Preferring Nothing to Christ

Luke 14:25-33

‘Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.‘

As Jesus journeys further towards Jerusalem his teaching on the demands of discipleship becomes more intense. When he speaks of us ‘hating father, mother…’ he is using exaggerated language to make the point that if we want to follow him it will demand everything we have.

The idea that we must ‘hate life itself’ has never sat easily with me. I have always had to find a way to go deeper with these words. I am reminded of the equally demanding discipleship of the Rule of St Benedict:

Let no one presume to give or receive anything without the Abbot’s leave,
or to have anything as his own–anything whatever,
whether book or tablets or pen or whatever it may be–
since they are not permitted to have even their bodies or wills
at their own disposal; but for all their necessities
let them look to the Father of the monastery.

Ch 33 Monks and Private Ownership

Jesus and St Benedict have their sights set on the same goal: complete dedication to God the Father. Jesus and St Benedict both want us to be free of anything that would weigh us down or cloud our vision. The cross will always be at the centre. We know this from the outset.

The two short parables of the person building a tower and the king going out to war encourage me. They ground me in the reality of the choices and plans that I make. While I cant predict what size or shape my cross will be, I can be certain that I will be called to carry it. When my parents presented me for baptism, the anointing with chrism equipped me for this:

God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ has freed you from sin, given you a new birth by water and the Holy Spirit, and welcomed you into his holy people. He now anoints you with the chrism of salvation. As Christ was anointed Priest, Prophet and King, so may you live always as a member of his body.

How can you follow Christ more closely this week?

Luke 14:1,7-14

‘When someone invites you to a wedding feast, do not take your seat in the place of honour. A more distinguished person than you may have been invited, and the person who invited you both may come and say, “Give up your place to this man.” And then, to your embarrassment, you would have to go and take the lowest place. 

The scene painted in today’s Gospel is very familiar to us in terms of the biblical imagery of banquets, dinners and feasting. The banquet serves an an over-arching metaphor for the Kingdom, with texts in both the Old and New Testament. I relate easily to this metaphor.

Yet, in my own life, this Gospel scene is not a familiar one. My formal dining experiences would all have involved a seating plan; there would be no possibility of sitting in the wrong place. I have always had a certain relief in finding my name on the name card. And bigger relief if I knew the people sitting either side of me. Where I sat has always mattered to me, but not for the reasons implicit in the Gospel. I’d be very unlikely to feel comfortable on a ‘top table.’ So what does this Gospel scene say to me? I think the underlying meaning for me is about graciousness and the value in joining a gathering in a way that is humble and true to myself. When writer and speaker Brene Brown speaks about authenticity she shares a mantra: ‘Don’t shrink, don’t puff up, stay on your sacred ground.’

I hear today’s Gospel is an invitation to know my sacred ground.
How do you hear this Gospel?

John 1:45-51

That we know almost nothing about St Bartholomew (Nathanael) is perhaps a little liberating. There is space for our imaginations to read between the lines in the very short text from John. There are four things that I glean from this text: Nathanael is not afraid to make his point, he responds to an invitation, Jesus knows him, Jesus makes him an extraordinary promise.

I have a lot of sympathy with Nathanael needing to question Phillip’s certainty on having found the Messiah from Nazareth. Often when I question it is because something has unsettled me.

The moment of response to an invitation often marks the beginning of a new stage on our faith journeys. When I look back over my life I can pinpoint the times where I was invited to events, sometimes at quite short notice, that began to change my life. Nathanael has opened himself to God’s grace and change is inevitable.

That Jesus knows him and can say of him; ‘There is an Israelite who deserves the name, incapable of deceit.’ stops me in my tracks. And I find myself wondering what Jesus would say of me.

The promise that Jesus makes to Nathanael, ‘I tell you most solemnly, you will see heaven laid open and, above the Son of Man, the angels of God ascending and descending.’ is a vision of glory. Nathanael will witness Christ’s passion and resurrection before he fully understands what this means. This is what it means to be a disciple.

Our discipleship can take so many forms. Let’s pray that today the Psalmist’s words can be said of us:

“Your friends, O Lord, make known the glorious splendour of your reign.”

Luke 13:22-30

Once the master of the house has got up and locked the door, you may find yourself knocking on the door, saying, “Lord, open to us” but he will answer, “I do not know where you come from.”

