An Anglican Catholic view of Solus Christus

 

Why Solus Christus is more about the Atonement than anything else.

Fight the good fight... but with whom?

Sermon for the feast of Christ the King

"Soldiers of Christ arise,

and put your armour on .."

Thus begins the old hymn.

What pictures

are conjured up 

in your mind

when you think 

of being a soldier for Christ?

[PAUSE]

Perhaps,

you think of chain mail,

swords and shields and chivalry

all for a king

sat in bejewelled crown

golden armour and purple robe,

astride a beautiful white charger.

Rather a medieval view,

isn't it?

Perhaps you would prefer

something more up-to-date?

A soldier in camouflage,

bearing a rifle

and helmet

driving in a jeep

all for a king in a smart suit

and surrounded by

an entourage

of bodyguards.

Neither seem

to be the right model

for King Jesus 

and His soldiers.

It is possible for 

Our Lord to dress as

a medieval monarch,

a besuited king,

a tribal chieftain,

an enrobed emperor

but none seem to fit

the image of 

a man from Galilee

riding into Jerusalem

on a donkey.

We do get a glimpse

of Christ the conqueror

sitting on a white horse,

dazzling all with the brightness

of His being

with a two-edged sword 

proceeding out of His mouth

according to what St John sees.

Christ is the King

unlike any other.

[PAUSE]

This means that 

we have to be His soldiers

unlike any other.

It means that 

we have to fight

in a war unlike any other.

Let's not pretend

that we are supposed 

to sit down and let 

St Michael and His angels

fight for us.

We have to fight.

It seems odd

because

Christ has already won

the victory.

Why do we have to fight?

[PAUSE]

Our battle 

is with darkness,

seductive spirits

and doctrines of devils.

In a last gasp of rebellion,

the Devil and his apostate angels

want to convince us 

of anything but the truth.

Our fight 

is to be ourselves

as the image of God

and it is something that 

we have to do

because God wants us

to have a say in who we are.

This is our battle

and our victory

is Christ's victory

freely chosen

and freely given.

In struggling for Christ

the more we demonstrate

our love for Him,

the more we appreciate

His love for us,

the more we worship Him,

by showing that He is worth our struggle

even as He showed us 

that we are worth His.

[PAUSE]

"The King of Love my shepherd is

Whose goodness faileth never.

I nothing lack of I am His,

and He is mine forever."

There is no depth 

to a love without

a fight against hatred.

This is the king that we fight for,

however He may be dressed.

In flagrante morte

A Ghost Story with deep apologies to Dr James

The Reverend Dr Osmund Trimble removed his scarlet and black gown, assiduously inserted the coat hanger and hooked his academic regalia onto the door, taking care not to scratch the wooden panelling. His tippet and square followed immediately, hanging on the door looking altogether like the figure of a downcast don. Trimble then turned his attention to the papers on his desk, gathering them carefully so that his treatise Against Vain Repetitions should be preserved carefully during his absence from the college. Shortly, his scout appeared to inform him that his cab was ready, goodbyes were exchanged, and the Don found himself on his way to his brother’s parish in Caxton-Burleigh.

“Why, Brother, college life has rendered you as pale as a paschal candle! What would Mother say?” opined the Reverend Mr Eadwig Trimble. It was true, Dr Trimble’s complexion had been rendered pasty, one would surmise, by the long evening hours poring over Aquinas, Ockham and Taylor whilst Mr Trimble was as fat and ruddy as an embarrassed hog and of a more gregarious character than his academic older brother. The family resemblance was unmistakable but the difference in living was very easily discerned upon both the faces and characters of the two clergymen. The one, prim, stiff and proper slightly hunched from studious scrutiny, the other scuffed, rumpled and rotund from exercising his cure of country souls in the hospitality of their country kitchens.

