Sermon 18th April 2010
Today, our Vicar, Cameron Barker, preaches baased on the reading from John 11: 1-7.
The St. Saviour's version was digitally recorded. Please ask Cameron if you would like to hear it rather than read it.
“Why? Where’s the sense in it? What purpose does it serve? Again and again, why? Why me? Why now? Why this? Why?”
When I've spoken at our annual bereavement service on this story of Lazarus, I've said that those are the sorts of questions that crop up time and again in it. They do, because here's another very human Bible story. It's filled with the kinds of events and emotions that all of us have, are, or will at some point in our lives inevitably go through. There's no escaping the reality. It's just part of being human: we all get sick – physically, emotionally or mentally – and know others who do; in the end, we will all die; and, before we do, chances are that someone we love will die. If we've not already, at some point we'll hurt beyond words; we'll see others that hurt; we'll feel helpless, lost, powerless; and, even if we've already been there, it could happen again.
As I say, it's part of being human. There is no escaping it; and there has been no escaping it around this church for quite some time. In many ways it seems that lately we've had our face rubbed right in so much of this kind of stuff. Of course that's always been true, because that is what life's like. But when the preaching team last met it seemed to us that it was time to try and tackle this tricky topic head-on. Maybe that was partly because the preachers' meeting was my first one back from my own unexpected medical dramas. Maybe it was partly because we were meeting without John, who'd had to go to Kenya to bury his mother after her sudden death. Maybe it was also because we looked at one another and were extra aware of the griefs, pains, and burdens that we have each been carrying in different ways.
For some of us those burdens are personal. For others it's more an awareness of those people and situations that we have got to know about, or be involved with in some way. Collectively they cover almost the whole range of human pain and suffering. There are – inevitably and rightly – far more incidences than most of us know about. And, however many we preachers may know between us, there are doubtless plenty more 'out there' that we're not aware of. Please be assured that this series isn't aiming to publicise, or flush out, any secrets! It is aimed at trying to help all of us to live in faith with what most of us have had, or are having, to go through – however privately we may choose to do it.
Its all based on the story of Lazarus. We'll read through it from start to finish over the 5 weeks - but we won't study it step by step. We'll assume that you'll read it, and know what happens, at least in outline. Those who have volunteered to speak in this series will then offer personal reflections on the nature of suffering that we have gone through, or been part of, and how Jesus has met with us along the way. I've got no idea of where this series will take us, then! Except in the general sense that this is what God wants us to do, and that we may well shed some tears! But acknowledging pain is part of living out faith too.
I've chosen to begin, with something about my experience of living with illness – with Jocelyn's full permission. Before I do that, as this is the first one, here's the briefest summary of the story of Lazarus. He and his sisters lived near Jerusalem, and knew Jesus well. Jesus was many miles away when Lazarus got sick; so his sisters sent Jesus a message – which he chose not to respond to! By the time Jesus did finally turn up with his disciples, Lazarus was dead, and well buried! His sisters weren't just shocked, and grief-stricken; they were hugely disappointed in Jesus too. Even in the midst of all that, though, Martha and Mary both tried as hard as they could to keep trusting him. Jesus then did more than they had ever imagined, and brought Lazarus back to life. As we'll see, that stirred a whole range of reactions – some of them rather unexpected!
It's a classic New Testament good news story, of course. Along comes Jesus, and puts everything to rights – even if it is 'only' in the end. That's wonderful – for the people in the story, afterwards. But how many of us live after the end of the story? Don't we usually find ourselves in the middle, at the point where we have – maybe – asked Jesus for help, but he hasn't turned up yet? In some ways that's how it's felt for Jocelyn and I since 1996. I was near the end of ordination training in Nottingham; we had our healthy boy and girl; the curacy in London was all lined up; and prison chaplaincy for after that. Yes, there were challenges, but at last, after all that we had each been through before, life was good. The only thing was that Jocelyn kept getting breathless, and no-one knew why.
The medical system took months to get through; but she finally got to have the serious tests – and met serious faces. We landed up at a specialist unit in Sheffield, knowing that the news wouldn't be good, but not what, or how bad. What we heard that day was shattering, literally. I can't recall now the details we were given, and what we later found out for ourselves. It was certainly enough for us to drive back almost in a trance, saying, “this is like being in a TV documentary: stuff like this doesn't happen to people like us; it's not real; it can't be! Something that rare? A 3-in-1-million incidence progressive, untreatable, lung disease, that will most likely kill you inside 3 years: this isn't happening! It can't be!”