These words from Luke often put me in mind of a fairly standard motif in story telling. A heroine makes a lengthy and treacherous journey, often by night and in pouring rain, and finds herself standing in front of a door that she hopes will be opened to her. It is the grimmest of outcomes if she isn’t recognised and the door closes in her face. She may try again. The reader hopes for a change of heart. I can very easily put myself in the position of the heroine.

Today’s Gospel offers both a narrow door and a door that isn’t going to be opened. What are we to make of these challenging words and images ? I draw back from ideas and systems that seem to exclude. Monastic life has taught me many things, not least that everyone deserves a chance.

As with many of the more difficult parables and incidents in the Gospels it is sometimes helpful to stand back and see the bigger picture. Biblical scholars see particular divisions and patterns in the way in which Luke organises his Gospel. Ch 9:51-19:44 forms a unit and is known as ‘Journey’ section of Luke’s Gospel. Jesus is resolutely journeying to Jerusalem and ‘he sets his face like flint’ (Is 50.7). Nothing will deter him. This lengthy unit is about the reality of discipleship and the resolve you will need if you are to walk this road. Scholars see a series of themes that build towards and away from the central text of today’s Gospel, Luke 13:22-30. Over the past weeks in our Sunday liturgy we have been encouraged to set out, taking nothing for the journey and relying on God alone. We have been invited to hear God’s word within us, to relinquish possessions and status and we’ve even been faced with the possibility of division in our families if we follow Christ.

So by this stage, if we have stayed the course, our resolve is well and truly strengthened. And now Jesus asks us to lay aside our own value systems. We must lay aside own understanding of who is ‘in’ and who is ‘out’. We must lay aside our understanding of who can expect a door to opened and who can’t. The values of the Kingdom involve an upturning of everything we thought we knew. Daunting as this may be, Jesus is our model.

We trace his steps as he walked to Jerusalem. With each step we learn the values of the kingdom. In suffering and in glory we learn the path of discipleship.

How can you choose the Kingdom this week?

Genesis 12:1-4
John 15:9-17

Here at Turvey we are celebrating the feast of St Bernard Tolomei, founder of the Olivetan Congregation. We know relatively little about him. Born in Siena in 1272, the son of a noble man, he was educated and trained to be a lawyer. In 1313, Bernard and two companions moved out to the country to live a simple lifestyle. By 1319 they had founded the monastery of Monte Oliveto and adopted the Rule of St Benedict.

At the heart of every community of faith is a story of God’s loving initiative and the response of perhaps one courageous individual or a group. This is sacred history. Looking back at the history of a founder draws us into that sacred history too.

In the first reading from Genesis 12 the Church lays before us the call of Abraham.

‘Leave your country, your kindred and your father’s house for a country which I shall show you; and I shall make you a great nation, I shall bless you and make your name famous; you are to be a blessing!

As a teenager I was very fond the Palm Tree posters series. The images were cartoon-like line drawings and there was often a little gentle humour. The poster for Genesis 14 showed Abraham setting out with a huge pile of question marks on his shoulder. This image often comes to mind when I think faith, courage and vocation. Like Abraham, St Bernard didn’t know what twists and turns his path would take, but the love of God compelled him to set out.

By 1322 Bernard was abbot of a growing community. Such was the appeal of the charism and way of life, that he founded ten more monasteries. Fifty of his letters survive from this time and they are a rich source of insight into his spirituality. Humility emerges as the touchstone of his understanding of monastic life:

‘Whatever is yours, give it, yourself and all you own, that you may dispose of yourself and all things yours according to His most holy will.’

That Bernard lived as he wrote is poignantly seen in his decision in 1348 to return to a monastery, in the town of Siena, to nurse his plague stricken monks. There Bernard himself contracted plague and gave his life for his monks.

Today’s Gospel from John 15 resonates so clearly with Bernard’s life and vision:

If you keep my commandments
you will remain in my love,
just as I have kept my Father’s commandments
and remain in his love.

The height and the breadth of this love meant that Bernard thought only of the welfare of his monks:

No one can have greater love
than to lay down his life for his friends.

That he was able to make this choice speaks to me of the innate capacity of every human heart to seek the greater good. While we may not feel that we have Bernard’s courage or his zeal, we can be reassured that the smallest of acts contribute something to the whole. We have all stepped out in faith at some point on our journey. We have all gone above and beyond when we didn’t think we had the strength to do it.

