Epiphany – Marion Chatterley, Vice Provost – 5/1/2020

We’ve journeyed from Christmas to Epiphany – 12 days that have taken us from shepherds to kings by way of a star.  12 days that remind us, yet again, of the enormity of the Incarnation, that moment when the world really was changed.

Just over a week ago, during the first services of the Christmas season, we heard one of our best loved passages of Scripture, St John’s revelation of the mystery of the Incarnation – in the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.  Our Christmas celebrations began with a reminder that the truth about God is a revelation, that this is all about mystery; that it’s a truth we know in our hearts rather than our heads.

This morning, as we celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany, our focus is on sharing more widely the revelation that Jesus is God incarnate.  That revelation is represented by the arrival of the Magi who have moved into our crib scene to give us a visual reminder.  The essence of the revelation is spelled out to us in our reading from the letter to the Ephesians.  The revelation this writer is referring to is of the mystery of God, the otherness of God, the inclusive nature of God.

This is the moment in the Christmas story when it is spelled out, more or less in words of one syllable, that the Incarnation is for all humanity, that, as St Paul said in the letter to the Galatians, there is no longer Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female…  The mystery of God was revealed to and for the whole of humanity, without difference, without any kind of hierarchy, without comment.  The Word didn’t become flesh as an end game; the word became flesh as a starting place, the beginning of a new chapter in the story of the relationship between God and humankind.

One of the tasks of this Cathedral is to share the story of the Good News with people who visit our building.  Not just those who join us for worship, but the many people who come into this building, perhaps as part of their exploration of our city; people who come looking initially at what we have and who, in that pursuit, may discover something about who we are.  Our challenge, I suggest, is for our visitors to both see and experience something of interest, something that touches them and makes a difference to their spiritual lives.

This is not just another venue on the tourist trail, it’s an active and living place of worship, a building whose primary purpose is to glorify God and to support people in their own journeys towards engagement with their God.

I like to observe people as they arrive in the building when there isn’t an act of worship underway.  People find their way through the glass doors and they almost always are stopped in their tracks.  Whatever they had anticipated, it’s not what they find here.  The sheer scale and proportions of the building speak for themselves.  People arrive at the West end and they can’t help but look up.  At the moment, they see Mike Appleby’s sculpture – the star of Bethlehem leading to the crown of thorns, the baby in the manger who will within months be remembered as the Crucified and resurrected one.  People stop because the physical surroundings cause them to stop, but I think it’s something more than that.  People stop in their tracks because there is something intangible that they meet as soon as they come into this place.  This is a place that seeks to say something by its very existence.

When those people orientate themselves, most of them then do one of two things.  They may stop at the candle stands and light a candle, say a prayer, perhaps even sit for a time.  Others wander around, looking at the art and the windows and the altars.  Most of them will find their way to the painting of the Presence in the North Aisle here.  Some people come specifically to see that painting.  It’s a painting that tells us something about the Epiphany, tells us something about what the revelation of God is about in this place.  The painting shows the grandeur of the building, it tells us something about the human response to God, the use of gifts and skills to create somewhere that speaks of something and someone far beyond itself.  But it also speaks about the mystery of God, the God whom we encounter when we least expect it, the God who seeks us out even when we don’t think we’re looking in that direction.

The Presence reminds us that a part of our mission in this place is to find ways to say something about the revealed mystery of God, to be sure that we are alert to the possibilities that arise to share more than the glory of our building, but to point people towards the glory of God.

This morning’s reminder is that God is the God of all people – whoever and however they are.  There is not a chosen elite, each of us is invited to make a choice – a choice to follow in the footsteps of the Magi, to travel this particular path alongside the earliest believers and disciples; to follow the light and the word, journeying towards our God, allowing ourselves to open our eyes and hearts to the revealed mystery that is told and explored within our Scriptures and in our lived experience.

