sermon

Soul Harvest: Sermon Preached on 15th September 2024 (Sixteenth Sunday After Trinity, Harvest Festival)

by

Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne

James 3. 1-12; Mark 8. 27-38

“Can a fig tree, my brothers and sisters, yield olives, or a grapevine figs?”

The harvest comes at the end of a long process. Some of the seed for next year’s wheat will probably be planted in the next few weeks, to benefit from the last weeks of autumn warmth and sunshine, so it can develop a stable root system before the winter, and be less vulnerable to drought in spring.

A large combine harvester completing the reaping of a field, with dust atmospherically coming from its rear.
Taking in the harvest near Stanton St Bernard in the Vale of Pewsey. © Gerry Lynch, 3 September 2023.

Yet at the same time, this year’s harvest still isn’t complete. There are still, for example, a few fields of maize around that might not be harvested until well into October. The late apples and pears still won’t be ready to pick for weeks yet. And many of our root vegetables and leafy greens reach their prime in the middle of winter – the parsnips don’t taste their best until they’ve been through their first hard frost.

Managing all this takes enormous skill from our farmers and a lot of education in science and, if they want to make a living from it, business. It also takes machinery, and electricity, and fuel. And also, whether we want to acknowledge it or not, pesticides. Of course, the weather plays a major role, especially in a year like this when the spring and first half of the summer were so consistently cold and wet. In fact, during the first summer I spent in Devizes, between the lockdowns in 2020, terrible storms came in August and ruined much of the arable harvest, and I spent the autumn walking past fields left in a terrible state. Viruses can also ruin a crop; they hit plants in waves just like they hit humans.

Most of all, much patience is needed to take the crops from sowing to harvest, and while agricultural knowledge and technology makes us much less vulnerable to crop failure than our ancestors, even now there is no guarantee of success. Yet despite the risks from storms and disease, a crop can’t be harvested early—the crops aren’t fit for consumption until they are ripe.

Read more

Disability, Demons, and Gays (Oh, My!): Sermon Preached on 8th September 2024 (Fifteenth Sunday After Trinity)

by
A black-and-white line engraving of some demons pulling at Saint Anthony's beard.

Preached at Holy Cross, Seend; St Peter’s, Poulshot; and Christ Church, Bulkington

James 2. 1-17; Mark 7. 24-37

“…he sighed and said to him, ‘Ephphatha’, that is, ‘Be opened.’”

A few weeks ago, an acquaintance messaged me out of the blue to tell me he was thinking about his relationship with God, and asked my advice on the best way to start reading the Bible. I gave him my usual advice: start with Mark’s Gospel – as it happens, the source of most of our Sunday Gospel readings in 2024 – then Genesis, then Revelation, then John’s Gospel, then Acts… and if you’re still keen at that point, it’s time to subscribe to some Bible Reading Fellowship notes.

This is the cover of Games Workshop's book "Realm of Chaos: Slaves to Darkness". Brightly coloured painting of demons overseen by a dark god.
Did you spend some of your adolescence in the company of this book? © Games Workshop and used under Fair Use doctrine.

This acquaintance is a journalist, and it was obvious from some messages he sent me as he started his journey through Mark that he was comfortable with the rich multi-layered symbolism of the story, and indeed enjoying it greatly.

Then, a few days ago, he asked if I knew any disabled biblical scholars or theologians who were worth reading. As it happens, my acquaintance is disabled, and one consequence of his disability is a very severe speech impediment.

So, knowing that he had just read the section of Mark that I am preaching on this morning, I asked for his thoughts on a story of a deaf man with a speech impediment being healed when Jesus says: “Be opened.”

My friend, alert to the multiple layers of symbolism in the text, said this struck him as relating to being “open to and opened by the love of God”. As for healing, his disability is, to him, simply part of who he is—it must therefore also, he said, be part of his Christian Faith. “I don’t think Jesus would want me not to be disabled or spend every day hoping for a cure”, he wrote to me.