“Mother would have tutted loudly and forced another rasher of bacon onto my plate,” mused the Don, “and it would not have made the slightest difference to my complexion, but rather to the distress of my digestion.” The brothers gazed out at the rain-soaked park in front of the Rectory shrouded in the mist oozing lazily over the ground from the not-too-distant marshland. Moorland and marshes formed the parish boundary and made for a muddy experience for the churchgoers at Rogationtide as the Rector had quicky discovered. The Don breathed deeply, “You are, at least, blessed with cleaner air here. The college always smells of candles, cigars and Town. Though, do I detect some trace of sulphur?” “Ah! Marsh gas!” the Rector took a little pleasure in claiming rare knowledge not hitherto possessed by his brother upon his first visit to the Rectory, “you’ll get used to that. Look out of the window on some nights and you’ll see the ignis fatuus playing about on the marsh. ‘Pixy lights’ the locals call it and try to scare the youngsters away from it with tales of being carried away by the little folk.”

“Really? I believe the Scots call it ‘Will o’ the Wisp: ‘will,’ in this case meaning wily or deceitful. Of course, many simple folk are deceived as it’s merely a luminescence arising from the prevalence of the sulphide of hydrogen and methyl hydride.” The Don, as usual, did not notice the Rector’s eyes roll nor a sharp sniff escape his nostrils as he restrained once more thoughts he had been able to set aside during their years of distance. It was never clear to the Rector whether the Don did this deliberately to show his intellectual superior or whether he simply could not contain his thoughts from his time spent imparting knowledge onto both the willing and unwilling student. Either way, memories best left forgotten were crowding his head and he paused momentarily to recollect himself.

“Ah! You try telling that to my flock!” the Rector half-laughed, “they are still very much into their old ways: not so much in their practice now, but in their memories of those who did focus on the old laws of nature. For them, the reality of the dark spirits of wood, fen, marsh and glen is merely a synecdoche for the dark forces that surround Man and cause him to fall again and again.” “Oh?” the Don raised a quizzical eyebrow, “do you really indulge such fancy among your parishioners? You always were prone to fancies, even at Mother’s knee.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to be accommodating for the sake of pastoral care,” rejoined the Rector sharply, trying in vain to puncture an ego that had participated only in the nominal care of a collegiate church together with other Fellows of the college. “There’s a lot of common ground that one can make with the laity, in my opinion. I have often been able to engage people who are afraid of the spectral that they might find much protection in the Church. For example, not too far from here, they say the road is haunted. Coaches and carts have been forced off the road by a pair of enormous hairy hands that appear from nowhere and grab those of the driver and force them from the road. People are scared, but I remind them that just as our bodies can be controlled by diabolical forces, so we are still free to call out for aid to Our Blessed Lord and His Saints for protection.”

“Likewise, there is another story of the Great Black Dog – a harbinger of doom which bears but one cyclopean eye of burning yellow and prowls silently to devour the unsuspecting travellers who stray onto the moors by night. I remind them of the Compline reading to be sober and vigilant because their enemy, the Devil, walketh about seeking whom he may devour. They take great comfort when some grain of God’s truth may be found in their beliefs.”

“Well really!” scoffed the Don who could barely conceal his mirth beneath his hand rubbing his chin. “I really can't believe that you would encourage such ridiculous fancies. You are using their fear to draw them into the church, rather than dispelling it. These folk need to be told that they can be liberated from fear when they see things as they really are. Those hairy hands you mentioned probably nothing more than an hallucination arising from the panic that a somnolent driver feels when navigating a particularly uneven and treacherous stretch of road across the bleak and barren terrain. The black dog is nothing more than an appeal to Norse mythology conjured up by a memory of some deformed hound who once lived on the moors within living memory and glimpsed at twilight. Those ‘Pixy lights’ are also a case in point: there is a perfectly rational explanation for them without invoking little people of dubious existence.”

The Rector became somewhat ruddier as his face flushed with less-disguised anger. His manner became more constrained visibly as he wrestled once more with the resentment held lifelong at his brother's high-handedness. Memories of their mother laughing with his brother at the latter's ridiculing of his own childhood stories seethed up in his mind like the marsh gas in the darkness at his parish boundary. He knew, however, that it was best to let the Don have his way: he would be gone soon. As the light dimmed, the two clergymen returned to the Rectory to satisfy their appetites with a not insubstantial dinner prepared by Mrs Hobany, the Rector's housekeeper.

The brothers retired to sherry before the fire after dinner. “Will that be all, Mr Trimble?” asked Mrs Hobany keeping one hopeful eye on her coat hanging up by the front door. “Mrs Hobany, thank you. Dinner was excellent, as usual,” beamed the Rector. The Don’s face was less than complimentary but he held his tongue even though his disapproval was more than apparent to the Rector and, thankfully, less so to the housekeeper: the donnish plate had been rearranged rather than emptied. “But before you go, Mrs Hobany, I’m afraid we’re getting rather low on candles. I don’t know whether you know of any to hand.”