The painting of the Presence has two points of focus.  There is a strong and compelling light over the High Altar, a light that draws us to that place where the bread is taken and broken – for every one of us.  And at the same time, our eyes are drawn to that place at the very back of the Cathedral where the Christ is fully present.  Fully present for every one of us.

The daily celebration of the Eucharist in this place is a reminder of the offering of self that God makes to us.  The bread and the wine are blessed and consecrated, they become for us something that is holy, our spiritual food and drink, the means of physical encounter with our Incarnate God.

At the same time, the moments of silence and reflection that we can find here enable us to access the God who is always present in this place, present in the beauty and the holiness, present in the Word and in that Word made flesh.

It’s easy for us to take this place for granted, to forget to look and to reflect because this is where we’ve made our spiritual home.  And so I’d like to suggest that we each set ourselves an exercise over the coming weeks – to come into the building as though it were for the first time.  To come into the building slowly and prayerfully and to allow ourselves to be drawn into the revealed truth that is in these very stones, the revealed truth that God offers to each of us.

Let’s allow ourselves to be drawn into that Presence, both at the altar and as we light a candle.  Whether we identify with the shepherds or the Magi, our Incarnate God is waiting to greet us.

Christ the King – Marion Chatterley, Team Priest – 24/11/2019

Here we are at the gate of the year.  Traditionally known as Stir up Sunday, the end of one liturgical year and the moment when we begin to think about the next.  And next week, Advent Sunday, we begin the Christian story all over again; we’ll prepare for the Incarnation, for the gift of God’s son, for annual celebrations and festivities.  But, despite the fact that the shops are stocked up with Christmas goods, we’re not quite there yet.  This week we have half an eye on what is to come, but at the same time we look backwards and reflect on the year that has passed.  This isn’t the moment to reflect on our personal year, that comes in a few weeks time, but rather a moment to reflect on what we have learned about God in the course of this past year.  Our three year cycle of readings tells the stories we know in slightly different ways, year on year, and this year we’ve been engaging with the life and ministry of Jesus Christ through the lens of Luke.

Luke was a physician.  He was a Gentile.  He writes in a refined and vivid way.  At the heart of Luke’s Gospel are people.  Luke teaches us about Jesus by telling stories about how Jesus interacted with people, many of whom were not exactly the great and the good.

Luke shows us how Jesus behaved and the impact he had on people as a way of making sure that we understand who Jesus was.  On this Sunday when we celebrate the kingship of Jesus, we might have anticipated an upbeat Gospel reading, something that spoke about leadership and strength, stories about power and authority, but instead we find ourselves reading about the events that took place at Calvary.  We are pushed immediately into a counter cultural definition of kingship, into allowing our ideas to be challenged – hopefully into a place of curiosity where we want to know more.

Luke’s description of the crucifixion sets out its stall by telling us what the various characters are doing and saying.  We are drawn into the story as we are encouraged to both look and listen – to engage as fully as we can with what is unfolding.  We are not given a lot of gory detail about crucifixion, Luke’s audience would have known that all too well, but there is plenty going on.  In Luke’s Passion narrative, we learn about Jesus primarily by hearing what the other people who were there said and how he responded to them.  It’s about what he said, what he chose not to say, and how he treated people, not about what was done to him and how he coped.

The scene we’re concerned with this morning is counter cultural from its opening verses.  It begins with Jesus offering forgiveness rather than blame – Father, forgive them.   So this is a compassionate king; this is a king who understands the people around him; this is a king who is thinking of others rather than himself.  And he quickly becomes a king who is mocked and verbally abused.  And what we learn this morning is that he doesn’t engage with that negativity.  The leaders and the soldiers did their best to rile him, but there is no recorded response.

And then one of the criminals joined in.  It seems as though he picked up the mood of the moment and chose to have his fun.  And still, there is no response from Jesus – the rebuke comes from the other criminal.  Jesus finally responds, he responds to the positivity of the more honest criminal, the one who recognises him for who and what he is: Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom.  And now, this king does respond.  He responds with generosity and with a gift of hope – today you will be with me in paradise.