He has faith that God has made him as he is. Therefore, he needs no healing. Not from his disability, anyway—although, like all of us, there is doubtless much from which he does need to be healed.

Read more

Angry People Click: Sermon Preached on 1st September 2024 (Fourteenth Sunday After Trinity)

by

Preached at Christ Church, Worton

James 1.17-27; Mark 7.1-8, 14, 15, 21-23         

“…let everyone be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger…”

Angry people click. If there’s a catchphrase that captures the nervous mood of the 2020s, it’s that one. On the Internet, and on our TV screens, there is a brutal competition for our attention and our time. With thousands of articles and programmes available to us at the touch of a button, websites and TV channels have to find ways of getting people to read or watch their content rather than any of the myriad alternatives.

A young man, head looking back over his shoulder, with a luxuriant moustache and neatly trimmed beard, looks angrily at the viewer.
Self-Portrait (The Angry One) by Ferdinand Holder (1880-81), Hangs in the Kunstmuseum Basel, Switzerland.

There are various high arousal emotions that, if the right words trigger them in us, make us particularly prone to clicking on a link or watching a programme. Excitement, joy, and fear are all examples. But the most powerful of all is anger—if an editor can create a headline or a twenty-word synopsis that makes us angry, we are far more likely to read or watch their stuff; and that means the advertising revenue comes in to pay their wages.

How does it feel to live in a world where people constantly need to make us feel angry, or at least in some other sort of emotionally heightened state, to pay the bills? Look around you. Switch on the news. We are left feeling, permanently, that we are on the edge of some sort of civilisational crisis.

It’s tempting to think this started as some sort of nefarious plan by the dark lords of the Internet to make the world a worse place. But that wasn’t what happened at all. Around the turn of the century, the Internet put a tool into the hands of news editors and publishers that they’d never had before – they could try out different headlines and see which one brought most visitors to their website. Headlines that made people angry were often particularly effective. Then towards the end of the 2000s, social media emerged, powered by its algorithms that just worked out what content got people to spend longer on their platform, entirely blind to what the content was let alone the emotions it aroused.

The Internet is many things, and one of those things is a big mirror reflecting our instant, often unchosen, emotional reactions back at us. What they reveal about us isn’t particularly pretty. It turns out that we human beings have plenty of dark aspects to our character, even before we reflect on the way we seem to spontaneously form tribes and mobs. You might even say it confirms the doctrine of original sin.

Anger has a power. It tends to overwhelm other emotions, and crowd out reason. Anger demands our attention. Perhaps that’s why St James warns his readers in today’s epistle to be “slow to anger; for your anger does not produce God’s righteousness.”

Read more

Eat Me!: Sermon Preached on 25th August 2024 (Thirteenth Sunday After Trinity)

by
The hands of a priest saying Mass, near a paten with a wafer host, with a chalice and purificator on one side and a Mass book on a stand on the other.

Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne, Christ Church, Worton, and Holy Cross, Seend

Ephesians 6.10-20; John 6.56-69   

“…whoever eats me will live because of me”

Let’s imagine that one Sunday, after church, over coffee and cake, that I told you… to eat me. Would you think I’d gone a bit nuts? You probably wouldn’t be entirely sure what I was getting at, but let’s be honest, you wouldn’t think I meant something entirely wholesome if I, you know, told you to eat me.

What if I went on to tell you to drink my blood? Tell the truth, you wouldn’t just find that weird, but completely disgusting. You might even send an e-mail to the bishop’s office when you got home from church, asking him to have strong words with the clearly wayward Rector of the Wellsprings Benefice.

So, I have a fair bit of sympathy for the disciples when they start complaining to Jesus about the strange and difficult teaching He’s asking them to accept in today’s Gospel reading. I mean, ‘I am the living bread come down from heaven, and whoever eats me will live forever’—it’s really bizarre stuff isn’t it? We tend to accept the idea of eating Jesus’ flesh and drinking His blood because the Church has been teaching it for 2,000 years; and we’re all familiar with the idea from childhood; and we also acknowledge Jesus as the Son of God, so we’re prepared to accept things being said by Jesus that wouldn’t accept from anyone else. But don’t let that obscure how strange these ideas are.