Today’s Gospel speaks to me of God’s initiative in the lives of each one of us:

You did not choose me,
no, I chose you;
and I commissioned you
to go out and to bear fruit,
fruit that will last;
so that the Father will give you
anything you ask him in my name.

God chooses us and plants within us the capacity to bear fruit. St Bernard bore the fruits of humility and selfless love.

What fruit do you most desire to bear for God?

Revelation 11:19,12:1-6,10 
1 Corinthians 15:20-26 
Luke 1:39-56 

The older I get the more time I seem to need to spend on paying attention to my body and making sensible choices. This is anything but self indulgent. When you live in community your own well-being is linked to the whole. There’s something of an implicit understanding that what you do or don’t do will affect the whole. While the monastic path might be an overtly spiritual choice, there’s no escaping the fact that this choice is worked out in a very physical way each day. Bodies matter.

The media handling of the Archie Battersbee case has made me think deeply about what it means to be alive and what it means to die a natural death. There are so many layers to this situation. Facing death is probably one of the hardest things that is asked of us as human beings. We know that the pain of separation will take its toll emotionally and possibly physically too.

When I come to celebrate the Feast of the Assumption I bring to the liturgy my own questions about my bodily life and death. The Church offers me some interpretative keys in the Liturgy of the Word. These are not keys that unlock the mystery straight away. For me these are well worn keys and I need a certain patience to unlock the various doors of mystery.

The first reading from Revelation invites me into the realm of apocalyptic literature. Today the ‘woman, adorned with the sun, standing on the moon, and with the twelve stars on her head for a crown.’ is Mary of Nazareth. I need to suspend what I understand to be the context and meaning of these words of Scripture and allow the text to have a meaning specific to the feast. Here we have Mary, Queen of heaven and bearer of our Saviour.

Today’s text from Corinthians plunges us into the mystery of the physicality of resurrection. There is a reassuring order in which things happen:

‘Christ as the first-fruits and then, after the coming of Christ, those who belong to him.’

This text gives me such hope. Despite our weaknesses and our failings we know that we ‘belong to him’. In the Church’s understanding of the Assumption, Mary is so closely related to Jesus in mind and body that it is unthinkable that she her body should know decay. Legend has it that, perhaps in Ephesus, she falls asleep and is bodily assumed into heaven. In the bodily Assumption of Mary we find our hope too. I think there’s a case for understanding the Assumption as a sign that Mary’s body and our bodies too are places where God’s grace can take hold and where God’s power and glory can be seen. Our destiny, as those who belong to Christ, is to be resurrected with bodies that are glorified.

When we come to the Gospel text from Luke we are on familiar territory. This door opens easily for me. Two pregnant women meet in a sharing of joy and thanksgiving for the new life that they bear within them. Both women know that their bodies are channels of God’s promise and grace.

Poet Malcolm Guite expresses this so well in his sonnet, Visitation.

Two women on the very edge of things
Unnoticed and unknown to men of power
But in their flesh the hidden Spirit sings
And in their lives the buds of blessing flower.

As we look at this scene from the vantage point of the feast of the Assumption we see the dynamic of Mary’s faithfulness in mind, body and heart.

‘Blessed is she who believed that the promise made her by the Lord would be fulfilled.’

With Mary’s ‘Yes’, this promise takes shape in flesh and blood. What God has done in and through Mary, is God’s desire for each one of us. In celebrating the Assumption we celebrate redeemed humanity. Theologian John McQuarrie sees the Assumption as an on going event:

‘…whenever here on earth there is a gleam of true glory, a faithful act of discipleship, a prayer offered in faith, a hand stretched out in love, there is assumption, human life is being lifted up to God by God.’

How can you be open to the graces of the Assumption this week?

Luke 12:32-48

This lengthy Gospel text from St Luke could almost be a manifesto for monastic life. I hear in every paragraph strong resonances with the Rule of St Benedict.

‘Sell your possessions and give alms.’

As I prepared to enter the monastery I went through several phases of divesting myself of my ‘worldly goods’. Most of my worldly good were clothes and shoes. One day I invited my friends round and opened up my wardrobes, inviting them to take whatever they wanted. It felt hugely liberating. In case you are now in awe of my ascesis, it’s probably best to explain that after 30 years in a monastery I have probably accumulated roughly the same amount that I gave away. I’m no minimalist.

