Cathedral.

St Modwen’s has a number of things in its favour. It’s in the Market Square, in the middle of town. The organ is in the west gallery and speaks directly into the church—going full pelt it’s almost painfully loud. The console is at ground level and the organist can be seen, and can hear everything in proportion. But perhaps most significant was our insistence that the pieces played should be foot-tappingly tuneful. No forearm smashes. No tuneless crap. And the players have obliged with good heart. And hearts have been good. We’ve been blessed with organists, including professionals, willing to give their talents free, therefore indirectly for local charities. I’m extraordinarily grateful.

Some players have been stunning, and most excellent. It doesn’t follow that professionals necessarily play better than amateurs. I would rather listen to a performance that’s passionate and in tune with the spirit of the music despite a few mistakes, than one that’s cold, clinical and flawless—and I’ve heard professionals give performances that have been exactly that, and certainly not worth the vast fees they charge.

Only two players were disappointing. It sounded as if they, quite simply, did not listen to the sound they produced. A good player always plays with his or her ears. S/he will listen to what s/he’s doing. In my half-century as a church musician and cleric I’ve heard organists who are transported in ecstasy to an Enid Blyton la-la land where the sun always shines and wrong notes are unknown. Rather than listen to what they’re actually doing, they “listen” to what they think they’re doing. I’ve “fond” memories of a Derbyshire village organist whose hands worked entirely independently of each other, and without any apparent neural connexion to the retinal impulses resulting from the black dots and squiggles of the printed music. I coped with this by singing very loudly so as to drown her out. It was truly w-o-e-f-u-l. She couldn’t be sacked since she was related to half the village and the pastoral consequences would have been seismic.

Back in the 1960s my piano teacher, Miss Julia Thompson, a very proper Penrith lady, constantly exhorted me “Stanley, you must always play with your ears”. It was some of the best advice I’ve ever been given. I carried on with lessons until I went to Cambridge in 1969. A lumbering late teenage boy sat next to a bird-like epitome of propriety, alternately praising and chastising him, must have made a pretty picture. One of my most cherished memories was when Miss Thompson set me a Beethoven sonata (can’t remember which) and after listening to me for a few minutes, stopped me and, knowing that I was a good sight-reader, said “Stanley, have you done any practice this week?”

A midsummer night’s dream

15163038101103088973a-midsummer-nights-dream-clipart.medFor St Paul’s Magazine, July 2018

I wake about 4 am sweating, heart thumping. I’ve been dreaming of some disturbing event, often at school, often involving exams I felt sure to fail: physics usually. Sometimes at medical school, with doom-laden foreboding that I am to fail physiology or biochemistry (the one subject I actually failed was pharmacology, and that doesn’t seem to feature). I’ve even had to go back to Cambridge for resits—here’s the curious thing—despite knowing in the dream that I had spent 30 years as a medical school academic.

In last night’s dream I told a few home truths to parents. I wish I’d done that when I was younger. It was gratifyingly violent.

Such a lot of insecurity. Such a lot of anger, never openly expressed, but smouldering, occasionally erupting at inconvenient times. It’s very tiresome. I wish I could remember pleasant dreams. As it is, I wake feeling as if I’ve done several rounds with Mike Tyson.

Why am I telling you this?

Some people expect clergy to be perfect, to be free of the problems that affect ‘normal’ people. Some people who don’t know me apologize for swearing in my presence, presumably on the ground that my thoughts are so pure that my psyche will go into meltdown if exposed to too many profanities. If only they knew. I could teach them a thing or two about swearing. It’s impossible to live and work in Dublin for almost 20 years without becoming adept at the handling of profanities, given the infinite creativity of Dubliners in that regard.

Mixtures of past and present. Mixtures of sacred and so-called profane. We are all mixtures. There is nothing pure about any of us. We are mixtures of genes from ancestors. Do you realize that each one of us carries around particles from the big bang? Do you realize that every one of us has something of the primordial swamp in us?