An oil painting of St Peter, with a beard, wearing a tunic, clasping his hands, looking upwards with a pleading look on his face.
St Peter Penitent (1639), by Guercino. Hangs in the National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh.

And to the disciples in those early days, Jesus was just a teacher from Nazareth. A very clever teacher who seemed even to be able to perform miracles. But just a teacher. Once you heard Him asking you to drink His blood, you might even start wondering whether His power to work miracles came from God or from, you know, the other direction. It’s no wonder that a lot of His followers walked away from Him at this point.

Christianity is weird. It’s a profoundly strange faith. It isn’t about common sense—not the common sense of the 21st Century West, but also not the common sense of anyone at the time of Christ: not of pious Jews nor clever Greeks nor imperious Romans. At the heart of Christ’s teachings, are things that turn our conventional view of the world upside down. At its core of it is the concept that God gives us what we don’t deserve, because in fact we aren’t good enough to deserve anything; what God gives us, He gives us freely out of His love. And because we could never be good enough to pass any purity test, God closed the gap that humanity’s sin opened between us and Him Hithrough giving up Himself, in the person of Jesus Christ, on the Cross.

Read more

The Limits of Good Works: Sermon Preached on 11th August 2024 (Eleventh Sunday After Trinity)

by
A view across the Sea of Galilee from Magdala/Migdal towards the Golan Heights in afternoon sun.

Preached at St Peter’s, Poulshot and Christ Church, Bulkington

Ephesians 4. 25-5.2; John 6. 35, 41-51

“Whoever eats of this bread will live for ever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”

Do you find some of the teachings of Christianity a little hard to swallow? That eternal life is a reality? That Jesus Christ actually rose from the dead? That Christ is actually present today whenever Christians break bread and share wine in His name? All this stuff is quite challenging to the common viewpoint of our times that only material things that really matter and that the main goal of the Church is to change the world.

He’s got the whole world in His hand… and about a septillion other worlds too!

These days, we tend to put the difficulties that many people have with these mystical beliefs – difficulties, indeed, that some of us here probably have with these beliefs – down to living in an era of science and reason. When people find the more mysterious teachings of the Faith hard to accept, it is tempting to reduce Christianity to the Cult of Militant Niceness, where the Church is all about its good works, and we don’t talk too loudly about the weirder stuff Jesus Christ taught.

But none of this is new. The section of John’s Gospel from which this morning’s reading comes from is all about that. People got into little boats and sailed across the Sea of Galilee to keep up with Jesus, because they wanted to see Him feed them and heal them—but instead He gave them a cryptic message that the He was bread come down from heaven, that whoever ate this bread would live forever, and that the bread He would give for the life of the world was His flesh. No wonder they started muttering. Soon after today’s Gospel reading, the complaints got so bad that even some of Jesus’ closest followers abandoned Him. The things that Christ taught about His own nature, about death and eternal life, have always been hard for people to believe.

If we say the Church is all about its good works – which is what most people who aren’t particularly committed Christians want to hear – then we are making the same mistake as the crowds who muttered when Jesus didn’t give them the good works they wanted. Here’s one problem with a Gospel of good works—I hope none of us thinks that we are better people than others because we are Christians. That’s not what Christ taught at all. We all know atheists, and Jews, and Muslims whose basic goodness puts us to shame; we all know that being a Christian hardly makes us perfect.

That isn’t anything new either. Look at what St Paul had to write to the Christians in Ephesus – warning them against bitterness and anger and squabbling. Of course, they were called to live better lives than that, but they clearly often failed, otherwise he wouldn’t have had to write.