But of course it was! And, in a flash, just about everything that we had imagined or planned was tossed up in the air. First we prayed, by ourselves, with others, in floods of tears, with all those 'Why' questions very much around. Then, whether or not Jesus showed up, we had to get practical. Ordination was only weeks away: should I go ahead; even if we were still welcome to do the curacy? We got through, one issue at a time, one day at a time. We were both in a haze of uncertainty and confusion – as much as having two toddlers allows! But I well remember the day that it hit me right between the eyes.
It was after the Leavers' service, on my way to pick the children up from crèche. The pain was indescribable. I stopped right in the middle of the library, and howled! But the children needed fetching; and that was illustrative for me of how life had to be. It was a case of somehow putting one foot in front of the other, until something hopefully became a little clearer. I had been persuaded by everyone else that I should be ordained; so that's what we were working towards – the practicalities of packing and moving, with our heads spinning and what felt like lives broken apart. So maybe it's not too surprising that I didn't actually feel totally convinced about being ordained!
I went on the 4-day silent retreat still not knowing for sure what I'd do come the Sunday! I did know that I didn't want to be away from Jocelyn – or having to pretend to listen to a guest speaker who wasn't connecting at all with where my head or heart was. Jesus? There hadn't been much sight or sound of him that I could tell. But then, on the Saturday – out of the blue, related to nothing else at all, it wasn't a set reading, or part of the liturgy, or the rest of his talk – the speaker quoted from Mark's Gospel. It's that bit at the end, where the angel gave the women at the tomb Jesus' message to his disciples. “He's going ahead of you into Galilee; you'll see him there, just as he told you”.
At that point I had one of those rare, blinding-light/loud-trumpet 'ARE YOU LISTENING?' moments. As clear as day, this was Jesus' message to me, for then and ever since: he's got it all in hand; he's just gone ahead to get things ready; I only need to follow on afterwards, and I'll find that it's true: he's there already. So that's what I've tried to do, for the past 14 years: to follow the path Jesus has called me to walk, wherever it leads. First it was Streatham. Then, when the time came, he made it clear that the path led to Herne Hill; and, guess what? Just as he said, Jesus had also got here ahead of me! The past 14 years have been marked by Godly and loving people like you, making it possible to take the next step forward in faith and hope.
Simple? Yes, in some ways it is. Keep on following, day by day. Easy? Not often, it must be said. We haven't had the miracle of Jocelyn's healing. What we have had, arguably, is the miracle of 14 years! As part of that we've had the miracles of new treatments being available just when she has needed them. Two years ago we had the miracle of a double-lung transplant – and there really has been so much joy and blessing along the way. We don't know what lies ahead from here; but Jesus does; and he's already gone on there; he's getting things ready for us to follow him there.
But getting there won't likely be easy, not along this road. It's not often been so far: I can't tell you how many times we've each felt we've had more than enough; physically, emotionally, or mentally. The strain and stress, the demands, on our marriage, with this being all that our children have ever known, on everything, really has been enormous. We all bear the scars of that, and have inflicted some of those on each other. But that only makes God's grace even more amazing: that he keeps on working even in and through people like us?!
It's important to be equally honest about how hard, and how painful, it has been, and still is – not least with all the uncertainties post-transplant. To be anything less than that dishonours what God can and does do in the midst of what we'd rightly call the mess in and around us. Nobody finds that easy, or fun – and we're not meant to, I don't think! This isn't how God made the world, or us, to be. So I, we don't imagine for a minute that we have a monopoly on, or the 'worst' suffering here. What I, we, can do is be sure that God will work with us and it, and transform us, and it, in the process. This is what we have found during these past 14 years and more anyway. And so I, we, will encourage you to keep on trusting in God as best you can too, even in the toughest of times you face.
As ever, there's much more that could be said, about the joys and sorrows that we've known. But that's enough! Others will now come at this story from their own angles, with their experiences. I'll try and sum it all up at the end – and may explore other areas then. For today, I'll end with Tom Wright's invitation in his commentary on the story of Lazarus. He encourages us to tell Jesus whatever our problem is – but only if we're prepared for a surprising response! We never know what shape it'll take – that's why it'll be surprising! But we can be sure that it always involves Jesus bringing some new part of God's future bursting into our present – mess, pain, and all. So let's pray that he will, then ...
