A homily for Proper 14. 1 Kings 19: 9-18. Matthew 14: 22-33.

At creation, the spirit hovers over the waters. The spirit brings order to chaos. In Holy Scripture, water, waters, the sea always signify risk, danger, turmoil, the tendency to entropy. We talk of being up to our necks, out of our depths, going under.

Elijah was in it up to his neck. His personal circumstances were to say the least a bit sticky. He found the spirit of wisdom not in the noise, the storm, the wind, but in the silence.

Life is a bit sticky. We fall out with people, sometimes their fault, sometimes ours, usually both. We struggle with fractious families, tedious jobs, unyielding rules, unreasonable expectations, addictions, and more. Will we find wisdom in more noise, more words, more busy-ness? Will we find wisdom in a bit of solitude and silence? How can we hear the still small voice if we crowd it out with noise and crackle? The spirit came to the disciples as they were in it up their necks. Calming wisdom bringing order to disorder, cosmos to chaos.

Sit back. Silent. Still. Perhaps the answer to the question the Lord asked of Elijah will become clearer to you.

What are you doing here?

Just back from a week in Gran Canaria. Terrific. Never been before. Hired a car. Mega-scary road from La Aldea to Agaete. Lots of twisty corners and places where all I could see to the left was sky. I am not exaggerating, It’s as well that I didn’t know when I set off what I know now. I never used to suffer from what people call vertigo when I was younger, but something happened in early middle age.

I took the trusty Kindle with me. I was looking through Aesop and Grimm and Andersen for some stories for school Assemblies, and came across The Water of Life (Grimm). It might or might not be suitable for Assembly (stories tend to need shortening) but, ye Gods, it’s spot on for life in general and parochial life in particular. It quite bowled me over. It begins thus.

The rest of the story—you can guess I expect—the second son sets out on the quest when his elder brother fails to return. The same happens to him. Then the youngest son, the simpleton, sets off. When he encounters the dwarf, he tells him of his quest and the reason for it, and seeks the dwarf’s advice. He listens, thanks the dwarf and goes on his way. He finds the Water of Life, and on his way home asks that his brothers be freed—which freedom is granted. His brothers repay this generosity by stealing the Water, taking it to the King and claiming the credit. But the dwarf works his magic so that in time the two elder brothers are found out and forced to flee into exile, leaving the youngest prince to rule prudently with all his power.

You may know the story. You may have pondered its wisdom and its Scriptural resonances (and Indiana Jones resonances). I come across this story fresh. It’s on my precious list, along with The Snow Queen (‘melt this heart of ice’), and the Venite (‘Today if ye will hear his voice, harden not your hearts’).

A Homily for the fourth Sunday before Lent

Isaiah 58:1-9a. Psalm 112. 1 Corinthians 2:1-12. Matthew 5:13-20

Chips are no good without salt. Salt enhances flavour. We can help others bring out their flavour—to let their light shine. The divine light is in all of us, like a pilot light on a gas stove, and we salty people can help others to turn up the dial so that the stove is aflame with warmth and light.

We add flavour to the world by acts of charity. Care for the needy, poor and oppressed: ‘share your bread with the hungry, shelter the oppressed and the homeless; clothe the naked when you see them’. Your many unrecorded acts of kindness and generosity are grains of salt.

We add flavour to the world by refraining from oppression, revenge and malice. These make us hard-hearted. A friend reported one of our churches to Laois County Council because sometimes only one of the exterior doors is unlocked for services. The fire officer recommended that the others be left unlocked, but fitted with a device so that they may be opened only from the inside. I use this story to ask about the doors to our hearts. Are they open to the message that we purport to profess week in, week out? Or are they shut, excluding the breeze of freshness and renewal as we stay locked into old resentments and fixed false beliefs? In the Venite we are warned against hard-heartedness that corrodes us. It’s a cancer of the spirit. It kills. ‘Hatred devours the wicked. They grind their teeth and their hopes turn to ashes.’

All this takes humility: the realization that ‘I’ am not the only person in the world, and that what ‘I’ want is no more important than what anyone else wants. No showing off. Paul writes: ‘I did not come … in lofty words or wisdom … I came to you in weakness and in fear and in much trembling.’

Humility like this keeps the focus away from self. Indeed, any pretence of the perfect image will stop the light that’s inside from shining out to others. It’s only through our imperfections, our cracks, that the light is able to get out. Put a tea-light into a flower-pot. You won’t see it unless the pot has a crack in it.

Now, another use for salt. We use it to lower the freezing point so that ice melts. There’s salt in tears. We know this, because when we’ve cried and the tears have evaporated, there’s a salty deposit left on our cheeks. So let me tell you a story, and I’m sorry for carving up the work of Hans Andersen, but it’s a long story in its original form.

Once upon a time there lived a wicked goblin who built a magic mirror. Anything that was beautiful or good was reflected in it as ugly and bad. One day, as the goblin was flying through the clouds, he dropped the mirror. It shattered into millions of pieces. A few pieces fell in a small town where two friends named Kay and Gerda lived.

They were neighbours and friends. As they were playing, Kay felt something sharp in his eyes and his chest. Shards of the broken mirror went into Kay’s eyes, and another into his heart. From then on, Kay made fun of everything beautiful and delightful. He no longer saw Gerda as his friend, but sneered at her. His heart turned to ice. Gerda didn’t understand.

