St Philip's, Cosham - Sunday after Ascension
Readings: Ac 16:16-34/John 17:20-26
St Philip’s is the first church I entered in the Portsmouth Diocese. That was, as many of you know, quite some time ago, in April 1973, when I was in my final term as a student at Theological College, in Salisbury. I’ve had lots of opportunities to reminisce in recent months, from the time I’ve spent in the QA Hospital. But one occasion stands out. It was during my time here all those years ago that I went with another student and one of our tutors to spend some time with some trainee nurses. We sat on a table facing them and tried to answer their questions – very badly and with some ill thought-out answers, as it happens. But what I remember most seems almost unbelievable now. Before we got going, the two of us took out our pipes and lit up! And one of the nurses said, ‘why is it that you vicars all smoke pipes?’ I still shudder at that scene, not just because I long ago gave up smoking like that, or that my small annual cigar at Christmas must now be a thing of the past because of my recent illness. I simply can’t believe that it actually happened. But it did, and it was clearly accepted. You don’t have to be politically correct to find it at least a bit strange.
Now, I have not come to St Philip’s this morning to extol the benefits of smoking, or even of not smoking. I have come to warn against the dangers of reminiscing. It’s not April 1973 with me as a student and Peter Thomas as the Vicar. It’s 2007, with me as your bishop, and Linda as your priest, with both you and Wymering embarking on a journey back together again, as equal partners in the work of the gospel in this part of Portsmouth. The world has moved on a great deal since then. Much of it has improved, like facilities for the aged and disabled, the minimum wage, and much else, including, in the Church, such blessings as the ordination of women; it was in St Philip’s that I received communion at the altar rail for the first time from a woman, a parish worker, if I remember aright. There are, too, changes that make being a Christian community more difficult, like split families, week-end employment and organised leisure. To keep harping back to the past is not a helpful dynamic – and in any case, had I been diagnosed with leukaemia in 1973, I would have been dead within months.
In preaching these thoughts to myself, I am drawing you into a conversation that is not about me but about us all. Here we are, on the Sunday after Ascension, with two powerful but different readings to focus on how we continue to be faithful disciples. First we have Paul and Silas put into prison for being open and public about the Gospel, and refusing to escape when an earthquake provides them with the opportunity. That rings bells for me: I didn’t escape my illness, but faced it out, returning to my hospital bed, even when I was on day-release, knowing that this was where God had put me, and there was no getting round it. Moreover, so struck is their jailor, that Paul has to stop him falling on his sword for fear of being accused of professional incompetence (his superiors would be bound to blame him for the doors being open – things don’t change much!). Instead, he has the lamps lit (a liturgical symbolism?), he and his family are baptized, and they all sit down to a meal, a eucharistic banquet of thanksgiving. Here is danger, risk, moving beyond conventional boundaries, a refusal to stay in a religious comfort-zone.
Then in the gospel, we are in the heart of that great prayer of Jesus in John’s Gospel before his arrest. Jesus and the Father are one, from the beginning of time, and Jesus’ role is to make his Father known. It’s rather different language from the matter-of-fact narrative in the Acts of the Apostles about Paul and his colleague Silas. But we can’t live the life of faith with direct narrative all the time. There are occasions when we have to stand back and take stock. For Jesus and the Father to be one is for them to want and will and wish the same things – that is the extent of their unity. Like a good marriage, or a constructive meeting, when we can agree on what we are supposed to do, the chances of bearing fruit are more likely.
And yet we know that ‘life just isn’t like that’. Marriages go through their difficulties, sometimes to the extent of being unresolvable. Organisations, political, social, religious, have their differences. I have a habit of taking all this in my stride, and the more so after what has been happening to me in recent months, because human beings don’t always agree, or come to agreement quickly. But instead of dismissing Jesus’ words to his Father as in some sense irrelevant, we should ponder them carefully. For there is an intensity to them that almost recognises the reality that Jesus’ disciples are going to have a challenging time working out how to be effective followers of the Gospel. If you like to put it this way, Jesus would not have prayed those words if he hadn’t known that we, his followers, would have to face ourselves and each other in times of stress and discord – and work away at it, without giving up.
I did not choose this morning’s readings – and I’m glad I didn’t. Frankly, they gave me a bit of a surprise when I read them. What have they to do with Ascensiontide, and, more immediately, the next phase in the ministry of Linda in these parishes? She is hardly in prison, refusing to get out! But she sings God’s praises, regardless of the circumstances in which she is placed. Wherever you are, there is an opportunity to be a better disciple. And when it comes to Jesus’ prayer to the Father, well, here we have it in a nutshell: unity is not some sublime, unattainable constant harmony that we’re never likely to reach in this world. It is, rather, the capacity to work together, cherishing our diversity, focusing on what really matters, recognising our need for each other, and without imposing a stifling uniformity that prevents the prophetic spirit speaking from its always surprising quarters.
Let me end with a more direct reminiscence. On this day in the year 804, a man called Alcuin died. He was born in Northumbria, went to school in York, helped Emperor Charlemagne run his empire in Aachen, Germany, and ended his days as abbot of St Martin’s, Tours, in France. He wrote many prayers. Perhaps the best loved is how many Anglicans begin the eucharist, which asks for the cleansing power of the Holy Spirit:
Almighty God,
to whom all hearts are open,
all desires known,
and from no secrets are hidden;
cleanse the thoughts of our hearts,
by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit,
that we may perfectly love you
and worthily magnify your holy Name;
through Christ our Lord. Amen.
+ Kenneth Portsmouth