It’s hardly surprising that past memories are part of us too. In fact, they are stored in the brain more securely than more recent memories, which is one reason that old people find it easier to remember what happened 30 years ago than what happened yesterday. You might have heard me use the analogy of a snowball rolling down a hillside, picking up with each revolution some of the snow it has rolled over, getting bigger as it descends. Not a bad image of the human condition—except that there comes a point when we realize that we don’t need all the snow that we’ve collected, and it’s time to get rid of much of it. Trouble is, this isn’t easy, and some of the bits we’d like to get rid of are reluctant to go.

Dreams are just dreams. They don’t foretell the future, but in my experience they can point to stuff in my head that needs sorting out. If it niggles, sort it. Examine the emotions you feel in the dream, try and figure out why they bother you. This is called prayer. Prayer is not about presenting the sky pixie with a shopping list. It’s a journey into yourself. And the further into yourself you go, the closer you get to the Divine core—God in the middle of you.

When you cut yourself, blood particles called platelets gather at the site to plug the hole in the blood vessel and help the blood to clot. These platelets are broken off bits of huge cells called megakaryocytes, which is Greek for—wait for it—huge cell. You and I, all of us, are broken off bits of God. We too can plug gaps and mend cuts, metaphorically speaking, by doing things that help to heal and restore people and events. Life’s destination is to be reunited with the Divine megakaryocyte. This is the doctrine of theosis as interpreted by the Vicar. Look it up if you’re interested.

Ponder these:

  • God the Logos became what we are, in order that we may become what he himself is.… The glory of God is a living person and the life of man is the vision of God. St Irenaeus
  • It is most kindly to take part with Him in that which He took part in with us, and that, to no other end, but that He might make the receiving of it by us a means whereby He might “dwell in us, and we in Him;” He taking our flesh, and we receiving His Spirit; by His flesh which He took of us receiving His Spirit which He imparted to us; that, as He by ours became consors humanae naturae, so we by His might become consortes Divinae naturae, “partakers of the Divine nature.” Bishop Lancelot Andrewes, Christmas Day 1605.

Accept the upsetting dreams, and take what you can from them. Go easy on yourself—there are plenty of gobshites out there who are quick to find fault with you, so you don’t need to join them—and remember your destination.

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:

And whatever else you do this summer, have a rest.

What will you become?

6a00d83454b21e69e20168e9543645970c-800wiHomily for Nativity of John Baptist

In the “proper” Church Kalendar (BCP), there are only three births celebrated: Jesus, Mary and John Baptist. John is important. You can tell this because his mother was well past childbearing age.

It’s a well-known literary device in myths that heroes are born to such women or to virgins. Think Greek myths. In Scripture, when the Lord had a special task for someone, there was something unusual about the birth. There’s Sarah, there’s Samuel’s mother, there’s Samson’s mother. In the New Testament we have, today, Elizabeth, and of course Mary. The device is still alive and well: read North Korean propaganda about Kim Jong-Il’s birth.

John Baptist is the bridge from Old to New. He’s the last of the straight talkin’, John Wayne, shootin’ from the hip Old Testament Prophets, and the first of the New. And his straight talkin’, shootin’ from the hip message is REPENT—that is, reassess your priorities.

Repent—not to please God the finger-wagging headmaster so that you can get more celestial Nectar points for a club class seat in the afterlife. No!

Repent—to free yourself from lumber that weighs down the ship of life, and prevents you from living. Lumber like pride, prejudice, expectations, envy.

Repent—to be free from self, free from me, me, me, free from the lust for power, from the certainty that you are right and everyone else is wrong, and to tell them so, constantly. Free from self-righteousness.

Repent—so that you can live abundantly, not constrained by ego, but flying free. Hot air balloons ascending, to use an analogy that I like.