As Kay was playing alone in the snow, a large and splendid sledge drew up. Its driver, a most beautiful woman, invited Kay to join her. She was draped in a white flowing gown. On her head was a crown of ice. Her hair was like icicles. ‘Who are you?’ asked Kay. ‘The Snow Queen’ she replied, her face glinting like a diamond in the snow. Kay got int, the Snow Queen tugged at the reins, and off they went up into the clouds, taking Kay to a distant land.

Gerda missed Kay and never stopped loving him. She waited for his return. He did not come. She set off in search. She took her boat and went off on the river. Hearing Gerda’s, a fairy sent her garden flowers to search for Kay, but they returned empty-handed.

Gerda sat under a tree and wept. A crow flew down and told her about a princess who had married a boy. Gerda wondered if that was Kay and urged the crow to lead her to the princess’s palace. She sighed with relief when she saw him, because it wasn’t Kay.

Gerda came to a forest where she met a robber girl and her reindeer. Hearing Gerda’s sad tale, the reindeer said he had seen the Snow Queen flying away with a boy to Spitsbergen near the North Pole. Gerda and the reindeer set off. It was a dangerous journey.

At the Snow Queen’s palace, they found it guarded by snowflakes that prevented their approach. The only thing that overcame them was Gerda’s praying the Lord’s Prayer. Her breath took the shape of angels, who pushed aside the snowflakes and allowed Gerda to enter.

Gerda found Kay alone. He was almost immobile on the frozen lake, which the Snow Queen calls the ‘Mirror of Reason where her throne sits. The Snow Queen had set him a task: if he is able to form the word ‘eternity’ with letters made of ice, the Snow Queen will release him from her power. Try as he might, he is unable.

Gerda runs to Kay and flings her arms around him. He is like a statue. Gerda weeps. Her tears drop on to Kay’s chest. Slowly, slowly the warm tears seep into his heart. Tears of love melt Kay’s heart of ice. Kay bursts into tears, washing out the splinters from his eyes. Gerda embraces Kay, who comes out of his trance. Kay is saved by the power of love. He looks at the lake of ice and sees the letters have arranged themselves to spell ‘eternity’.

Gerda and Kay and the reindeer leave the ice palace for home. They find it just the same as it was when they left. But they have changed!

Gerda’s grandmother reads a passage from the Bible: ‘Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the Kingdom of Heaven’.

Homily for 12 January 2014. Isaiah 42:1-9. Psalm 29. Acts 10:34-43. Matthew 3:13-17

As a child I was enraged when adults referred to me as Arthur’s lad, or whatever, and it narks me now to hear people say so-and-so’s daughter or son. I have a name, dammit, and I was given it at Baptism.

When we give someone a name, we feel more personally involved with him or her. A different kind of relationship is established: I’m now me, not just Arthur’s son, or his car, or his boots. Using a name, we can address someone directly.

But other things happen too when we give somebody a name. We make them part of our tribe, our group. We domesticate them like a pet. We begin to feel comfortable with them, and able to control them, drink tea with them and suck them into our prejudices.

It’s easy to let this happen with our relationship with the Master.

We begin to feel we know him. We ask him for this or that favour,  ignoring the fact that millions of others ask for favours that negate ours. We ask him to cure this or that illness in someone we know, as if he is at our beck and call. We twist his teaching to suit us and our situation, ignoring the fact that we’re already pampered and privileged. As we domesticate Jesus we try to make him ‘one of us’, like a lap dog that wags its tail and goes for walkies at our whim.

It’s dangerous to claim to know Jesus. It reflects our narcissism. What emerges from Holy Scripture is just how unpredictable he is. I marvel at those people who claim to know the Master. I do not dare presume. He is concentrated, undiluted love—certainly—but that is not limited by my desires and prejudices. Concentrated, undiluted love might mean saying ‘no’ to me, for my own well-being. Many churches have the strap-line ‘to know Jesus and to make him known’. Good luck with that.

Who is doing the naming in today’s Gospel?

The mistake I’m making is to assume that I’m doing the naming. Of course I’m not. ‘This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased’ doesn’t come from my mouth, nor from the mouth of John the Baptist, who’s puzzled by Jesus’ appearance in the queue. ‘What are you doing here? You know what I’m on about better than I do.’

Jesus doesn’t need baptism. But maybe he’s waiting in line for our benefit. Acting as our representative, he shows us what to do. In the words we heard at the carol service: ‘and if you want to know the way, be pleased to hear what he did say’. He identifies with all of us imperfect people who need a fresh start and a new identity—which is one of the things that baptism’s about.

The Gospel tells us whose son Jesus is, and the first readers knew very well what his name meant. Jesus, the Greek version of Joshua (and like Jason, as in the Argonauts), means ‘the one who saves’. From what, by what means, and to what end, are topics for a whole course of sermons.

Whatever else today’s events mean for you and me, they remind us that the Master is not a personal pet, to be called on only when we need a bit of a cuddle and ignored the rest of the time. And just as he, the beloved Son, shows us the way, all of us are beloved sons and daughters of the Divine Lord, with all the rights and responsibilities that brings.

Jesus is immersed in the Jordan. We are immersed in divine love, by no means always easy to bear. Today is a call to think about our personal relationship with the one we claim to worship.