The
Second Sunday of Epiphany
18th
January 2009 9:00am Sung Eucharist
Preacher:
The Revd Canon Prof. Martyn Percy
1 Samuel
3: 1-10; John 1: 43-end.
As you have probably
realised by now, God has a fairly warped sense of humour. I have only to reflect on the events
surrounding my own call to ordained ministry to know that no matter how serious
we are, God is never very far away from breaking into a wry smile. I first twigged that I might be called
to ministry when I was just sixteen – a rebellious, recalcitrant and slightly
reckless youth. Perhaps not the
quite the teenager from hell, but definitely one that knew how to put his
parents though the proverbial purgatory.
Despairing of their eldest, my parents made me sit a 2 day multiple
choice exam to determine my future career.
The theory was this if I had a goal in life, I might actually take aim
at something. And what did the
random-tick-this-box-formula conclude lay ahead for me? Nothing less than: [1] possibly a career
in teaching (this pleased me – a chance to get my own back on the system); and
[2] being a clergyman (this horrified me: just how un-cool could this possibly
be?).
But the second option
stuck – it stalked me like the hound of heaven. I used to tell people what the results
of the Careers test were, hoping that they break down into uncontrollable
laughter, and persuade me that I was deluded. But people did not. They would say ‘oh yes, I can see that’,
or ‘I wondered when you’d realise’.
There was no escaping that the ‘call’, and I duly went off to read
theology at University, and after a career in publishing, put myself forward
for ordination in 1987.
Selection for
ordination is an odd thing. I was
most uneasy about the process, but also uncomfortable about being corralled
into something so established. To a
point, I still am. I like edges,
not centres. It has taken me almost
twenty years to discover that every edge is a centre – but that’s another
sermon. My selection conference was
at a retreat house in the aptly named
My conference went
OK. I quickly realised that half
the people on the conference were slightly stranger than I was, so guessed the
game was up, and that I would be swapping my lucrative career in publishing and
my beloved MG sports car for the less attractive rewards of a stipend, and the
dubious reliability of Fiat Panda.
And so it came to pass. (I
have a lot of sympathy with Eli here.
God had kept calling me, and eventually you have to respond. The only word you can use with God is
‘yes’).
However, on my last day
at the conference, something mighty strange happened. I was minding my own business in the
medieval parish church next door to the retreat house, when a stranger came in
– clearly a man in some distress.
He asked if I was the Vicar.
I said I wasn’t, but could I help?
Yes, he said, maybe. He told
me his story – a short saga of neglect and sadness. But he said, concluding, ‘that he’d the
chance to become a Christian some years ago. I have always regretted not doing
that; I want to become a Christian – today. I walked to this church because I saw
the spire – it was the nearest one to where I was dropped off after hitching a
lift’. We talked some more. We prayed together. This man asked Jesus into his life; he
wept a little; smiled; and then he left.
In common parlance, the
man I met in Offchurch is a Seeker.
And when I read the story of Philip and Nathaniel. Three brief observations come to mind. First, Jesus often finds us before we
really begin looking for him.
Second, when this happens to you, and he asks you to follow him, bring a
friend. Third, when we find Jesus,
we always encounter the unexpected.
Can anything good come out of
Our gospel story today is, in
other words, one that is far from comfortable for the churches. The call to discipleship can sometimes
be about staying put – offering stability, location, hospitality, openness and
warmth. But sometimes it is about
being proactive – moving fast to have
encounters where people actually are.
In other words, the church must sometimes come to the people – it should
not just wait for them to come to church.
This is why Jesus finds people before they look for him. He is not only the sought, but also the
seeker.
These days, there is a great deal
of talk about how to engage the church with the world and the gospel with
culture. And much of this talk is
driven by a perception, mostly correct, that the post-war years have seen a
markedly different attitude to religion evolving. No church, even ours, is
exempt from such cultural trends.
We live in an era where many cherish spirituality, but are less sure
about organised religion. Where
people assemble their own bespoke collation of beliefs. They may belong to organisations –
including the church – as a matter of choice, but not duty. We live in an age of great spiritual
hunger and enquiry, where we must be both rooted and mobile. So the churches may need to be more
thoughtful and adventurous about how they communicate faith.
I could talk about why now is so
different from the 1950’s.
Communities are more mobile.
Consumerism and entertainment has expanded to fill time that used to be
taken up with civic or voluntary activities. The inexorable rise of the weekend as a
‘social’ space means that choices compete with duties – and choices are
normally the winner. In 1953, the
average number of TVs per household was less than 1 – now it is more than
3. In 1953, British people only
watched TV for about 4 hours per week.
That figure is now a staggering 27 – and we apparently only spend about
4 hours per week talking to our partners – and here only to say, ‘I didn’t think
much of Anne Robinson tonight – put the kettle on love’.