We see the need for this every day of our lives—and don’t imagine that I’m any better at this than you are. We see self-righteousness. We see commitment to control. We see commitment to cause hurt and division. Division arises when people who want to retain power exclude others by gossip, or anonymous messages, or Facebook, or whatever. This kind of division has been part of human experience since time immemorial: the hissing serpent of the Garden of Eden with its forked, divided tongue.

These are some of the things that John Baptist calls us to repent of—to acknowledge that we have strayed and that we can revise our course by working for togetherness, community and cooperation.

When we divide person from person, or exclude others, we become the devil. Consider the word diabolic: anabolic means building up, catabolic means breaking down, and diabolic means dividing, splintering. The Kingdom of God is about anabolism. It’s as far removed from diabolical gossip as it is possible to get. It’s about being undivided, integrated, It’s about being anabolic agents without the side effects.

What do we really need? We need food sufficient for the day, we need shelter, somewhere to sleep, and some form of activity that gives a sense of accomplishment. And since it is not good for us to be alone, companionship. That’s all. But we are brainwashed by capitalism and the diabolical advertising industry to let ourselves be trapped by payments, mortgages, fashion, preposterous gadgetry, and storing money in the bank. This is idiocy. As the years pass, our hopes and dreams are corroded by caution and fear. And then we die, having never truly lived.

What do we need to do to prepare the way? Do we give in to diabolic division, or do we work for anabolic integration?  Here are some suggestions

  • accept yourself in your glorious humanity: go easy on yourself.
  • accept others in their glorious humanity; go easy on others.
  • forgive yourself; don’t harbour resentments.
  • forgive others; you’ll eat yourself up if you don’t.
  • welcome each other; don’t exclude.
  • care for each other; don’t gossip.
  • bless each other, especially those you find difficult, and those that find you utterly impossible.

In my homily two weeks ago I asked: “Who am I? Who are you? Is there anything underneath all the onion skins, or the layers of the Matryushka doll? Are you, as I so often feel, like a Polo mint with nothing in the middle?”

Today’s Gospel asks a different question: ‘What, then, will this child become?’

What will you become?

The ship in which we sail the voyage of life, like any ship, doesn’t do well overloaded with lumber. It sinks. It does best when carrying only the essentials. If you set out on a venture, first of all preparing something to fall back on in case you fail, you can be sure that you’ll fail. If you risk all and have nothing to fall back on, you’ve no choice but to KBO.

To be truly challenging, the voyage of life must rest on a firm foundation of risk.

There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, said Shakespeare. The Vicar, stealing from Mrs Emmeline Lucas, says, There comes a tide in the affairs of men, which, if you don’t nip it in the bud, leads on to boredom. The purpose of life is not to be bored, boring and cautious. Sin is life unlived. The purpose of life is to lie on your deathbed and say, ‘Ye Gods, that was some ride’.

That’s life abundant. That’s eternal life.

Corpus Christi homily 2018

247f11754cd5847ddbc149fb2acdc2beAt this stage of my life, I find it disturbing to have to preach on Corpus Christi because I can no longer sign up to an orthodox interpretation of the doctrine.

The trouble is that my view of Christianity is changing. As I get older—68 next Wednesday—my view of the world develops. The death of my elder son not yet three years ago causes me to look at many of its teachings in a sceptical, even cynical, light. I am only just beginning to be able to articulate the results of this continuing process.

Added to this, I was not brought up with any kind of sacramental understanding—unless singing hymns in rural Methodist chapels is a sacrament (which it is). The mystery came in my teenage years through what one might call beauty in its widest sense, specifically music and the arts, and since then I have come to the view that there is an infinite number of sacraments, not just two or seven.

To prepare a sermon for Corpus Christi therefore has caused real emotional turmoil, since I vowed when I was ordained that I would never say anything from the pulpit that wasn’t true for me. The Hebrews knew a thing or two when they sited the emotions in the bowels. Mine have been in an uproar.

So what can I say? First, some questions.