‘For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’

It’s very easy to read this text just as a warning about having too many possessions. However, the word that I always hear loudly is ‘treasure’. Treasure can be a subtle thing: what I treasure, you might not treasure. What I might hide away in order to keep safe, you might not even notice. I’m reminded here of St Cuthbert’s account of the death of Bede. As Bede’s death approaches he makes this request:

‘I have a few treasures in my box, some pepper, and napkins, and some incense. Run quickly and fetch the priests of the monastery, and I will share among them such little presents as God has given me.’

Each year I wonder what my ‘treasures’ are now, what do I keep in a safe place? I also wonder what I will consider ‘treasure’ when my life nears its end. In monastic culture it’s often the little things that make their mark on us. Monastic writers talk of poverty and simplicity and the importance of non-attachment to ‘things’. The lived reality is far more complex. Each day I have the opportunity to evaluate my choices and to steer that careful path between ‘wants’ and ‘needs’. Perhaps the key thing here is not so much how much or how little you have, but how willing you are to share.

‘See that you are dressed for action and have your lamps lit.’

This text forms the basis of one of my favourite Antiphons in Advent. I love the dynamism and sense of expectancy. For the monks of St Benedict’s day their way of life allowed them to take this text more or less literally:

They sleep clothed, and girded with belts or cords; but they should remove their knives, lest they accidentally cut themselves in their sleep. Thus the monks will always be ready to arise without delay when the signal is given; each will hasten to arrive at the Work of God before the others, yet with all dignity and decorum.

Rule of St Benedict, Ch 22, The Sleeping Arrangements of the Monks

On one level the monks weren’t doing anything unusual in sleeping clothed. Having special nightwear was not part of Sixth Century custom. St Benedict takes an ordinary thing and gives it a special significance; being ready for the Work of God was the priority in St Benedict’s thinking. Every thing is the monastic’s day is so arranged so as make sure that the liturgy takes priority.

All of the above quotations have something to say to us about how we prioritise things in our lives. They have something to say about how we open our hearts to God. I hear the texts in a particular way because of my monastic path. How do you hear these texts?

How is God calling you open your heart?

Above is the Canticle that we use for Vespers of the Transfiguration. It cleverly blends together a text from the New Testament and a text from the Old Testament. These texts are woven together seamlessly, with each shedding light on the other.

The composite text captures something of the feast of the Transfiguration. We move from the Incarnation to the God of all creation. It is almost as if we see one super-imposed upon the other. In the Gospel accounts of the Transfiguration there is a mingling of earth and heaven, old and new, prophet and disciple.  God’s faithfulness runs as a thread through the Old Testament and here on Mt Tabor that faithfulness is manifested in the transfigured Christ.

That this powerful experience takes place on a mountain should perhaps come as no surprise to the disciples. Indeed, from the beginning of history human beings have been aware of what we can call the existence of a ‘spiritual landscape’. Most fundamentally, God is ‘up’ and the evil one is ‘down’. God or the gods live on mountains and the evil one lives somewhere down in the depths of the earth. Human beings have always sought ways of connecting with the deity, of being relationship with the deity. Our ancestors developed ritual behaviours which were designed either to appease the wrath of the deity or to procure favour. Certain places became significant as meeting places with the deity.

The account of the Transfiguration is a mysterious text and one that isn’t always easy to understand. The words of the Canticle ‘Great indeed, we confess, is the mystery of our religion’ resonate with me particularly on this feast. When we celebrate the liturgy and hear the Gospel text we are given a glimpse of glory. And like the disciples, we too must come down from the mountain. Our task now is to look for those glimpses of glory wherever we are. And the more ordinary the place we find ourselves in the better.

Poet, Malcolm Guite, captures the mystery at the heart of the feast.

For that one moment, ‘in and out of time’,
On that one mountain where all moments meet,
The daily veil that covers the sublime
In darkling glass fell dazzled at his feet.
There were no angels full of eyes and wings
Just living glory full of truth and grace.
The Love that dances at the heart of things
Shone out upon us from a human face
And to that light the light in us leaped up,
We felt it quicken somewhere deep within,
A sudden blaze of long-extinguished hope
Trembled and tingled through the tender skin.
Nor can this this blackened sky, this darkened scar
Eclipse that glimpse of how things really are.