Now this is not a rant about
‘modern times’. Far from it. It is, rather, a call to wake up the
reality of the world in which we live, and ask ourselves about the shape of the
church in relation to its context – one where fewer and fewer are driven by a
sense of duty, and more and more by a sense of choice. A world which increasingly demands a
high level of service and flexibility, but does not necessarily reward that
with commitment or even belonging.
Let
me try and illustrate this with a more personal story. Time-keeping is not my strong
point. So as I drove purposefully
down the road one wet, April evening a few years ago, I was already slightly
late (as usual) to pick up my son from Cubs. But I mused that there was no need to
panic, since the ever-enthusiastic Cub leader normally overran the meetings by
at least 10-15 minutes. Sure
enough, I arrived at the entrance to the church hall to discover a group of
parents waiting somewhat tardily for their offspring to come out. But as I joined the small throng to show
solidarity in patience, I realised I had walked into a reasonably terse and
tense discussion. Each parent was
clutching a letter from Akela, which reminded parents and Cubs that
Sunday was St. George’s Day, and that Cubs were expected (indeed, the letter
stated that it was ‘compulsory’) to attend church parade. Smart kit and clean shoes were also
recommended.
The
parents stood around, discussing the word ‘compulsory’. One looked bewildered, and cast around
for empathy as he explained that his son played soccer on Sunday, so attendance
was doubtful. Another mused that
the family were all due to be away for the weekend, and that changing plans for
a church parade was neither possible nor desirable. As the gospel parable has it, each had a
good reason for declining the invitation – except that was an expectation, not
an invitation. And the parents were
clearly perplexed by the appeal to duty.
It did not seem to compute: what could ‘compulsory’ mean?
Another
parent put her finger of the pulse of our zeitgeist
rather more precisely. She looked
less than pleased that a ‘voluntary’ organisation such as the Cubs, which she
added her son went to by choice, should now be using words like
‘compulsory’. There was no question
of obligation; attendance and belonging was a matter of preference. (On this, see the Report in the South
At the beginning of the
21st century, a vignette such as this would not be untypical in
First, it is no good
cursing the darkness – so strike a match instead. If that is right, then the question for
the churches is, therefore, how to operate in a climate where people accept the
message but don’t necessarily respond with commitment? Of course, insisting on commitment is one way forward, but it is unlikely to
be enough. Increasingly, churches
will have to accommodate a society that expects and demands a reflexivity in
its patterns of belonging. Moreover,
it is likely that churches will have to provide several different kinds of
associational opportunities for a society that marked by diversity and
mobility. This will demand more
creativity, tenacity and flexibility in local mission, and less stress on the
apparent ‘given-ness’ of a community
Second,
whilst a number of churches have enjoyed considerable success with new forms of
worship, there may also be room for initiatives that target particular
ages. Nothing new here: pram
services, Sunday Schools and the like have been around for more than a
century. But churches may need to
put more energy into considering how they appeal to individuals in their teens,
20s and 30s who may not have families; pensioners and those who have retired
from work; and other niche groups.
This brings, me,
thirdly, to the gospel. Jesus, no
slouch in the gardening department, reminds us that it is the vines that bear
fruit are the ones that are pruned – so they may bear more fruit. The ones that don’t bear fruit are the
ones that are thrown away and burned.
It is both a comforting and disturbing thought. Renewal is sometimes replenishing what
is there; but sometimes it is cutting back, and only then replacing what we
had. So here, I want to put it to you that our church really does bear
fruit. It is a church that does
draw in new people. It does see
growth. Indeed, it could be
regarded by many as thriving. The
wisdom of the world at this point would say: consolidate, play to your
strengths; build on good foundations.
That is quite right too. But
the gospel also says: prune. It
never says: let it be. It is by
continually husbanding the vine that growth and fruitfulness continues. And this of course means change and
development, as much as it affirms stability. The fruitful vine is rooted in
Christ. But its fruits are for the
world, and to grow, it also needs pruning.
There is a lovely old
joke about the Church of England.
How many Anglicans does it take to change a light bulb? The answer is four. One to put in the new one, and three to
admire the old one. True, we have a
past to admire. But the future only
lies in adapting the mission and witness of the church to engage with those who
do not yet know Jesus. And that
mission is increasingly in seeking and finding, not in waiting and hoping. We need to become a church that actively
seeks out those who seek; learns to travel with those who travel; to converse
with those who quest. This
encompasses people of all ages – teenagers, ‘tweenagers’, older people, new
families, young adults, migrant workers.
Sometimes we can do this simply by being here, and being who we are: an
open, welcoming, caring, spiritual, stimulating and challenging church.
But increasingly, I
think, that will not be enough.
Just as we are rooted, we also need to learn the lesson of Phillip and
Nathaniel – to let ourselves be found by Jesus. To respond as Eli did: ‘here I am: for
you have called me’. And then to
move with the Spirit, and travel and meet those who have questions and a
hunger, but have yet to discover where we are.
Revd.
Canon Prof. Martyn Percy
Principal,