Mrs Hobany smiled craftily, “’to hand,’ you say, Mr Trimble? I hope you don’t think I am accustomed to walking around by the gibbet! I will have a look, sir, but I am afraid we might be getting somewhat low. Last month’s Benediction and Exposition certainly laid our candle stores rather low. In fact, you might actually do better by visiting the gibbet!” Here she laughed heartily, and the Rector laughed also but with markedly less enthusiasm, casting an eye at his brother. The Don’s eyebrows raised again. Mrs Hobany cloaked and departed into the night allowing a brief gust of winter wind to dance around the room before the door was shut for the duration.

“To hand? Gibbet?” the academic sneer was quite unmistakable, “what is this? Another superstition?”

The Rector sighed, knowing that he must give his brother an account and regretting every moment his attempt at familial reconciliation. “It is said that, in their housebreaking, smugglers, robbers and other ne’er-do-wells would remove the left hand of a hanged felon from the gibbet and fashion from it a candle known as the Hand of Glory. Once lit, it would render the occupants of the house catatonic while their house was plundered. It is said that the spell was only broken by extinguishing the flame with milk. This area was known for it – you will have noticed Gibbet Hill on your way here.”

The Don laughed; it was a mirthless laugh full to the brim with contempt but, finally perceiving the flush of impending ire upon his brother’s face, he rose from his chair to bid him goodnight. “I shall be awake for a while in order to complete my sermon for the Lord’s Supper tomorrow. Good night.”

“It’s called the Mass!” hissed the Rector to the newly-closed door.

------------

“Good grief, what’s that you’re wearing?” asked the Don as he placed his large scarlet and black hood over his surplice. “My chasuble!” The Rector was peeved by the constant sniping at his High Church practices. He has invited his brother to stay and to preach at Mass as a sign of good faith, a gesture of reconciliation, an attempt to forgive and let bygones be bygones. “Good Lord, is that the ‘vestment’ you think King Edward meant when…Ouch!”

The Don’s foot had connected with a heavy wooden box that protruded from behind the wardrobe. It was quite solid, about the size of a smallish tea chest. “Oh, I am sorry!” exclaimed the Rector who was not that sorry at all. “While taking out some of the box pews, one of the workmen found that wedged in a recess in the masonry.” “What’s in it?” enquired the curiosity of an established academic. “I’m not sure,” the Rector rubbed his forehead, trying to remember what the workmen had said. “something about it smelling a bit queer – ‘greasy’ was the word he used.”   

Before the Rector could protest about any filthy substances arising from the box staining his chasuble, the Don had flung open the lid to reveal a rough fabric that did indeed smell very greasy. Pushing the fabric aside with the end of a verge, the Don exclaimed, “well, that’s your lighting problem sorted out. Here are candles – lots of them!”

And so there were. “My! They’re not the best quality candles, are they?” The Don had ventured to pick one up. “They are very greasy and – see! – the wick looks as if it is made of twine or old rope - all a-mould, too! Cheap, badly prepared and treated – no doubt about that – and stuck in the wall for who knows how long.” Here, the assiduous Don went to the piscina and washed his hands thoroughly. Unnerved and a little irritated at the potential threat of mould impinging on his chasuble, the Rector rang the bell and announced the first hymn.

-------------

The Mass was not well-received. Many of the parishioners left quickly with muted goodbyes to the Rector and avoiding the gaze of his brother. The folk who had grown up in the country customs and practices were affronted that their supernatural beliefs had been so unequivocally described as primitive fearmongering, and that three-quarters of an hour had been spent proving that thesis with quotes from Cranmer, Bullinger and the Books of Homilies. With their ways thoroughly mocked, the Rector was painfully aware of the growing undercurrent of opinion that some might prefer to return to the old religion rather than be belittled by the new. Twenty-nine years of hard pastoral work, building the parish and finding points of contact between the underlying superstition and the Doctrine of Christ were in serious jeopardy. The Don was a clever man and his critique thorough.

