Author: Bishop Richard Randerson (page 2 of 8)

A sermon for All Saints’ Day.

As we look around us today, whom would we name as contemporary saints? Would it be the Black ferns with their stunning success in international rugby? Or might it be Saint Jacinda or Saint Christopher? And many would name Great Thunberg with her courageous global leadership on climate change.

But for the rest of us, whom would we regard as saints today? Maybe a group of women I saw recently, patiently caring for handicapped young adults on a day out?

Or is it the army of overseas aid workers risking their lives to bring food, medicine and shelter to the hungry, sick and dying? Or the hungry, sick and dying themselves, hundreds of thousands of them in seemingly hopeless situations, but continuing to give everything for their children and neighbours?

Or are the saints the ‘Occupy Wall St’ protesters around the world – saying ‘enough is enough’ in the face of unparalleled greed and inequality? All these are people who are not just performing a duty, but are captured by a spirit that drives them to reach out with compassion and for justice for the needy.

It is that spirit which flows through the Beatitudes (Matthew 5:3-12), the eight  ‘blesseds’ that Jesus outlined in his Sermon on the Mount. I have visited the Mount. Today there is a modern, open church, on a slope looking down over the Sea of Galilee. It has eight sides – one for each of the Beatitudes.

Commentators see a parallel with Moses and Mount Sinai, but whereas the 10 Commandments are Law, the eight Beatitudes are Grace. The 10 commandments are moral instructions: ‘Love God, respect your parents, do not steal, do not murder’ etc. But the beatitudes show the difference between Law and Love. Jesus ushers in a new age where God’s freely-given love over-rides the rule of Law.

This spirit is evident in each of the eight Beatitudes. The poor in spirit are those who know the core of their life lies not in power and possessions but in their walk with God. As the modern interpretation you have today puts it: ‘Blessed are those who are convinced of their basic dependency on God, whose lives are emptied of all that does not matter, those for whom the riches of this world just aren’t that important’.

Those who mourn lament not only for lost loved ones, but for the loss of God and God’s justice from the heart of society. The humble are not those who choose to be a doormat or stand behind the door, but those who have no need to seek status or preferment because the only status they need is that of being a disciple. Those who hunger and thirst for righteousness focus not just on personal morality but on a wide-ranging social righteousness that delivers justice for all.

The merciful are those for whom mercy is a mindset that issues in compassionate and costly action for others, while the pure in heart are those who are single-minded in their love for God, that love untrammeled by worldly distractions.

The peacemakers set out to heal wounds, build bridges, restore broken relationships, and to join movements that transcend racial and national divisions, and the gaps between rich and poor. They bring about shalom – the peaceable kingdom of God where all live in harmony with one another and with the earth itself.

And finally the persecuted are those who in their love for others, or in striving for justice, have made sacrifices, known rejection or carry the scars of battle with all that is broken or evil.

For all of these, the promise is a whole new state of being, a way of life where people see God, walk with God, feel God’s love and are empowered and sustained by God’s presence and spirit. It is a present taste of God’s final purpose for all creation. To such a life each one of us is called. It is a life and a promise lived and experienced by ordinary people like you and me.

As an example, let me conclude with the story of Emma Woods, that young mother in Christchurch whose 4-year old son Nayan was tragically killed some years back by a teenage driver whose car spun out of control. Which of us was unmoved by her words: “We had had a perfect day at Playcentre, played lots of games together, and had a good time at the mall. I have no regrets about that day – we had fun together”.

And of the young driver of the car: “We are pretty clear we don’t want this to be the defining moment of his life. He is young, only 17. He has got his whole life ahead of him and we hope he will use it to do good things, to be good with people, and maybe eventually to be a good father”.

I do not know what faith she follows, but Emma’s words are an astonishing statement of wisdom and generosity in the midst of unimaginable grief. She has drawn on the deepest resources of the spirit, while acknowledging the extent of her loss and the pain she will feel through long years ahead. It is of this that sainthood is made: the commitment to walk with our God whose love sustains us and brings forth extraordinary love in ordinary and extraordinary situations.

