Wellington boots and suncream

I promised when I did a post on the golf, this is what I'd call it, as, on the Monday, though the sun was out, it was still boggy underfoot. Hence the need for both boots and suncream. It's been a while, so I no longer have a great deal to say about the golf, save:

• I was there
• It was ace
• We won, and it was great to watch a crowd cheer for Europe. 

What I thought I would comment on briefly is the import of it all. At one point, when it was looking at bit bleak, Andrew said to me 'of course it's not important.' Now I've always thought this too, until recently. Obviously in the grand scheme of things it isn't, but then nor is much: only footballers think sport is 'more important than life or death.' However, in public service broadcasting orthodoxy, Sport is important as it brings people (usually the country) together, so I said that. And as the day unravelled, I think it proved to be true. The people on the bus back from the course with us won't be able to attack the Germans quite as vociferously as they might have because they were discussing the merits of Martin Kaymer (though given his Monday performance, they might). 


Now, the Ryder cup is an odd infrequent event, but most sport is simple, regular and about country (or smaller units), and it generates a common passion which is hugely positive. Patriotism, or love of country, is unfashionable now, but its actually key to all our civilised impulses. Logically, there is no distinction between me funding the poor in London or Lesotho. They both need money. Yet, obviously we tend to want to support those in country. Social fragmentation is dangerous because it means people don't want to support those less fortunate because they don't feel part of the same unit. Sport helps avoid that (it can do it internationally too, like in Anna's friend's excellent cricket charity), and that is critical. 


So, sport is important, and a force for good. Apart from Association Football obviously. That is anathema.

My first sermon

I gave my first sermon on Sunday. It seemed to go well. Here is the text, give or take. It was stewardship Sunday, hence the reference to giving:

I’ve been waiting a long time to give this sermon: I’ve been coming to St Michael's for eight years; I’ve been treasurer for five years, and I’ve had a theology degree for four. Depending on how you count it, I’ve seen off at least one priest (though it’s a pleasure to have Fr Nicholas here again), and yet there’s been a strange reluctance to let me speak to a captive audience.


And when Philip asked me to do this, I discovered why. He thinks I’ll be incredibly boring. Obviously, he didn’t put it quite like that: instead he used words like ‘short’, ‘concise’, ‘relevant’, which I think translates as don’t talk too much about the fifth century. Nor do I think that I’ve been given the most interesting of topics: broadly, today’s readings are about leprosy. Philip has also spent the last few days dropping hints about what to say. Those of you who are friends with Philip on Facebook will discover that Philip thinks having leprosy is a bit like taking a bike on a train.

No it isn’t.

Leprosy is key to our gospel today so it’s worth us getting it right. I had to look some of the symptoms online – apparently parts of your body don’t drop off, which I thought they did, but it’s generally a fairly unpleasant disease where your flesh becomes diseased; it was thought to be highly infectious (though it isn’t) and thus, in the time of Jesus, those suffering from it were confined outside the town as they were when Jesus meets them. It’s also fatal; and in the first century uncurable, though it is curable now, if only recently. To search for a modern equivalent, we’re better off looking at AIDS than at ‘getting your bike on a train.’

Which is why healing lepers is a big deal. In our first reading, the whole chapter is about by the leprosy of Naaman the Syrian and his search for healing. Naaman is a an important man, captain of the armies of Syria, the great Empire of the time, yet he is forced to go to small kingdom on the edges of his world, to a prophet he has never heard of and be healed by being dipped in the Jordan, not his river. And as a result, he is converted to the worship of God: he gives thanks, makes sacrifice, and does not worship other Gods. It’s a turning point in his life, literally I suppose because otherwise he was going to die, but also spiritually.

The story of the lepers in the gospel is different. It’s still a big deal. For all ten lepers, being healed by Jesus will have been a literal changing round of their lives, they are no longer doomed to death. But it is done in very matter of fact way. There is no crowd, no ritual, no being dipped in the Jordan. Jesus simply says, ‘Go’ and they are healed. The miracle of healing is present, but it is not central.