The clergymen unvested in silence. The box lay by the wardrobe, its lid greasily ajar.

The rest of Sunday was spent with a minimum of conversation. The Don buried his head in The Sentences while the Rector stood at the window gazing towards the marsh deep in thought. Evensong was much less attended than usual; even the choir were depleted and their music half-hearted and sullen. The sun was setting as the Office began and, by the pronouncing of the Grace, the star-punctuated gloom of a clear winter night was firmly established. The brothers left the church and, towards the marsh, they could see the little flames of blue bobbing among the vegetation. To the Rectory and Mrs Hobany’s roast lamb they repaired through the damp air.

The Don had definitely preferred the lamb dinner to the pork of the previous evening and his demeanour had certainly relaxed and become less baleful following a job that he had considered well-done at the Lord’s Supper. The Rector had not eaten as well as usual, nor had he been as willing to talk about anything more substantial that the adiaphora of the renovations of the church. Mrs Hobany, as the previous night, appeared at the door. “Will that be all, Rector? I’ll try and get those candles for you tomorrow.”

The Rector, although subdued in manner, was not subdued in his gratitude, and Mrs Hobany was warmly dismissed. She cloaked and opened the door, letting in another gust of wet wind which stole past her like a thief and whispered into the drawing room. As the door shut with its customary report a little more pronounced than usual, the draught suddenly gusted, the lights flickered and went out leaving the clergymen in sudden utter darkness. “Well, this is a fine pickle!” The Don stood and felt around for his matches, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the low light. “Ach! Candles!” exclaimed the Rector, “there must be surely some around here if only one.” “Well, we know where there are candles,” smiled the Don. “Good thinking!” replied the Rector not without an edge of bitterness, “you pop out to the church. I’ll check for any stubs lurking about the house in case Mrs Hobany has squirreled some away.”

The Don felt a little uneasy about having to cross to the church alone, but the door was kept unlocked and the candles easily located within the vestry. He left the Rector who seemed uneasy and mumbling curiously to himself something about not living off the fat of the land. The Don assumed that the Rector was engaged in some personal soliloquy about his brother’s life in college away from the countryside that they both used to inhabit before their education and vocations separated them. The Don mused about how irritable his brother had become, even more so than when they parted company years back after Mother had died. The church door stood before him now, dark though caressed by the gently night wind. Across the boundary, the blue lights bobbed and weaved. There was some little movement across the marches: a night bird perhaps. Into the church stepped Dr Trimble: into the church and into a darkness that still rang with the bells and smells of Mass and Office. It wasn’t long before the vestry was reached, the box opened, a few candles procured and one lit.

The Don hated the feel of the candles. They were definitely old and even yielded a little when firmly pressed. The lit candle smelled dreadful and the strange rope-like wick sputtered and smouldered. Nonetheless, it produced a good strong light. The other candles were wrapped in a handkerchief and tucked firmly under the arm before the church was quitted and the night entered once more. The Rectory was before him bathed in the cold moonlight. In the upstairs window, the Rector had evidently found a candle stub, for there was a light burning and, yes, that must be the Rector standing by it.

Crossing to the Rectory over the green, a movement startled the Don. Something large seemed to emerge lithely before him in the darkness. A gust extinguished the candle immediately and, with his eyes unaccustomed to the sudden darkness, all the Don thought he could perceive was some form of animal stood between him and the Rectory. Some form of animal, breathing heavily in long loud pants? Some form of animal with a solitary blazing eye and a deep growl?

Fear shot through him like a spark in stubble and, for the first time in years, the Don broke into something which some might call a run. He ran away from the eye and the black shape that bore it. His aim was to get around the shape to the back of the Rectory, but somehow he felt compelled by a sudden pressure on his shoulder to veer off towards the little blue lights on the marsh. He could not be sure that it wasn’t a hand guiding him inexorably into the marsh. He strained to see behind him, looking for the blazing eye or to discern the fingers that were pushing, ensuring that his flight was away from the Rectory.

Into the vegetation and mud he blundered. His pace was slowed as the marsh almost rose up to meet his feet and pull him down. Slipping and stumbling, the Don struggled to recover control of his passage until after some time – what luck! – he came upon a flat rock onto which he clambered, gasping for air and drawing in the sulphurous gas as he tried to catch his breath. He had dropped the candles from under his arm early in his flight, but he had held fast to the one that he had lit. He had held it tightly and his fingers had sunk deeply into the wax. Hearing noises around him, the Don reached into his pocket, thankfully finding his matches and lit the candle.