Luke 12:13-21

Scholars tell us that in the time of Jesus 90% of people relied on the agricultural economy for their survival. The well being of your family depended on the well being and right use of the land. Many were tenant farmers who lived with the pressure of the landowner’s expectation of the biggest yield possible.

And yet, in our parable today this big yield is not to be celebrated. We are confronted instead with the rich man’s greed. His desire to store this yield is seen as short-sighted. In his master plan of tearing down barns and building bigger he has missed the point of human existence. In the language of the Psalms ‘he has no regard for God.’ His greed has paved the way for the last plan he will ever make.

The hearers of Luke’s Gospel lived with the expectation that the second coming of Jesus was imminent. Every choice had an implication for that day of judgement. The message is clear: don’t be like the rich man. Parables are intended to shock us and to jolt us. If you are left slightly uncomfortable by this text, then it has done it’s work. Parables are not nice stories.

It’s a fairly easy leap from this parable to words about the dangers of amassing wealth, the scandal of inequality and the perils of a consumerist society. These are all important areas. But what if we look inward and ask ourselves ‘What am I willing to tear down in order to build bigger barns?’, ‘What is it that blinds me to my need for God?’

We can expect to be unsettled as we answer these questions. Our ancestors in the faith grappled with these questions too and from this place they sang: ‘O Lord, you have been our refuge from one generation to the next.’

How can you make God your refuge this week?

Today the Church keeps the Memoria of Martha, Mary and Lazarus. It’s a day that holds special significance for Benedictines. There are two collects given for Mass in a supplementary book which is used for all things Benedictine.

Heavenly Father,
your Son was received
as an honoured and welcomed guest
in the home of Bethany,
keep us close to the Master
in our work and prayer,
that, blameless in his sight,
he may welcome us into his kingdom.

Heavenly Father,
your Son called Lazarus from the grave
and sat at table in the house of Bethany.
May we serve him faithfully in our brethren
and with Mary ponder and feed upon his word.

Between these two collects pretty much all the distinctive elements of Benedictine life are covered. Two phrases stand out for me: ‘honoured and welcomed’ and ‘ponder and feed’. If you have read anything about Benedictine Spirituality you will have a sense of the place which hospitality holds. I was struck today that it is more than just welcoming, it is showing a very particular kind of care, a care that reverences Christ in anyone who crosses the threshold. Ideally we take this attitude with us when we leave the monastery. So this honouring and welcoming can take place wherever we are: in the queue in the supermarket, waiting for the lift, crossing the road. The list is endless.

In the second collect I was struck by the coupling of ponder and feed. We are familiar with the idea of pondering on God’s Word, perhaps a little less so with the image of feeding on the Word. St Bernard explores this image in an Advent sermon:

Keep the word of God in the same way as you would preserve bodily food. For the word of God is a living bread and food for the mind. So long as earthly food is stored in a box it can be stolen or nibbled by mice or it can go bad if it is left too long. But if you eat the food you don’t have to worry about any of these.

This is the way to preserve God’s word; Blessed are they who keep it (Lk 11:28) Let it pass into the innards of your soul, then let it make its way into your feelings and into your behaviour. Eat well and your soul will delight in the abundance. Do not forget to eat your bread, lest your heart dry up, but let your soul be filled as with a banquet (Ps 101:5, Ps 62:6) If you thus keep the Word of God, you can be quite sure that it will keep you.

Sometimes the bread of God’s Word can seem dry and hard, sometimes is it light and sweet. Refusing to eat is not an option.

The image of friendship presented in the texts which mention Mary, Mary and Lazarus is not saccharine but real. The daily reality of walking the monastic path is anything but romantic. Sometimes there will be disagreements. This is brought out beautifully in an Anglican collect that I found:

God our Father,
whose Son enjoyed the love of his friends,
Mary, Mary and Lazarus,
in learning, argument and hospitality:
may we so rejoice in your love
that the world may come to know
the depths of your wisdom, the wonder of your compassion,
and your power to bring life out of death.

Sometimes arguments will be part of our path. Strong friendships can take the rough with the smooth. Martha, Mary and Lazarus incarnate for us this real friendship.

Bring to mind the friends who have shared your journey. Thank God for these people.