Instead, what is central is what happens next - or rather doesn’t. Instead of the life-changing conversion of Naaman, nine of them vanish. We neither hear nor see them again. We can speculate on what they are doing, but they’re off. Charitably they may have had a busy appointment to get to, or family to attend to, but more likely they’re just ungrateful. One isn’t though - he comes back. And Jesus blesses him and sends him on his way. His faith has made him whole.

What happens to the nine? It’s not clear. Our other reading today may suggest it may not work out well for them: In verse 12, the epistle writer argues, ‘if we suffer, we shall also reign with him: if we deny him, he also will deny us.’ Not coming back to give thanks feels like denial to me. This doesn’t bode well.

But I don’t think that is what happens. The bible is not shy of cautionary tales. In the later verses in Kings leprosy is visited on an Israelite who follows Naaman, hoping to get the money that Elisha refused. If the lepers had been punished for not returning to give thanks, we would have been told. Nor is the miracle of Jesus made conditional upon returning, he simply sends the lepers on their way, immediately healing them.

In theological jargon, we would talk here about the unlimited grace of God, his unlimited love for us. Hans Urs von Balthasar, my favourite modern theologian speaks of God as an eternal ‘yes’, and what he means by that is that the path to salvation is always open, even in death. For the lepers, and for us, the act itself has already happened, the healing of humanity has already taken place. God’s love has acted on us and continues to do so. Now, we should respond. And this is what we do at church every week. But Church doesn’t get you to heaven, it is our way of saying thanks for no longer being doomed to death.

We do not come back because of some kind of transaction or obligation, but rather because we are freely responding to God’s love. And this can be seen in the epistle, where the author endures all things for the sake of Jesus.

But make no mistake, there is a reproach for not coming back. Jesus asks ‘Were there not ten cleansed? but where [are] the nine?’ But it does not mean that love is withheld.

There are no lepers in Britain, though this is not true in other countries. But there is much we are given by God, not least that there are no lepers in Britain. Like the last leper, we should give thanks joyfully, because we want to give thanks to God, not because we are obliged to. If I am allowed a brief excursus on the fifth century, in the early church people did this in very odd ways. My favourite are the stylites, who stood on top of pillars all the time, through winter and through the Syrian sun, sometimes for over 30 years. Dedicating themselves to God.

I am not asking you to do that, but I am going to ask you to look at the money you give. Giving has a fine and noble tradition in the church, stretching back to the tithe (a tenth of what you earned owed to the church), and the first fruits, where the best of everything goes to the church. We do not ask that now, and we should not give because of an formal obligation like that or some kind of tick-box exercise for salvation, or from fear that God will abandon us. Instead we should give – time, resources, money - because God has given to us. Not in obligation, but in thanks.

All are healed, but not all gave thanks. We should be striving to be the leper that returned, not one of those who stayed away.

Bibliography, September 2010

Read (9)
BOTM: G. Elliot, Scenes from clerical life


A. Christie, Sleeping Murder
M. Druon, La Loi des mâles
E. M. Forster, Maurice
M. Haag, Alexandria
R.P. Jhabvala, How I became a holy Mother
P. Kennedy, The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers
S. Lowe and A. McArthur Is it just me or has the Shit hit the fan

T. Sizgorich, Violence and belief in Late Antiquity

Books remaining - 33

I'm theming these you'll notice. This takes care of most of the remaining 'Empire' lit, with a couple of books on the subject thrown later as I ran out of time. I'm doing all the remaining middle Byzantine books next month, and then the Medieval west in November. December will sweep up whatever's left.

Anyway, I'd expected to have to wait, much like the Lord of the Rings films and the Oscars, for the last of the series of give book of the month to Druon, but this was almost there. Unfortunately it was let down by a stupid baby swapping plot about John I of France, so it pulls up short. Instead, Elliot, once again, does well. I love Eliot, even the (by her standards) poor books like Felix Holt are good. Her debut work here was not a great, but was acutely observed, smartly written. Some veering towards melodrama, but pretty much caught, and a pleasure to read.

Nearly there now, though I'm falling behind on the overall list. I need a good October to finish by Christmas. Wish me luck.