The illumination was welcome, and, for a moment, the Don relaxed as he could see nothing in the marsh around him. The blue lights were moving away into the depths of the marsh, and the shape of the Rectory was plain even down to the light in the upstairs window. There was no sign of the animal that had affrighted him and the Don began to assume that he had been spooked by the darkness and the playing of the light of the candle on the unfamiliar environment. It was then that he turned suddenly to witness a large hairy hand shove him off of the rock.

The Don fell into a particularly sticky bit of mud, his left foot sinking deeply. The hand seemed to have vanished as suddenly and silently as it had come. The candle had fallen into the marsh, too, but was upright and, miraculously still burning. The Don struggled upright and pulled at his left foot furiously, trying to extricate himself from the mud. The light of the candle flickered and the Don turned to see.

The candle was indeed upright and burning, but from beneath the flame the wax seemed to be rising up, growing in size and substance. Ever greasily, the wax formed fingers, a hand, an arm. The Don’s eyes widened, pulse quickened, marsh air was taken in in gulps as before him a vague human form crawled out of the greasy wax towards him, slipping and sliding purposefully across the mud and marsh. The Don pulled more and more at his leg, tearing his trousers and his skin as the form approached. He gave a shrill scream as the slimy, waxy hand grasped the tail of his jacket and the face of the thing made itself apparent. All the Don saw were two waxy, hollow eyeholes blazing malevolently from within with candlelight, and then the thing bore him to the marshy ground with scream upon scream upon scream.

---------

The inspector had a mug of hot tea pushed into his hand by his sergeant. It was very welcome and dispelled some of the chill of the winter morning. “Well?” asked the inspector, “has the doc said anything?” “Yessir,” said the sergeant, “severe burns and scalding. It must have been a freak explosion of marsh gas. The silly old fool must have lit that candle, judging by that bit of stub and – poof! – up he goes! I’ve not seen anything quite as bad as that before, though!” “Is the doc sure it isn’t foul play,” asked the inspector gazing somewhat queasily at his feet at the red and blackened hand belonging to the late Don. “Well, not yet, sir,” the sergeant turned aside from Dr Trimble, “he’s still dealing with the other body.” “Other body?” “Yessir, in the house. The housekeeper found him this morning – the Rector, at least we think it’s him.” The inspector rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Go on.” The sergeant checked his note. “Apparently, they found him hanging in one of the upstairs rooms but…” “But?” “Well, here’s the odd thing, sir. The Rector was considered to be a fat man, but what was hanging from the ceiling was little more than loose skin hanging on bones.” 

“Thank you, sergeant,” sighed the inspector, “you’ve put me right off my bacon sandwich.”

The temptation to bitterness

Something has happened to my Diocese that I really don't want to be the focus of this essay save to say that we have received a sleight that has made me angry. Rather than concentrate on what it was, I want to focus on the internal issue because that has a serious message for me and for others. 

My Church and my Diocese hold fast to traditional teachings of the One Holy Catholic Church and we do so unrepentantly and this means we run into conflict with those of a more liberal nature. In the past, many traditional Christians respond to sleights and conflicts with other sleights and maintain that conflict. Much "theology" is done in combat rather than in enquiry. Proof texts are thrown and the Fathers are mined in order not just to prove the opponent wrong but find some legitimacy for snubbing.

Anglo-Catholics are well known for the sharpness of their snipery and barbed rejoinders, but all these do is to perpetuate bitterness and ill-feeling.

I am angry on behalf of my Diocese because we work hard with meagre resources to preach the Gospel in Word and Sacrament only for that hard labour to be belittled, ignored, rejected, laughed at and cast aside. I feel that anger, not for myself but for the hard work of loyal Anglican Catholics who have tried to keep things going.

But, St Paul reminds me, I must be angry and sin not and let the matter pass. If I can see the hard work of my family in Christ, then God can see it better and with clearer sight. Our sins will be revealed but so will the grace which He has poured into our work.

