Second Sunday in Ordinary Time (C) : Homily / Sermon

Do whatever he tells you. (John 2:5)

I recently finished reading a book called “Absolute Truth” by Peter James, which was apparently one of the best selling thrillers published at the end of last year. Without spoiling anything if you read it in the future, I can tell you that it is about a journalist called Ross Hunter who is given, in a physical form, Absolute Truth of the existence of God. The thriller aspect of the story is possession of these proofs makes him the target of, on the one hand, a fraudulent, but highly successful evangelical pastor, and on the other hand, a wealthy group of atheists. Both are prepared to kill to prevent publication of the evidence. If you like thrillers and murder mysteries, as I do, then it is a pretty good story, and well told.

However, I am not telling you this by way of recommendation. I found it more interesting, and to be honest less satisfying, in its consideration of what Absolute Proof might actually mean. Could an object, any object, prove the existence of God? Indeed, Ross Hunter himself enquires into this question, and in the book a bishop tells him quite bluntly, “proof is the enemy of faith”. In other words, if something is self evidently true, then there is nothing to believe in, nothing to commit to, nothing to trust and nothing to hope. No one died for the believing that 2+2=4.

And somewhat reluctantly, this bishop puts forward that the Absolute Truth, would have to be something no one could possibly question, something which breaks the Laws of Nature itself.

Today’s Gospel might seem to provide a kind of proof. Here is Jesus’ first miracle, the turning of the water into wine, a public demonstration of his divinity. It could be seen to be - at the very outset - a proof, an absolute proof, of the existence of God.

But is it? I wonder. Some aspects of the story don’t seem to fit.

Firstly, this “proof” is done in secret. Only his mother, and some of the servants, know what has happened. The steward is amazed, not because the water had turned into wine, but because they had served the best wine last, which flew in the face of common sense, and normal practice.
It might be a miracle, and his first miracle, but surely snort a proof - hardly anyone is left impressed by Jesus’ power and his divinity. It a quiet and secret matter.

And secondly, far from transcending nature, this is a story with is filled with humour and is a keen observation of the most ordinary human nature.

For example, there are lots of words in this conversation left unsaid.
Mary doesn’t actually ask Jesus to do anything - but he knows what she expects.
Jesus protests about something she has not even asked, and she knows that he will do what is needed.
And the steward, the hired master of ceremonies, remarks on the inebriation and merriment of the guests, and thinks of the expense of the finer things of life, rather than doing any musing on the presense of a mystery.
And of course, this occasion is not a sermon on a mount, nor a healing by a lakeside, but a wedding, a party, the coming together of the unnamed couple, who perhaps in this represent all humanity, celebrating in a very worldly and practical way, the wonders of human companionship and love, and the fellowship of the family.

So silently, secretly, almost invisibly, Jesus blesses this conviviality, drawing no attention to himself, but instead, as the word made flesh, dwelling amongst us, he fills our ordinary human lives with his grace and his glory.

It is a “proof” of sorts - but not a proof which goes against nature - but a proof which blesses and perfects it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas : Homily / Sermon

All is Calm, All is Bright

Christmas can be stressful, especially for families. It can also be painful, particularly for those who have suffered loss. It can be difficult for so many people, such as the sick, the lonely, the downtrodden.

I want to take you back, 200 years, to another stressful Christmas, And to a man who was the priest of the small village of Oberndforf  in the Austrian alps. His name was Josef Mohr.

As the priest faced that Christmas he was more than a little despondent. The organ in the church was out of action - at Christmas of all times. Some blamed rust, others said it was the work of mice, but whatever the cause, there would be no organ over Christmas.

And an added disappointment, on 23rd December 1818, just two days before Christmas, a travelling band of actors had arrived in the village ready to perform and sing their own nativity play for the villagers. 

With no organ, the performance had to be moved from the Church to a private house.
It was not how it should have been, and Josef was dismayed at the situation for his parish and its people, but the performance nevertheless lifted Josef’s spirit a little, and put him in a reflective mood. Instead of walking straight to his house that night, he decided to take a longer way home, climbing a hill which overlooked the village.

From that hilltop, Josef looked down on the peaceful snow-covered village. It was silent, calm and bright, the lights of the sky glistening in the snow which dusted the alpine scene.
The Christmas play had reminded him of a poem which he had written a couple of years earlier, about the night when angels announced the birth of the Christ child to shepherds on a hillside. The words would have made a good a carol for the next day, he thought, if only he had the music.
The next day, he seized upon an idea and decided to act. Josef went to visit to the church organist, Franz Gruber. He set Franz a challenge - before midnight mass, now just a few hours away, he had to come up with a melody which could be sung to the words of the poem, a melody which could be accompanied not by the organ, by instead by a guitar.
And sure enough, by the evening, Gruber had composed a simple but instantly memorable setting for the poem. The fact that the organ wasn’t working didn’t matter now: they had a carol, a melody, and a guitar to guide and accompany them.
The carol didn’t just rescue that year’s midnight mass - it became an extraordinary success. It quickly spread far and wide, and has become a constant feature in Christmas masses and Carol Services ever since. It even has its own museum in Salzburg.
The Carol - as you probably know - is Silent Night - and it is 200 years old tonight.
It is a small miracle: charming in its simplicity, remarkable in its creation, inspiring in its message which is conveyed both in its words and in its beautiful melody.

Christmas is full of such small miracles. Of smiles and laughter, of music and song, of joy and beauty, of compassion and generosity.
Yes it can be stressful. It has its poignant moments and its sadnesses..

But at its heart is about life and love, about faith and mercy, about peace and hope.
Love’s pure light …
The dawn of redeeming grace …

What trials, stresses or anxieties we may bear, may the grace of God help us to take comfort in these simple words:
All is Calm, all is bright.

— 

The images are a portrait of Fr Josef Mohr, and a photograph of the Silent Night Chapel in Oberndorf, Austria, which is on the site of St Nikolas Church, where Stille Nacht was first sung on Christmas Eve 1818.

Advent 4 (C) : Homily / Sermon

Why should I be honoured with a visit from the mother of my Lord? (Luke 1:43)

Visiting relatives and friends is an important part of the observance of Christmas, isn’t it?
Of course we can send cards - and we do, in great quantity and at extraordinary cost.
We can write and receive letters - including those dreadful show-offy circular letters that some people seem to go in for.
Though perhaps those older, more established ways of communication, in  recent times they have given way more and more to technology - to phone calls of course, but also emails, texts, and Facebook messages. Skype and FaceTime too, have made such contacts so much easier and better, especially when relatives live so far away.  
But despite all these possibilities, nothing quite replaces the visit, the face to face encounter. 
We may sometimes find it a chore to be visited or to visit, but often too it is a great joy. To see how much the children have grown. To catch up with news - sad and glad. To remark how much someone is ‘looking well’ (put weight on) or looks exactly the same (has aged) or must take care of themselves (looks ill). No remotely transmitted message, however necessary and however kindly meant can replace the personal contact. And sometimes - let’s not forget - what is a chore for one party may be a joy for the other.
Todays Gospel is about a Christmas visit (well sort of). And it is an encounter which St Luke narrates to us with this beautiful detail - that the presence of Christ within His mother touched both Elizabeth and her unborn child with joy. And it is the greeting of Mother which brings that presence of Son.
When we are visited or visit we make similar encounters. We bring Christ to others and we meet him in others. We are blessed through what may seem a simple duty. Christ will be born amongst us, if we make him present through our greetings, our compassion and our love.