What did Jesus think he was doing at the last supper? What was in his mind when he said “this is my body” and “this is my blood”? Did he mean it literally, transubstantiation? Did he mean it metaphorically? Jesus was well capable of speaking metaphorically—we heard in the gospel last Sunday how Jesus was narky with Nicodemus for taking “you must be born again” literally.

You may have been brought up to believe what preachers told you. I certainly was. But pretty soon I came to realise that some of them were stupider than me, so I began to think for myself. I encourage you to do likewise. Unlock your imaginations—imagination is resurrection—and think.

Jesus and his disciples are together for the Passover meal. Jesus says “friends, you know how the powers that be have been after me for a good while now. I’m for the high jump. This is probably the last time we’ll be together, so can I ask that when you share food and drink in the days to come, you remember me and what we’ve done together, so that you can continue the work we started.”

That’s the link that strikes me: the meal is linked to the tasks ahead. In sharing the food and drink Jesus is passing them something. He is passing them responsibility for the message he’s taught them and the lifestyle he’s shown them. He’s asking them, and giving them authority, to pass it on to others. He is letting his disciples see that what he did, they can do. He is telling them by word and symbol that they can become what he has been. And so it is for us.

For me, Holy Communion is not about personal spiritual refreshment—I come wearing my spiritual cosmetics, I receive, I feel better, I go home more holy (whatever that means). That would be Holy Communion as a kind-of sucky-rug, a soother. It’s selfish, it’s all about me, me, me. It’s sanctimonious.

For me, Holy Communion is far from soothing. It’s the real I, the naked I, the I full of anger and frustration and perplexity. But I set aside this I. I receive, and therefore I have a duty to pass on what has been given to me. This is a great responsibility.

In the Eucharistic prayer we hear the Jesus story in a nutshell. At the moment of consecration the entire Divine history is forced, like sand through the narrow hole of an egg timer, into the world by means of you and me who receive. We become Jesus in action: his body, his hands, his feet, his eyes, his ears, his voice.

This is the theology of the incarnation. The Wesley hymn we shall sing in a few minutes is a hymn of the incarnation that talks of exactly this in the most marvellous ways:

  • Our God contracted to a span, incomprehensibly made Man;
  • He deigns in flesh to appear, widest extremes to join; to bring our vileness near, and make us all divine (vile to Charles Wesley meant ‘of little worth’, not what it means to us);
  • And we the life of God shall know;
  • His love shall then be fully showed, and man shall all be lost in God.

As we become lost in God, as we approach the Divine, we recognise our responsibility to pass on to others the power of the bread and wine we have received.

In more words of Charles Wesley: “made like him, like him we rise”.

A couple of weeks ago I was chatting with Justin Welby. I said how much I appreciated knowing a certain gentlemen, and he (JW) said how much he did too. He added “he’s a truly godly man”. I said “knickers to that, more importantly he’s human with a good sense of humour”. Justin looked me straight in the eyes and said “it’s the same thing”. And so it is. To be fully human is to be godly. To be fully human is to approach the Divine. That is what Jesus is saying by sharing bread and wine with the twelve—he’s letting them know that they can and should do what he himself has done.

At the Easter vigil mass at Horninglow I said that if you celebrate Easter and then return to a life in which you moan, you belittle others, you spread malicious gossip, you are two-faced, and you stifle initiative, then you are not living the Easter story of new life. You are a hypocrite. My message today is pretty much the same. If you receive Holy Communion and go from church to be negative and malicious, you are a hypocrite.

If you are serious about Holy Communion, you will leave every Mass in order to do all in your power to increase the amount of delight in the world. You will follow in the footsteps of someone who comforted the disturbed and disturbed the comfortable. That is no easy task.

Corpus Christi is a festival of the incarnation, and today it coincides with another such festival—the meeting of Mary and Elizabeth at which fetal John dances in Elizabeth’s uterus at the presence of fetal Jesus in Mary’s.