(Minor overlap with MF01)

All of us here tonight carry in our hearts the soul and spirit of someone close to us, and probably of several people close to us whom we have lost over the years. I remember each year my brother Michael who died of an illness aged 33: that was 36 years ago, and yet there is still a gap in our family circle. We grieve not only for the one who has died, but also for that part of our own life that has died as well.

Yet while grief is a reality we all know, it nonetheless points us to those things in life that are of supreme importance, things that give us comfort in the present, and hope and strength for the future. Let me mention four of them :

First, the traditional formal eulogy today if often eclipsed today by personal and anecdotal words from children and grand-children, usually with tears and laughter and in informal style. And the thing that stands out in the midst of them all is the central importance of family ties, and family love, and the times that were spent not in public office but at the beach together, or over a meal or at a birthday party – the things that are common to us all, often taken for granted, things that don’t cost money but are a priceless part of being human.

Second, a death often evokes within us a sense of being part of something bigger than ourselves. One of the old hymns of the Church has the line “Time like an ever-rolling stream bears all its sons away” (and daughters too). In one sense that sounds very pessimistic but I find a stronger meaning to it. Around us are plaques and memorials of our ancestors which speak of timelessness, of eternity, of a great over-arching drama in which each of us plays a part. Each of us receives life and has gifts and opportunities specific to our day and age. Each of us has a vocation to play our part in the service of others. Each of us gives life to others and in turn we give our own life up having played our part. Our life although mortal, has a purpose. We have a place in God’s abiding purpose of love.

Third, mortality speaks to us of the support we find in loss that comes from the love of family and friends. Human love is the expression of a divine love that never leaves us comfortless. In the night-time of grief, when loneliness and loss seem too hard to bear, we reach out to one another, and find comfort from each other, just as God reaches out to us and surrounds us with a love that will not let us go.

And finally, mortality speaks to us of the presence of God, one in whom we can trust as we look to a future that seems empty and uncertain. Faith does not provide answers to all our questions and anxieties about the future. Rather our faith lies in knowing that we travel with God, so that whatever the future will bring it will be all right. Faith is knowing that God’s spirit lifts us and sustains us, however empty life at times may feel.

On a plane the other day my fellow passenger told me of his experience at two funerals, one for his office secretary, much younger than he, the other for his father. He said he came away from each funeral with an incredible sense of lightness, which he defined as feeling that in spite of the loss everything would be all right. It wasn’t that he didn’t grieve; it wasn’t that he didn’t feel the loss; it wasn’t that he felt life would just be business as usual. He knew he would feel the pain of those deaths, yet at a much deeper level he had this feeling that in the overall scheme of things, all would be well. Those latter words were also used by the 14^th century English mystic, Julian of Norwich, who affirmed that “all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well”. Not words of superficial comfort, but words of a deep conviction about the abiding presence of the love of God, a love that is with us in life and in death, mediated to us by family and friends, yet finding its source in a spring of compassion that encompasses all people in all times.

A sermon preached by Canon Paul Oestreicher
at St. Peter’s Church, Wellington on 6 August 2023

May what I say and what you hear reflect the heart and mind of Jesus who chooses us as his friends. Amen.

We are going this morning on a long, long journey. We will still be the people of St. Peter’s. But not only that. We will use our imagination to its limits. We will journey to heaven and back to this place — and then we will travel to hell and still come back to ourselves.

Every religion wants to celebrate. And so do we. This is a celebration of the feast of Transfiguration. I would not be surprised if some of you—maybe all of you—haven’t a clue what this is all about. Because the church has actually kept it at arm’s length. We celebrate births at Christmas, death and life beyond this at Easter. At Pentecost, we celebrate the presence of the Spirit of God in our midst. And then Transfiguration, where does it fit? It doesn’t. It could be anywhere in the New Testament, because it’s not part of the history. It is about spiritual poetry. The artists can make a lot of it. They have painted marvelous icons of Transfiguration. It requires huge imagination to get our minds and our hearts around it. So let us go with Jesus into the real celebration of nothing less than heaven.