The St. Saviour's version was digitally recorded. Please ask Cameron if you would like to hear it rather than read it.
“Why? Where’s the sense in it? What purpose does it serve? Again and again, why? Why me? Why now? Why this? Why?”
When I've spoken at our annual bereavement service on this story of Lazarus, I've said that those are the sorts of questions that crop up time and again in it. They do, because here's another very human Bible story. It's filled with the kinds of events and emotions that all of us have, are, or will at some point in our lives inevitably go through. There's no escaping the reality. It's just part of being human: we all get sick – physically, emotionally or mentally – and know others who do; in the end, we will all die; and, before we do, chances are that someone we love will die. If we've not already, at some point we'll hurt beyond words; we'll see others that hurt; we'll feel helpless, lost, powerless; and, even if we've already been there, it could happen again.
As I say, it's part of being human. There is no escaping it; and there has been no escaping it around this church for quite some time. In many ways it seems that lately we've had our face rubbed right in so much of this kind of stuff. Of course that's always been true, because that is what life's like. But when the preaching team last met it seemed to us that it was time to try and tackle this tricky topic head-on. Maybe that was partly because the preachers' meeting was my first one back from my own unexpected medical dramas. Maybe it was partly because we were meeting without John, who'd had to go to Kenya to bury his mother after her sudden death. Maybe it was also because we looked at one another and were extra aware of the griefs, pains, and burdens that we have each been carrying in different ways.
For some of us those burdens are personal. For others it's more an awareness of those people and situations that we have got to know about, or be involved with in some way. Collectively they cover almost the whole range of human pain and suffering. There are – inevitably and rightly – far more incidences than most of us know about. And, however many we preachers may know between us, there are doubtless plenty more 'out there' that we're not aware of. Please be assured that this series isn't aiming to publicise, or flush out, any secrets! It is aimed at trying to help all of us to live in faith with what most of us have had, or are having, to go through – however privately we may choose to do it.
Its all based on the story of Lazarus. We'll read through it from start to finish over the 5 weeks - but we won't study it step by step. We'll assume that you'll read it, and know what happens, at least in outline. Those who have volunteered to speak in this series will then offer personal reflections on the nature of suffering that we have gone through, or been part of, and how Jesus has met with us along the way. I've got no idea of where this series will take us, then! Except in the general sense that this is what God wants us to do, and that we may well shed some tears! But acknowledging pain is part of living out faith too.
I've chosen to begin, with something about my experience of living with illness – with Jocelyn's full permission. Before I do that, as this is the first one, here's the briefest summary of the story of Lazarus. He and his sisters lived near Jerusalem, and knew Jesus well. Jesus was many miles away when Lazarus got sick; so his sisters sent Jesus a message – which he chose not to respond to! By the time Jesus did finally turn up with his disciples, Lazarus was dead, and well buried! His sisters weren't just shocked, and grief-stricken; they were hugely disappointed in Jesus too. Even in the midst of all that, though, Martha and Mary both tried as hard as they could to keep trusting him. Jesus then did more than they had ever imagined, and brought Lazarus back to life. As we'll see, that stirred a whole range of reactions – some of them rather unexpected!
It's a classic New Testament good news story, of course. Along comes Jesus, and puts everything to rights – even if it is 'only' in the end. That's wonderful – for the people in the story, afterwards. But how many of us live after the end of the story? Don't we usually find ourselves in the middle, at the point where we have – maybe – asked Jesus for help, but he hasn't turned up yet? In some ways that's how it's felt for Jocelyn and I since 1996. I was near the end of ordination training in Nottingham; we had our healthy boy and girl; the curacy in London was all lined up; and prison chaplaincy for after that. Yes, there were challenges, but at last, after all that we had each been through before, life was good. The only thing was that Jocelyn kept getting breathless, and no-one knew why.
The medical system took months to get through; but she finally got to have the serious tests – and met serious faces. We landed up at a specialist unit in Sheffield, knowing that the news wouldn't be good, but not what, or how bad. What we heard that day was shattering, literally. I can't recall now the details we were given, and what we later found out for ourselves. It was certainly enough for us to drive back almost in a trance, saying, “this is like being in a TV documentary: stuff like this doesn't happen to people like us; it's not real; it can't be! Something that rare? A 3-in-1-million incidence progressive, untreatable, lung disease, that will most likely kill you inside 3 years: this isn't happening! It can't be!”