The temptation is for things like this to make me bitter and, to my shame, I have allowed bitterness into myself which I deeply regret and seek to jettison as best I can. A Church built on bitterness cannot possibly stand because bitterness is shapeless and almost comfortable, not the firm and solid Rock on which Churches should be built. Our Lord refused the bitter gall on the Cross because He knew that it would numb Him to the pain of our sins.

If we are dispised and rejected, then we ought to rejoice because we participate in Our Lord's being despised and rejected. Many will say, "how dare you compare your piddling little woes with Our Lord's suffering?" But we are not comparing them: we are sanctifying our woes with His for through His Life the whole of our lives are sanctified in every aspect. This is the point of the Incarnation. Our woes may be small in comparison with the suffering of Our Lord or, indeed, with any of the martyrs past, present and to come, but it's not about comparison. The woes exist, regardless of degree, and each woe can draw us nearer to Christ. 

But for this participation to bear fruit to work, we have to emulate Christ in ourselves. This means casting out bitterness and pouring out forgiveness.

The ACC has had a reputation for being an angry Church. That anger was born of zeal and frustration, but we are established now. Our theological identity is distinct from the CofE and the RCC and at least as Catholic. Our fight for our identity is over because we know who we are in Christ. We have been granted a lampstand wherewith to shine the light of Christ on a darkening world and we must hold onto it through displaying our love for Christ and the love of Christ to all.

The recent sleight to my Ordinary and Diocese hurts and is not insignificant. I pray for the grace to grow and fight the real battle which is not against flesh and blood. It is fortunate that I can conclude with the collect for today's feast of St Crispin and St Crispinian. Please pray with me and for me.

STS. CRISPIN AND CRISPINIAN, MM.

Collect

O God, the invisible strength of those who fight for righteousness: assist us, we beseech thee, in our humble supplications, that we who on this day honour the glorious triumph of thy holy Martyrs Crispin and Crispinian, may for their sakes and at their prayers be defended against all spiritual wickedness. Through.

An Anglican Catholic view of Sola Gratia

 

What is the relationship between Grace and Merit?

Body Music

Sermon for the twentieth Sunday after Trinity

St Paul says what we already know:

Music is good for you!

Indeed, St Paul

tells us very clearly

that music should do for us

what we think strong drink

ought to do for us.

A pint of beer

or a glass of wine

is certainly a good thing

for us to enjoy.

That's why there is

no commandment

not to drink an

alcoholic beverage.

If there were such a commandment

then Our Lord would have changed

water into Vimto

at the wedding of Cana

instead of the best quality wine.

A good pint of beer

relaxes the mind

and cheers the heart.

This is true.

The trouble is 

that there is a limit:

alcohol is poisonous

and ruins lives

when those limits are breached.

It's the existence of those limits

that St Paul worries about.

That's why he brings up music.

A hymn, 

a psalm 

or a spiritual song

will do good for the Christian soul

more than drowning sorrows

in pint after pint after pint

of Boddingtons.

But, bring up 

the topic of Church Music

in Christian circles

and there will be more bitterness

than pint after pint after pint 

of Boddingtons.

Why?

[PAUSE]

Like choosing a beverage,

music is a matter of taste.

One person's Beethoven

is another's Britney Spears.

St Paul is very clear

that music is for the soul

and the soul is what makes us live;

the soul is what makes 

this lump of flesh us;

the soul carries our existence

as individual human beings.

There is not one single piece

of human music

that will appeal

to every single human being.

In our fallen state,

we are deafened to

the music that would truly

raise all who hear it 

for it is the Voice of God Himself

for God is Beauty itself.

So music is subjective

and this poses problems

but it shouldn't.

[PAUSE]

As far as Church Music goes,

its function is to beautify

the written words of the Liturgy

and draw people to hear the

"Holy, Holy, Holy" 

of the Seraphim circling

the Throne of God.

The trouble is 

when we identify Beauty with

Entertainment.

We should not have music 

that entertains us

but rather something that helps us

lift our hearts to God.

Just as the old English

of our Liturgy

is sometimes difficult

to understand,

wrestling with it 

helps us do our Liturgy well

because it keeps us honest

and humble before God.

Likewise Church Music

is there for our souls' benefit

not our ears,

though making it easy on the ears

is helpful.

Church Music

must convey 

our reverence for holy things

as well as the orthodoxy

of our faith.