Corpus Christi is about enabling the whole world to dance to the music of love.

Project Nokabolokoff

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With a snip snip here and a snip snip there

I heard a sermon yesterday telling us, as is right and proper, how our churches must be places of universal welcome for all, irrespective of appearance, wealth, intelligence, sexuality, and so on.

The speaker contrasted such a welcome with Deuteronomy 23:1 in which men who have had their bollocks and todger chopped off (respectively ‘stones’ and ‘privy member’ in the King James Bible) are forbidden from entering the assembly of the Lord. Look it up if you don’t believe me. I’m not for now exploring the issue of whether or not I, who had a vasectomy aeons ago, am therefore fit to celebrate the holy mysteries.

For someone such as me with a long-standing interest in the evolution of reproduction, all things genital, and possessed of a degree of intellectual mischief, this was stimulating. On the way home I hatched a plan for the salvation of at least one of my churches. Here it is.

In the summer months, when the church hall is not being used for the homeless shelter, it could become the centre for something that has a great future in the Church of England—one of the few things that have—namely, an emasculation clinic.

There would be space for operating table(s), appropriate restraints, and anaesthetic equipment, though most procedures could be done under local—even with appropriate soundproofing no anaesthetic at all. There is more than adequate storage for surgical instruments and other paraphernalia. The kitchen area, which we hope to overhaul in the foreseeable future, could with suitable modification serve as a scrub-up area.

The theological and biological bases of this proposal are, in brief:

  • the reversal of the somewhat restrictive anatomical purity requirements of the Pentateuch, e.g. Deuteronomy 23:1.
  • an acknowledgment of the salvific power of the shedding of blood, as may be inferred from one of the verses of Fr Faber’s fine hymn There’s a wideness in God’s mercy, viz ‘There is plentiful redemption in the blood that has been shed; There is joy for all the members in the sorrows of the head.’ The references to penile anatomy are quite explicit, as you can see.
  • a freeing, for those that request it, of the tyranny of testosterone that corrupts our human nature with horrid masculinity (I’m quite content with this tyranny myself, but I gather others are not).
  • an acknowledgement of the fact that there is no such thing as 100% male or 100% female and that we mammals are all on a spectrum of sexuality—pansexual I suppose. This is particularly so in males for reasons of biology that I’ll expound another time.

This modest proposal would be entirely congruent with the well-established tradition of the Church of England that results in the gradual, decades-long emasculation of any male who crosses the threshold of any of its churches. It would hasten the earnestly to be desired feminization of the church, and provide a public service for a society where boys and men are increasingly not allowed to be boys and men.

A winner all round, I think.

An interesting linguistic snippet. ‘Penis’ is a Latin word meaning little tail. The correct English word for privy member is cock, defined in OED as a short tube for the passage of liquid – as in stopcock, ballcock etc (again, look it up if you don’t believe me). I suppose matrons of ancient Rome were as squeamish as are matrons today: “now, now, Titus, stop playing with your little tail, supper’s nearly ready,”

Burton Night Shelter

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The welcome

Homily for the Service of Celebration of the 2017-2018 Burton night shelter at St Pauls

Isaiah 58 (extracts). Luke 6: 20-28

Two experiences have significantly influenced my views on the relationship between church and society. The first, more than a decade ago, was being a mentor for young offenders—young lads on last warning before being sent to what used to be called borstal. The second is the night shelter here at St Paul’s.

These experiences change me. They alter my views and values. They show me how if I condemn others I condemn myself. They lead me to be angry at the way in which society ignores or demonizes those who fall on hard times.

I’ve seen similar discrimination all my life. I witnessed it in a farming village in the 1950s. I experienced it at Cambridge coming from a northern state school. I see it in the way elite sportsmen are treated. Imagine two groups of people causing mayhem in the town centre at midnight. One is a rugby club on the piss. The other’s a group of hoodies. Do you think the two groups will be treated similarly by the justice system? In the news last week we heard from Belfast how impossible it is, despite evidence, to convict rugby players with a promising playing career in front of them, and doubtless expensive lawyers behind them.