But of course it was! And, in a flash, just about everything that we had imagined or planned was tossed up in the air. First we prayed, by ourselves, with others, in floods of tears, with all those 'Why' questions very much around. Then, whether or not Jesus showed up, we had to get practical. Ordination was only weeks away: should I go ahead; even if we were still welcome to do the curacy? We got through, one issue at a time, one day at a time. We were both in a haze of uncertainty and confusion – as much as having two toddlers allows! But I well remember the day that it hit me right between the eyes.
It was after the Leavers' service, on my way to pick the children up from crèche. The pain was indescribable. I stopped right in the middle of the library, and howled! But the children needed fetching; and that was illustrative for me of how life had to be. It was a case of somehow putting one foot in front of the other, until something hopefully became a little clearer. I had been persuaded by everyone else that I should be ordained; so that's what we were working towards – the practicalities of packing and moving, with our heads spinning and what felt like lives broken apart. So maybe it's not too surprising that I didn't actually feel totally convinced about being ordained!
I went on the 4-day silent retreat still not knowing for sure what I'd do come the Sunday! I did know that I didn't want to be away from Jocelyn – or having to pretend to listen to a guest speaker who wasn't connecting at all with where my head or heart was. Jesus? There hadn't been much sight or sound of him that I could tell. But then, on the Saturday – out of the blue, related to nothing else at all, it wasn't a set reading, or part of the liturgy, or the rest of his talk – the speaker quoted from Mark's Gospel. It's that bit at the end, where the angel gave the women at the tomb Jesus' message to his disciples. “He's going ahead of you into Galilee; you'll see him there, just as he told you”.
At that point I had one of those rare, blinding-light/loud-trumpet 'ARE YOU LISTENING?' moments. As clear as day, this was Jesus' message to me, for then and ever since: he's got it all in hand; he's just gone ahead to get things ready; I only need to follow on afterwards, and I'll find that it's true: he's there already. So that's what I've tried to do, for the past 14 years: to follow the path Jesus has called me to walk, wherever it leads. First it was Streatham. Then, when the time came, he made it clear that the path led to Herne Hill; and, guess what? Just as he said, Jesus had also got here ahead of me! The past 14 years have been marked by Godly and loving people like you, making it possible to take the next step forward in faith and hope.
Simple? Yes, in some ways it is. Keep on following, day by day. Easy? Not often, it must be said. We haven't had the miracle of Jocelyn's healing. What we have had, arguably, is the miracle of 14 years! As part of that we've had the miracles of new treatments being available just when she has needed them. Two years ago we had the miracle of a double-lung transplant – and there really has been so much joy and blessing along the way. We don't know what lies ahead from here; but Jesus does; and he's already gone on there; he's getting things ready for us to follow him there.
But getting there won't likely be easy, not along this road. It's not often been so far: I can't tell you how many times we've each felt we've had more than enough; physically, emotionally, or mentally. The strain and stress, the demands, on our marriage, with this being all that our children have ever known, on everything, really has been enormous. We all bear the scars of that, and have inflicted some of those on each other. But that only makes God's grace even more amazing: that he keeps on working even in and through people like us?!
It's important to be equally honest about how hard, and how painful, it has been, and still is – not least with all the uncertainties post-transplant. To be anything less than that dishonours what God can and does do in the midst of what we'd rightly call the mess in and around us. Nobody finds that easy, or fun – and we're not meant to, I don't think! This isn't how God made the world, or us, to be. So I, we don't imagine for a minute that we have a monopoly on, or the 'worst' suffering here. What I, we, can do is be sure that God will work with us and it, and transform us, and it, in the process. This is what we have found during these past 14 years and more anyway. And so I, we, will encourage you to keep on trusting in God as best you can too, even in the toughest of times you face.
As ever, there's much more that could be said, about the joys and sorrows that we've known. But that's enough! Others will now come at this story from their own angles, with their experiences. I'll try and sum it all up at the end – and may explore other areas then. For today, I'll end with Tom Wright's invitation in his commentary on the story of Lazarus. He encourages us to tell Jesus whatever our problem is – but only if we're prepared for a surprising response! We never know what shape it'll take – that's why it'll be surprising! But we can be sure that it always involves Jesus bringing some new part of God's future bursting into our present – mess, pain, and all. So let's pray that he will, then ...
posted by Parish Administrator at 11:50 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home