April 2, 2006

Jane Knowles

Lent 5
     Hebrews 5:5-10     
John 12:20-33

“And I when I am lifted up from the earth will draw all people to myself”

Since being here, I have had plenty of time to think and to wonder and to experience this lovely building. To me the fact that it has just celebrated its centenary means very little; its age or lack of it is immaterial. English churches, by and large are very old, so antiquity doesn't impress me. What I have been wondering most about is the fabulous diversity of the events that have taken place here. Last Sunday was a classic from my point of view. We started the day with a straightforward BCP service routed in the early formation of Anglicanism and which is much beloved by very many people. We then went into a service more modern in style, with a lot of lay participation and wonderful music and which was as inclusive and joyful as we could make it albeit in Lent. After that there was one of the most special services in the whole Christian experience, a baptism. A holy service where we ask the Spirit of God to be specially present and a service where we celebrate those precious gifts, love and life.

After lunch I came to the chamber concert, I and several hundred other people; the place was packed and if ever the Holy Spirit reaches us through music surely he does through Mozart. It was a wonderful concert. Back I came at 6pm, a sucker for punishment you might say, this time drawn by more music. I had heard of the wonders of Musica Sacra. I was not disappointed; here again a service of great antiquity; Cranmer through and through with music that preceded even that, and which soared through the vaulted ceilings of this place and I was able to forget the technique, and the choreography and was transported to another plane.

Back I came again at 8pm for the Community Church service. I didn't know what to expect, but the building was still the host in a way and instead of the smart suited Sunday dressed congregation of Evensong, in came a relaxed, diverse group of people, and food was being set out and everyone was very friendly and talkative. There could not have been a greater contrast between these services, and still the building looked on benignly, and in this last service of the day the love of God was palpable and the Christian message shone through and I felt that people understood.

Since then this week there has been a huge funeral, a city function, balloons, streeties, people in trouble, visitors, people wanting to pray, and the building encompasses it all. Yes I have had a lot to reflect upon, because all this has happened not because of the vicar, (I personally have done very little) but almost in spite of. You have here in your midst, holy space which is big enough to encompass the enormous diversity that is contained within a city and you are doing your best to keep some sort of balance in order that this diversity can continue; why? Why bother? Why not just keep it for practising Christians?

Well we have heard today one of the most special of all gospel messages and in this period of Lent, Passiontide, as we approach holy week and Easter, in a way the world holds its breath. Look again at that Gospel reading; its as if Jesus himself is frightened of all that lies ahead; frightened in his humanity and maybe his divinity, he knows that something is about to happen, the dark night of the soul. How many of us find the horror of waiting so much more terrifying than the action itself. Jesus knows his hour has come, but not quite.

So who were those Greeks that begin today's Gospel reading, who have suddenly turned up out of the blue, and why do they seem to have such significance in this part of the Gospel? Nothing in St John's Gospel is ever incidental. Look again; it feels in a way as if their coming signifies the start of a race, almost like the starting gun of a race in the Commonwealth games; once the gun is fired you are off, but until then all you can do is pace around the starting block like a hungry leopard. They have come the Greeks, like a signal; the time has come when the rest of the world, the Gentiles, want to know more about Jesus. He can no longer be contained. The news is out, the race is on; death, resurrection and ascension, and in his death he is dropping his seed into the ground; his body, and for the moment it can only lie there dead; an act of faith; winter. Will it grow? Will it develop? What will happen next? There is great suspense.

I have been thinking that something like that has happened here. A seed has been dropped into this place. St Matthews is like the ground, the womb; it is the sacred space within which that seed can grow. If it closes its doors and drives away the gentiles, or the strangers, or those who don't fit, it will become as barren as a husk or a shell, but if it allows the seed to grow, then who knows what lies around the corner. It is a risk. We don't know.

At this time in Lent I always feel a bit fearful. Scripture has told us of the events leading up to Holy week, and if we enter fully into them, we too will feel confused and unsure, like the disciples, but we are lucky because scripture has also revealed to us what happened next. Jesus died in order that we might live; the great paradox, and sometimes such a religious cliché. But think again, that's exactly what happened. Jesus came to this planet to show us the way; before that we had got it all wrong. In his death he showed us that love conquers everything; even death and that is such a wonderfully magnetic thing. Jesus in his own words promised us that he would draw all people to himself. That is what we hope for; that is what we are looking for; whether Jews or Gentiles slaves or free men home owners or streeties, men or women, Jesus draws us all out of the abyss through love and that is John's message then and now, and that is why this building is so special. All human life is here; let us pray that we will allow the walls to be thick enough to look after the weak, strong enough to protect the vulnerable and yet porous enough to allow the love of God to draw all people to himself.