Too many modern church songs

are written

for the express purpose

of making us feel great 

rather than lifting the soul to God.

We know that 

the Psalter is the prime hymn book

of our faith,

and there are songs sung

by Moses,

Miriam,

Judith,

Tobit,

Zacharias,

Our Lady,

Simeon

and quoted by St Paul.

We can trust 

that these express

the truth of our Faith.

But this is our Church Music.

What about in private?

[PAUSE]

There are times

when we need 

to sing our own songs -

Songs of joy,

Songs of grief,

Songs of praise,

Songs of lament.

And these will bubble up from within.

We need these

in order to be honest 

with God and ourselves.

If music is to temper

our desire to drink to excess

then we need to be able 

to sing our own songs well.

We have to do this

outside the Liturgy,

for the Liturgy 

is not about any one person

but our collective expression

of worship.

But we can write, 

learn and sing

those songs that 

speak to God from our souls

and which 

open our souls

to the Beauty that is God.

To do this correctly

requires hard work

but it is good work

and does not have 

the same limits as 

the amount of alcohol

we can consume.

Alcohol is easy to enjoy

at first

but its pleasure cloys.

Singing spiritual songs

is hard to do at first

but its good increases

the more we sing.

[PAUSE]

But what if we can't sing?

What if we have a voice

that sounds like

two chainsaws

that have become 

enmeshed

or like a piece of glass

that has got wedged

under the kitchen door?

To such folk,

King David says that

we can praise God 

on the well-tuned cymbals

AND

we can praise God

on the loud, clanging cymbals.

Let everything that has breath

praise the Lord!

An Anglican Catholic view of Sola Fide

 

Why "Sola Fide" does not do justice to Protestantism.

Holiness omitted

Sermon for the nineteenth Sunday after Trinity

Archbishop Cranmer

should have employed

a better proof reader.

We believe in 

One Holy, Catholic

and Apostolic

Church.

But the Book of Common Prayer

leaves the word "Holy" out

but it's there 

in all the texts 

that influenced

our prayer book.

There could be 

lots of reasons

for this,

ranging from

forgetting it

to mistranslating

early sources of

the Creed.

The fact remains,

we believe that

the true Church

is Holy

- set apart for 

the purposes of God.

Does the omission

really matter, though?

[PAUSE[

Of course it does,

and Archbishop Cranmer himself 

believes in the Holy Catholic Church

because he keeps it

in the Apostles' Creed.

It matters because

it describes the difference

between what we want to do

and what we should do.

Look at it this way.

Can an atheist be kind?

Can a Marxist be compassionate?

Can a Muslim be faithful?

Can a Sikh be selfless?

We have to answer

an emphatic "YES!" 

to all of these.

But it's clear that

being kind,

compassionate,

faithful and selfless

don't depend on what we believe.

On the other hand.

Can a Christian be cruel?

Can a Christian be heartless?

Can a Christian be adulterous?

Can a Christian be selfish?

Regrettably history shows

that they can.

Regrettably our own experiences

show that they can.

But what we know is

that when a Christian

is cruel, heartless, adulterous

or selfish

there is something wrong.

Cruelty, heartlessness

adultery and greed

should not be part of 

Christian nature.

St Paul is clear about that!

But we are to do the right thing

and reject the wrong thing,

not because they are right or wrong

but because we are part 

of God's family - the Church.

Jesus says,

"If ye love me,

keep my commandments"

but it is clear that

the commandments can

be kept

without loving Jesus.

It is because we love God

that we keep His commandments.

It is because God is

kind, compassionate,

faithful and selfless

that we should be.

This is where holiness comes in.

[PAUSE]

To be holy

is to stand in relation to God.

We are enlightened by

Christ's light,

reconciled to God 

by Christ through Baptism,

taught by Divine Grace,

our eyes opened by 

Christ's healing touch.

That is why sin should not be

part of our lives.

We are holy 

only if we strive to be holy

by living good, moral lives,

in humility,

repentance,

prayer and love.

It is the love of Christ

that motivates our good deeds.

It is the love of Christ

which calls us even 

to lay down our lives

and shed our blood.

We love our spouses

because we love Christ.

We love our neighbour

because we love Christ.