My experiences make me question how society is organized, and the way we are forced into a competitive struggle. Our security is not to be found in dividing us from one another, but in community—to know that when difficult times come, we have a community willing to support us. It’s in looking out for one another that we find security—not in retreating behind electric gates into hermetically sealed groups of the like-minded. It’s in the mess of life, sleeves rolled up.

Young offenders and shelter guests are prophets. They reveal our values. They make us uncomfortable. They demolish our cosy assumptions. They show us what really matters in defiance of all that society admires and rewards.

Prophets aren’t nice. They aren’t popular. They don’t fit in. They aren’t sensitive to our feelings. They aren’t agreeable. They aren’t reasonable. They aren’t diplomatic—which is just a form of lying. They don’t negotiate. They don’t care if we’re offended—indeed we should be. In both readings this evening we hear prophets telling it like it is.

We humans have an enormous capacity for self-deception. We ignore the consequences of our decisions. Prophets help us to recognize that we simply must face them—we must confront the naked truth—in order to rid ourselves of self-obsession. We need to be saved from ourselves, and prophets help to demolish our selves—our pride, our arrogance, our greed, our egomania.

In this, the fifth wealthiest nation on earth, it’s time for us to be impatient.

Will the institutional churches help? They are so obsessed with obscure points of theology that I doubt it. I used to be interested in the theological why and wherefore and how, but my experiences as a clerk in holy orders serving my people, together with events in my own life over the last decade, make me impatient with all this.

What I’m concerned about now is not why or wherefore or how, but so-what? If my faith is a matter of acknowledging Jesus as my lovely friend and personal saviour while I continue being aggressive, greedy, selfish, and vain, then it is pointless, and I am all that Jesus condemns.

The institutional church does have an answer, but it’s not in services or masses or devotions or fine words. It’s in action—social and political.

There’s a story about churches working with the homeless in Manhattan. Methodists pick them out of the gutter, Baptists wash them, Pentecostals feed them, Presbyterians educate them, Anglicans introduce them to society, and then Methodists pick them out of the gutter again. Let’s hope that the experience in St Paul’s has more fruitful results.

I was hungry and you fed me, I was thirsty and you gave me a drink, I was homeless and you gave me a room, I was shivering and you gave me clothes, I was sick and you stopped to visit, I was in prison and you came to me. Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.”

From Paul Laffey, CEO Burton YMCA

YMCA Burton and Burton Churches are grateful to everyone for their support for the Winter Night Shelter. We are particularly grateful to the congregation of St Paul’s Church and the PCC of the Parish of St Aidan and St Paul for allowing the use of the Church Hall as a shelter. Our appreciation is also extended to Consolidated Charity of Burton Upon Trent, Burton Transformation Trust, Burton Churches and the many individuals who have provided finances to make this project happen. We also appreciate Kerry Foods, Bretby Rotary Club and many local people for providing food for the customers that slept at the Shelter.

We couldn’t of course make any of this happen without the amazing 130 volunteers and the 8 staff from the YMCA. Our thanks to them all. We have seen much joy with our Outreach team bringing people in off the streets, and managing to accommodate and give them a new hope. It was particularly encouraging to know that when the cold weather at its worst plummeted to -7 degrees, people were able to come off the streets into the warmth, have a hot meal, and a bed for the night—at no charge.

The Night Shelter has required a significant financial and legal commitment from the YMCA and we are very grateful to Trustees and Senior Staff for making this happen. We give thanks to God for lives transformed.