Jesus chooses just three of his close friends, Peter, John, and James and says to them, “Come with me, climb this high mountain.” And they haven’t a clue what’s going to happen. So they climb the Mount of Transfiguration. And when Jesus gets there, he meets old friends. He meets Moses and Elijah the prophet of ancient Israel. Know this isn’t history. This is spiritual poetry. And Jesus himself is transformed. Surrounded by luminous light and light so bright that it shines like a 1000s Suns. And the three friends of Jesus are totally confused. They are in a cloud of unknowing. They fall down with fear at what’s happening. It’s totally extra ordinary. It’s another world to which Jesus has just chosen three to go with him to experience what we don’t really have words for. But it’s marvelous. It’s creative. It’s something that the artists can deal with. Can paint wonderful icons of it, and there are many of them. And we are left wondering. They have to come down from the mountain to reality. And they do. And as they come down a voice from Heavens says, “This is my beloved Son, my chosen. Listen to him.”

Listening to him is really the only reason why we should be in this place at St. Peter’s. What does he say to us? He says to us, “Don’t be afraid, little flock. It is my Father’s pleasure to give you the kingdom.” That’s what it’s all about. Journey into a heaven we cannot really imagine. But we are challenged to do just that. And to hear this Jesus guiding us on our paths.

But now I challenge you to leave St. Peter’s. I challenge you to go to your local cinema. And to watch a film simply, yes, simply called Oppenheimer. Oppenheimer, one of the great nuclear physicists of the 20th century, a great scientist. And he set out with a team of other scientists in the quest of creating a weapon that would win and end the Second World War. They were fighting against time. But they just made it. They went into the desert, the desert of New Mexico having worked and experimented and finished up with this weapon, which had never been used. They exploded it in the desert. It was a terrifying experience. And then they had done their work. Or at any rate part of it. The politicians then picked up their work and said, “You have done what we asked you. We will now act on it.” And they did. They sent one crew on an American bomber to take this fearsome weapon to the Japanese city of Hiroshima. And on this day, in the year 1945, on this sixth of August, in the middle of the morning, they dropped the first atomic bomb in history in a split second, a terrifying blast, brighter than 1000 suns like at the top of the mountain, and yet so terribly different. And in that split second, something like 100,000 children, women, and men, and the city in which they lived, was turned to ashes.

But science has no boundaries. So they went on experimenting and testing more. Testing them in the Australian desert, in the South Pacific, to create not just another atom bomb, but this time a hydrogen bomb, infinitely more terrible in his destructive power that is Hell. On. Earth. A human creation using the science of creation, to destroy creation. All on the feast on the feast of Transfiguration. Jesus seen in all his glory, and Jesus going with us to hell—we say it actually, when we recite the Creed, that’s the reality of our life.

In the twilight zone, between heaven and hell, this life is a bit of both a bit of heaven in each of us and a bit of hell in each of us and we live in between in a timezone before the ultimate coming of the kingdom. No we do not understand. But if we listen to the chosen of God, to this simple Jesus—this carpenter from Nazareth, this man among his fellow humans—and he can teach us about what he called the kingdom. That Kingdom is in fragments already present here now, but yet to be fulfilled. The journey to Heaven is offered on this feast of which the church sadly makes very little of. And on that very day, the hell that destroyed and may go on destroying, if we do not take peace, the peace of Christ seriously and say no to the inventions that we can make. But having made them, we can unmake them and we can prepare. Prepare for the kingdom and be part of it.

The Privilege is endless. The joy is endless. The grief is endless. No, it isn’t endless, but it will end in the triumph of love. For a moment, a final moment of silence. Imagine the brightness, the luminous glory of God and that very glory used to wipe out our fellow human beings.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

Lord, have mercy.

Amen.

And now I’m going to ask you to get up from your seats and join Jean and all the rest of us in blessing the icons that are symbols of what we are here for, to celebrate Eucharist, to celebrate Thanksgiving, to celebrate Jesus presiding at this Eucharist and at every Eucharist. But before he does that, Jesus, our servant, washes his disciples feet, washes our feet, as he challenges us to serve each other. So get up from your seats and come and crowd into the sanctuary here, right up to the end of the church, where the icons that are going to be blessed now have found a place for the future. Come and join us.