Read more

Gratitude at Lammastide: Sermon Preached on 4th August 2024

by
The image depicts a vast, undulating farmland under a clear sky during golden hour. Rows of crops stretch across the landscape, their textures highlighted by warm sunlight. In the distance, gentle hills complete this serene rural scene.

Preached at St Peter’s, Poulshot for the Wiltshire Countryside Club annual service

Leviticus 23. 9-14; Matthew 15. 32-39              

“You shall eat no bread … until you have brought the offering of your God.”

For many people in this country, the wisdom and awareness of human nature that used to be provided by Christianity are now sought for in self-help literature, counselling, and the psychology of the Sunday supplement and the social media meme. It is therefore interesting when these modern forms of religion share the same perspective as the Old Faith. One thing Christianity and pop-psychology agree on is the importance of gratitude, and the benefits that flow from being grateful for what we have. No less a source than the Harvard Medical School’s in-house magazine – I googled it – tells me that when we are grateful, we improve our health, deal better with adversity, and build strong relationships.

A combine harvester in a cereal field on a day of thin cloud and hazy sunshine, almost completed its job.
Taking in the harvest at Stanton St Bernard in Wiltshire’s picturesque Vale of Pewsey, 3 September 2024 © Gerry Lynch

Lammas is all about remembering with thanks that it is God who us gives us all that we have. It is God who gives the miracle of natural growth – and it is a miracle, much as familiarity tends to blind us to that. It is God who gives the sun, and the rain, and the seasons that govern our production of food. And it is God who gives us the skills to work with the fruits of nature to sustain ourselves and our nature—not just the skills of the farmer, but of everyone else who makes a living from the countryside, from the man who repairs the combine harvester to the woman who organises the transport of the food to the supermarket. For as much as He is the provider of the bounty of nature, God is also the source of us, and of our skill and diligence. God does not only all this for us, but also gives us the beauty of the natural world, including so many of our agricultural landscapes, which sustain and nurture our souls.

On the face of it, offering of a loaf to God is a pretty limp thank you present for so much. But the loaf symbolises the deep gratitude of our hearts and our souls, and it is appropriate that we offer this symbol of our gratitude now, when the harvest is still ongoing.

Read more

David Could be A Bad ‘Un: Sermon Preached on 28th July 2024 (Ninth Sunday After Trinity)

by
A painting in rococo style; a beautiful if rather snooty-looking, Bathsheba, bare-breasted, is having her hair combed, surrounded by a retinue of ladies-in-waiting.

Preached at Holy Cross, Seend, St Peter’s, Poulshot, and Christ Church, Bulkington

2 Samuel 11. 1-15; John 6. 1-21

“David wrote a letter… ‘Set Uriah in the forefront of the hardest fighting, and then draw back from him, so that he may be struck down and die.’”

Our first reading today is a bit of a shocker! But that’s only part why I opted to have the Old Testament reading rather than the Epistle at this service. This reading doesn’t just have a plotline that would put Emmerdale to shame, but it speaks to two important questions about our faith. Firstly, what sort of people does God use to do His will in the world? Secondly, what is the Bible for?

A coloured lithograph in Naïve Art style by the painter Marc Chagall; it depicts King David standing upright, wearing a crown, and holding a harp, serenading Bathsheba sitting on an expensive-looking chair. They are sat outside, in what seems to be a garden, under a sunny sky.
Marc Chagall, David with Bathsheba (1980).

We’ll come to those in a moment, but let’s be clear that the soap opera plot was definitely one of the reasons why I chose this reading. It’s so memorable that I can tell you exactly where I was when I first heard it. I can still remember that it was a particularly beautiful summer morning. I know it was relatively soon after I had started attending St George’s, the church in Belfast which did so much to form me spiritually. Now, because the readings in church run on a three-year cycle, it has to be an exact multiple of three years ago on the nearest Sunday. It was 27th July 1997, in other words twenty-seven years and a day ago, and the day before my twentieth birthday, a time when faith was really coming alive for me.