Qs and As (answers provided by YMCA)

  • How many guests have come? In December there were 40 different individuals using the night shelter, and in January 46.
  • Why do they come? Relationship breakdown and bereavements are common, as is loss of benefits, unemployment, debt issues, people trafficking.
  • How many are ladies? About 15%. Some have fled domestic abuse and are brought by the police with just the night clothes they are wearing.
  • How many volunteers? Around 130. The minimum number needed every night is 6, and we are open 7 nights a week for 17 weeks.
  • Have you received all the funding you need to keep the shelter open till the end of March? We have received no funding at all for any staffing costs. We have taken this step in faith that our needs—around 30k—will be met.

Easter freedom

CarlBoss

Eyes that see shall never grow old

Easter homily 2018

The New Testament word for sepulchre, tomb (as in empty) is mnema. It’s the word that gives us memorial, memory, and mnemonics beloved of medical students. The stories in the gospels about Jesus expelling demons from men living in the tombs are for me about freeing them from living in their memories, from living in the past.

People who live in the past cling to resentments, unable to let go, unable to forgive, unable to move on. They are entombed. Think of Miss Havisham in Great Expectations. Think of Gollum in Lord of the Rings. Think of parents who live through the achievements of their offspring. Think of sad men propping up golf club bars boring all and sundry with tales of their sporting achievements before their hairy bellies started hanging over their belts.

Now think of the Easter story. Never mind if it’s literally true or not. Never mind if it’s a fable based on more ancient folk tales. It’s utterly psychologically authentic. The stone is rolled away. The contents of the tomb have escaped, flown away.

Can you not see that this is an invitation for us to let go of the past? If we are to live life abundant then we have to learn to to move on. The empty tomb means the past is cleansed. Forgiven.

People make the mistake of thinking that forgiveness will just happen. It won’t. It’s hard work. We have to practise it like we have to practise the piano. We have to keep telling ourselves. We have to brainwash ourselves. But the penalty for not forgiving is that we become like Miss Havisham or like Gollum, wizened, miserable, resentful, odious, mendacious. We think we are sticking two fingers up at the world, but in truth the world doesn’t care a jot. The only person I harm by living in the past is me.

Think of people who refused to support Jesus, who deserted him, who told lies about him to save their skins or to curry favour with authority, who joined the chanting mob. How many of the Palm Sunday supporters joined that baying crowd? Now think how shocked they must have been to hear that the man they’d betrayed wasn’t dead and gone, but might meet them in the street. It’s like gossiping with a friend about a mutual acquaintance who, just as you’ve made the most utterly bitchy remark, appears round the corner and cheerfully greets you. You want the ground to open up and swallow you.

How does Jesus react when he meets his so-called friends again? Does he berate them for their calumny? Does he take them to court? Does he arrange for some big fellers from the local pub to kneecap them? Does he plan some even more horrid act of vengeance?

No, none of this. All he says is “Peace to you”. It’s like he says, “never mind the past, friends, let’s get on—we’ve work to do.” Forgiveness.

Now, think of those times you’ve gossiped, betrayed, told half-truths to get you out of a tight corner, blindly followed the crowd—every time hammering another nail into the wrists and ankles. The story is not just about 2000 years ago. It’s about human nature, you and me, now. It’s about death of pride and self in order that selflessness can ascend.

We need to, we must, forgive and let go, otherwise we become entombed in living death. This is not about an afterlife—it’s about life abundant before death.

The most difficult person you’ll ever have to forgive is yourself. Some of us like wallowing in it like Miss Havisham. We turn masochism (all very well in its place, I’m told …) into an art form. But life is to be lived. So, girls and boys, practise forgiving yourself. Moment by moment. It doesn’t mean you escape the consequences of your actions, but it helps you to move on and make the best of them for the benefit of others. It helps you to escape the tomb and see the big wide world: eyes that see shall never grow old. It helps you to live life to the full by laying down all the vain things that charm you most.

Forgive yourself. Live for the future. Happy Easter.

Plagiarized from the Easter sermon preached by Bishop Lancelot Andrewes before King James at Whitehall on Sunday 16 April 1609. 

http://anglicanhistory.org/lact/andrewes/v2/easter1609.html