Sermons

First Sunday after Trinity
Sunday 18th June at 10am

Simon Cowling
Readings: Ezekiel 17. 22-24; Mark 4. 26-34

One of the most heart-warming greetings I received on my return to St. Ed's two weeks ago, after three months of study leave, was from the person who said simply, 'Welcome home'. There was nothing particularly sentimental about the way the greeting was given, but I felt deeply affirmed by the assurance that I had, indeed, returned to the place where I have belonged since 1996.

The memory of that greeting came to me as I began reflecting on this morning's readings. My period away was voluntary, relatively short (though the Churchwardens and Curate might not agree!) - and, of course, I knew when it would end. All very different from the experience of God's people in the kingdom of Judah, and particularly its capital Jerusalem, at the start of the sixth century before Christ. In 597BC King Nebuchadnezzar mobilized his Babylonian army for a full-scale assault on Judah and very soon the Temple in Jerusalem had been looted and destroyed. Most of Judah's leading citizens, including the king, Jehoiachin, were carried off into exile. Another of these leading citizens was Ezekiel, from a priestly family in Jerusalem, whose call from God by the river Chebar, after five years in exile, is vividly described in the first chapter of the book that carries his name. Ezekiel's task is specifically to recall God's people to the path of holiness they have left:

'Mortal man, I am sending you to the people of Israel. They have rebelled and turned against me and are still rebels, just as their ancestors were. They are stubborn and do not respect me, so I am sending you to tell them what I, the sovereign Lord, am saying to them.' (Ezekiel 2. 2-4)

Ezekiel's task - and what a task! - is to spell out quite clearly for the people of Israel that the physical exile from their beloved homeland - forced on them by the Babylonians - is inextricably bound up with their self-imposed spiritual exile, their spiritual estrangement from God. We'll come back to that idea later on.

One of the features of Ezekiel's prophecy is his use of parables, such as the reading we heard just now. Despite what we might think, given the rather grim language of Ezekiel's prophetic call, his book is not without hope. In the parable from chapter 17 we have a wonderful vision of a future in which the people of Israel are physically restored to their land because they are spiritually restored to a right relationship with God: so, from a tall cedar, representing the people of God in exile, God will break off a tender sprig and plant it on Israel's highest mountain. The tender sprig, we are to understand, represents a group, chosen by God, who will be restored by God to their homeland, represented by the tall mountain. The sprig will grow into another tall cedar, a magnificent tree, in which will live and shelter birds of every kind. These birds represent the nations of the world and Israel, the great cedar, is to be the means by which God will fulfil his promises as he extends his covenant to the nations. Here, indeed, is hope.

But six hundred years later that hope had not been entirely fulfilled. Yes, the people of Israel had been restored to their land by Cyrus, King of Persia. But their experience after the return from exile had been mostly unhappy. More foreign invasions, another desecration of the Temple and now, in the time of Jesus, occupation by a European, rather than a near-eastern superpower: Rome. Ezekiel's tall cedar stood stunted, unable properly to protect itself, far less any birds who might seek protection and shelter. Despite, or perhaps because of this, the early years of the first century were a time of great expectation in Israel, of messianic fervour, of yearning for freedom and for the final fulfilment of God's promises. And despite all appearances, God had not forgotten those promises. At this particular time and in this particular place he spoke to his people once again. In the ringing words of the writer of the letter to the Hebrews, '..in these last days (God) has spoken to us through his Son.' This Son, to continue the quotation, is 'the one through whom God created the universe, the one whom God has chosen to possess all things at the end'. Jesus now summons God's people, his people, to repentance, to a final restoration of their relationship with him.

Like the prophets, such as Ezekiel, through whom God spoke in former times, Jesus too teaches in parables. The second of the parables we heard in today's Gospel offers obvious parallels with that of Ezekiel. The mustard seed is like the tender twig that comes from the top of the cedar tree: insignificant, vulnerable. But, like the twig, it grows and becomes a source of shelter for birds who build their nests in it. Jesus, like Ezekiel, offers hope to the people of God. However, the perspective is altered, the dream redefined. Confounding the expectations, the hopes, of most of his contemporaries, Jesus does not offer himself as a great military leader who will expel the Romans and inaugurate a newly minted kingdom of Israel on earth. He offers himself, instead, as the one who will call God's people out of their spiritual exile to be what God intends them to be and in full relationship with him. When, like the mustard seed, God's people have reached their full maturity, other birds, other nations, will share in God's blessing, the distinction between earth and heaven will collapse and God's kingdom will be all in all. And it is in the ministry of Jesus that we find the small mustard seed, what Bishop Tom Wright calls the 'strange beginning of the expected coming kingdom'.

As God's people here, in Leeds, in Roundhay, at St. Edmund's, we continue to live out the tension between the 'now' of the kingdom that Jesus inaugurated and the 'not yet' of the seed's full maturity. We live out that tension because God's world lives still in spiritual exile; and that spiritual exile continues, at least in part, because, in the words of the confession we use during Advent, 'in our sin we have avoided (God's) call'. If the Church is truly the body of Christ on earth, then it is the ministry of the Church that constitutes the growing mustard seed. The trouble is, the tree is a long time coming.

The Allerton Deanery Eucharist took place last Thursday on the Feast of Corpus Christi, the day on which the Church reflects especially on the gift of the Eucharist. Our preacher was John Holmes, Canon Missioner in the Diocese of Wakefield. I make no apology for closing my sermon by using an image he offered us in his sermon. He reminded those of us who use fast-food outlets that we are often asked whether we want eat-in or take-out. He then applied that image to the Eucharist, but with a twist. At a Eucharist we are able both to eat-in and to take-out. We receive Christ's body sacramentally in the bread and the wine: we eat in; and then, as Christ's body, we take Christ out into the world to make him known. Let it be our prayer this morning, that in the week ahead we seek to make Christ known to just one person, through word or action, so that the mustard seed may grow, the tree may flourish and God's Kingdom may indeed be all in all.

Blessed be our God, always, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.

© St Edmund's Church, Roundhay