Now, this isn’t a particularly pleasant reading, but it grabbed my attention forcefully, as I’m sure it did yours. It stoked my already building interest in the Bible. Teenage males are often particularly gripped by the grizzlier bits of the Bible, and I heard it on my very last day as a teenager.

Most people think Christianity is all about being terribly worthy and a little beige, and is therefore something for worthy, rather beige, perhaps rather dull people. The truth is that God works through real human beings; there are a few saints and a few monsters around, but most of us are a mix of light and dark.

Read more

One Cross for a Divided Church: Sermon Preached on 21st July 2024 (Eighth Sunday After Trinity)

by
A classic rood screen, late Victorian, with Mary and St John both facing the nave along with Christ, St Mary to the left.

Preached at Holy Cross, Seend and St Peter’s, Poulshot

Ephesians 2. 11-22; Mark 6. 30-34, 53-56

“Christ … that he might reconcile both unto God in one body by the cross…came and preached peace to you which were afar off, and to them that were nigh.”

The Church should be like one big family. We all agree with that, don’t we? It sounds very sweet and wholesome—until we remember what our own families are actually like in practice, and until we remember how we ourselves sometimes behave within them. As we all know, members of families don’t always see eye-to-eye on everything and they can sometimes fall out and start rowing. Don’t get me wrong—families are great. I wouldn’t be without mine. But they aren’t perfect.

A high modernist rood screen. St Mary and St John are squat and disordered, Mary buried deep in a headscarf; both are facing the congregation. Christ, in contrast, is lithe and sinewy, his contorted facial features hidden in shadow.
The rood in the Old Catholic Augustinerkirche in Zürich. This was executed by local sculptor Franz Fischer during the church’s reordering of 1958-9. © Gerry Lynch, 11 July 2019.

This morning’s epistle reading, from Ephesians, is written to a church that is clearly, like many families, struggling with divisions. There are two factions here—one Jewish, and very clear that followers of Jesus Christ should, like good Jews, be circumcised; the other faction come from Gentile backgrounds, and cannot see why circumcision should be required for those of true faith in Christ. In fact, although this has traditionally been thought of as a letter to the Church in the city of Ephesus, no specific city or congregation is named in the text, and it may have been a more general letter to churches at a time when the number of Christians from non-Jewish backgrounds was growing rapidly, and tensions were rising.

From our perspective, circumcision seems like an arcane reason for a church to be divided, but pause and think about it for a moment, and it soon becomes obvious that it is rooted in issues that still cause deep divisions today’s Church – one is identity; the other is whether Christians are called to engage with the world to transform it, or instead to maintain our purity as a people set apart from the world. These are precisely the reasons why we’ve ended up so divided over women’s ordination, or same-sex marriage. Most of us are also terribly sure that only our side of those debates really understands what Jesus Christ taught us.

Read more

Waiting Patiently for Harvest: Sermon Preached on 16th June 2024 (Third Sunday after Trinity)

by
The image depicts a vast, undulating farmland under a clear sky during golden hour. Rows of crops stretch across the landscape, their textures highlighted by warm sunlight. In the distance, gentle hills complete this serene rural scene.

Preached at St Peter’s, Poulshot and St Mary’s, Potterne

Readings – 2 Corinthians 5. 6-10, 14-17; Mark 4. 26-34

“The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head.”

The image depicts a vast, undulating farmland under a clear sky during golden hour. Rows of crops stretch across the landscape, their textures highlighted by warm sunlight. In the distance, gentle hills complete this serene rural scene.
Tan Hill from Allington, 10 June 2024 © Gerry Lynch

On Monday evening shortly after eight, I popped into Devizes to buy a few things at Lidl, and was captivated by the quality of the late evening light; the amount of rain we’ve had this Spring has made the air unusually clear when the Sun does shine, and the greens of the landscape are especially vibrant at the moment. Luckily, I had taken my camera with me and, being at that side of Devizes already, set off along the road that goes through Horton and on into the heart of the Vale of Pewsey. There is a particularly attractive prospect on the north side of the road just before entering the hamlet of Allington from the Devizes side. Wheat fields, clambering up the foot-slopes and catching the late evening sun beautifully at this time of year, are overlooked by the ridge of hills crowned by Tan Hill, the second highest point in Wiltshire; which always looks to me like a sleeping dragon, the green of its scales being caught by the fire of the setting sun.