In all things we do

we do for the love of Christ

and,

when we fail,

we pick ourselves up,

turn to Him in humility

and try again.

[PAUSE]

Archbishop Cranmer 

knows the Church is Holy.

It is our faith that 

sets us apart for God

and what we do 

confirms that faith.

That's why we cannot

omit holiness from the Church

even if we forget to 

write it down. 

An Anglican Catholic view of Sola Scriptura

 

Why Sola Scriptura could be seen as problematic.

My first words got cut off. They were:

"Hello! It is the beginning of October and..."

Commandment versus Love?

Sermon for the eighteenth Sunday after Trinity

What's all this talk

of commandments?

Why is it that

the Lord Himself still speaks of

the Father issuing commands?

Even Jesus says,

“if ye love me,

keep my commandments.”

Can you really love someone

and command them?

[PAUSE]

The idea of commandment

is something

we struggle with today.

Ours is supposed

to be a world in which

we are free.

While we have

laws and rules

to keep society safe

and working well,

the idea of

being commanded

to do something makes us uneasy.

Commandment suggests

that our freedom

is being taken away,

and we are just a soldier,

to do and to die.

We hear

St Paul quite clearly say to us,

“Love does not insist

on its own way.”

That sort of suggests that

Love shouldn't command.

Love shouldn't tell us what to do.

A commandment

is really setting one person's

will over another’s.

If God is love

then how can God demand

His will be done and still love us?

[PAUSE]

You might say that

a parent tells

their child what to do.

They do this so that

the child learns to grow

and function well in society,

learn to behave well

and be kind to others.

That is the sort of commandment

we might be able to get behind.

God is our Father

and so He commands us

in order that

we might learn to live lives

that reflect His love for us in the world.

The word “commandment” is Latin

and it reflects the time

when orders were passed

from generals to captains

and then to sergeants by hand

on pieces of paper.

They were passed by hand

and that is what command means

– to pass an instruction on by hand.

That is not the same idea

that the Greek word has.

The Greek word for “command”

really talks about doing something

for a specific purpose.

It is the underlying purpose

that gives the commandment

its weight.

The Lord commands us

to love Him

and to love neighbour.

This is not just an arbitrary commandment.

There is a purpose behind it.

To love means

to want someone's perfection,

to want what's the very best for them.

To love God means

that we want his purposes

to be fulfilled in the world.

We pray,

“Thy Kingdom come,

Thy will be done.”

And what is God's will?

Nothing less than our perfection.

God loves us,

and this means

He wants us to be perfect in Him.

The command to love

is not arbitrary.

God could not

command anything else,

because to do so

He would cease to be God.

[PAUSE]

Of course,

some people will say

that it is obvious

that God does not love us.

They will point to times

when God commands

the Israelites

to kill the Canaanites, for example.

That does not sound very loving.

 

When you consider the evil

that the Canaanites are

bringing into the world,

killing children even babies

to sacrifice to their Gods

as well as a whole host

of really horrible, horrible things,

then you realise that

the only way that this terrible way of living

can be stopped is

if the Canaanites are removed.

So against God’s perfection are they

that they impose

their own ideals on others

unrepentantly

and it takes centuries

for this lack of repentance to be revealed.

But where is the love?

[PAUSE]

The Canaanites are not pursuing perfection

but its very opposite.

With their actions ended,

there is a greater chance

for everyone else to

seek perfection in God.

But God shows us,

consistently,

that Death is not a state but an event.

We do not know

how God deals with the Canaanites

after their death.

If the love that Jesus shows us

is evidence of how God is,

then it stands to reason that,

even after death,

the Canaanites are judged in love

and that they will lack no good

that they desire to receive.

God's commands

seem sometimes very obscure.

This is because

we cannot see

the purpose of what he wants.

We do not know His mind,

and this is why He calls us

to have faith.

Faith is about trusting in God

based on the evidence He shows us

in His Gospel

when we do not know

what He is doing.

[PAUSE]

God commands us to love,

and sometimes that is not easy.

However, by fulfilling

that command,

we approach God himself.

“If ye love me,

keep my commandments.”

The commandment is to love

and God is love,

so at all times

we are commanded

to live our lives with each other

in the loving arms of God.

There is no other commandment

greater than these.

Communing with the Angels?

 

Why are there guardian angels?