It is especially interesting to look at the individual stalks of wheat at the moment – the head and the stalk are certainly there, but we are still some weeks away from it being ripe enough to harvest.

We take plant growth for granted – yet it is a miracle. A wheat seed averages only around 6 millimetres in length, or a quarter of an inch, yet it can turn into a plant that is taller than we are. We bury the seed in the ground and God gives the growth. Mustard seeds are even smaller, only one or two millimetres in diameter. Around 1,500 could fit along the edge of the altar, literally millions of them piled on top of it. How does a mustard seed turn into a mighty tree so big that birds can nest in it? It seems impossible to believe that they are the same organism. Yet they are.

Animals, including humans, also grow from tiny simple seeds and tiny simple eggs into complex adult forms. Some creatures even change forms at different points in their lives – caterpillars turn into to butterflies; tadpoles turn into frogs and toads.

It seems strange to assume that growth, and indeed, transformation, can only take place in our physical bodies. Surely it can also take place in our souls.

Read more

Was Jesus Mad?: Sermon Preached on 9th June 2024 (Second Sunday after Trinity)

by
James Ensor’s “Christ’s Entry Into Brussels in 1889” is a vibrant, chaotic scene. A parade floods a wide street, filled with grotesque, masked figures, clowns, and caricatures. Amidst the crowd, a small figure of Christ, almost hidden, rides a donkey. Banners wave above, and the overall effect is flat and poster-like.

Preached at St Peter’s, Poulshot; St Mary’s, Potterne; and Holy Cross, Seend

Readings – 2 Corinthians 4.13 – 5.1; Mark 3. 20-35

“When his family heard it, they went out to restrain him, for people were saying, ‘He has gone out of his mind.’

Maurycy Gottlieb’s painting, “Christ Teaching in Capernaum,” depicts Jesus, identified as a practicing Jew, preaching in a synagogue. He’s surrounded by attentive listeners in Middle Eastern attire, with a Roman figure in a toga appearing bored. The setting features Roman architecture, including fluted columns and a coffered ceiling
Maurycy Gottlieb, Christ Teaching in Capernaum (1878-9). Hangs in the National Museum, Warsaw.

Have you ever heard a passage of Scripture and thought to yourself, ‘Jesus could be a bit bonkers, couldn’t he?’ Have you ever formed that thought but immediately suppressed it as un-Christian and maybe a bit blasphemous? It would be understandable to suppress a thought like that.

But, in this morning’s Gospel reading, we find Jesus’ own family – His brothers, His mother who would remain with Him right to the Cross, thinking either that He was nuts, or at least that a mob might do Him harm because they thought He was nuts.

Indeed, in crazy times, it’s the sane people who can seem to be nuts. Jesus lived in crazy times for the Jewish people of the Holy Land. We, too, live in frankly crazy times, as you’ll have noticed if you’ve watched the news recently.

Sensible people want to do the right thing; sensible people want to be good. Doing good is, of course, a very good thing. We all know, however, that none of us is good all of the time.

People who aren’t Christians think the Church is all about doing good; they think it’s an organisation for good people to celebrate and promote goodness in the name of a good holy man called Jesus Christ who lived a long time ago. It’s therefore easily dismissed as irrelevant to people who want to live in the present, and who know they aren’t always good all the time.

The Church too often colludes with this, by constantly trying to justify its existence with good works, as if it were a charity or an NGO. The Church, however, isn’t about goodness, but something far more wonderful – grace. Goodness is something we try to achieve through our own efforts; grace is a gift from God.

Read more