So this is a king who responds to the positive movements around him and who is able to let the negativity pass over.  This is a king who brings hope into a hopeless situation, who brings a reminder that there is something more to focus on and to look forward to.  A king who is able and willing to invite people into his kingdom.  And look at who is being invited. Not the people who might deserve that invitation; not the people who have done their best to get alongside him; not even his closest companions.  The invitation is issued to a pair of criminals who, we might assume, he hadn’t met before and who by their own admission deserved to be punished rather than rewarded.

Within these few verses we have learned much about the king whom we celebrate and honour this morning.  And in doing so, we can reflect on what we may have learned about the nature of God in the course of a year spent reading about our God through the lens of Luke’s gospel.  Time and again, Luke shows us something about God by showing us what happens when Jesus engages with people, people from all sorts of backgrounds and situations.

This has been about relationships.  We’ve learned about the relationships that Jesus had with the people he met during the course of his life and ministry.  We’ve read about how Jesus responded to people whoever they were – those who had made mistakes, those who were uncertain and those who were in no doubt that their Messiah was in their midst.  In each and every situation, he shows us something of the nature of God.  He accepts people whoever they are; he hears the voices that repent and responds compassionately to them; he hears the voices of the hypocrites and calls them out.  He reminds us time and again that relationship with God is central to our wellbeing and ability to thrive.

This particular Sunday, we are called, yet again, into that relationship with God.  We are reminded that no-one is beyond God’s love; that no-one lives without hope.  God’s kingdom is the jurisdiction of the king whom we honour today.  That king calls each one of us to get alongside him.  He responds to our positive words and actions and he allows our negativity to fall by the wayside.  That king encourages us to see who he is and to reflect on who we are.

His starting place this morning was to offer forgiveness and his ending place was to offer hope.

We recognise the kingship of Jesus in what he said, what he chose not to say and how he responded to the people around him.  We honour that kingship when we are mindful about what we say, what we choose not to say and how we respond to the people around us.

Pentecost 18 – John McLuckie – 13/10/19

The world feels more uncertain right now than it has for a long time. Old allegiances are challenged and the deep wisdom of our religious heritage is scorned by many. Faith is often caricatured as a kind of feeble appeal to an external, unquestionable authority and even the wisdom of scientists and experts is dismissed as mere opinion. When faced with a barrage of philosophical speculations like these, Voltaire’s character, Candide, replies with a disarmingly simple piece of advice: ‘Il faut cultiver le jardin’ – we must dig the garden. Christians would do well to heed his advice, for the turmoil of our world requires patience, not panic, wisdom, not slogans. Candide’s advice is that we should tend to the basic elements that make it possible for life to flourish, that we should see to the simple and deep stuff, not the shrill and superficial stuff. It is tempting to react to overwhelming challenges with elaborate schemes and eye-catching innovations or, worse, with simplistic judgements that propose winners and losers, insiders and outsiders. Faith, by contrast, urges a different response; a patient tending of the garden, trusting in the growth that is given when we seek to make good the conditions that make for growth.

This is beautifully expressed in words from today’s Epistle where Timothy is urged, in the RSV translation, to ‘present [him]self to God as one approved, a workman who has no need to be ashamed, rightly handling the word of truth.’ I prefer this to the translation we heard a few minutes ago where the work is seen as an intellectual, interpretive endeavour. In this version, Timothy’s work as teacher and pastor has value when it is seen in terms of the rightful handling of the basic material of the spiritual life. He is an artisan who treats the stuff of his trade with respect and care. And what is the basic material of the spiritual life? Well, it is nothing less than the stuff of life itself. What is praised here is not elaboration, not sophistication, but endurance. In other words, the spiritual path is not one where we present an idealised version of life, but one in which we choose to stick with life’s path, whatever it throws at us. The spiritual life is simply life.

The world of faith is not abstract but concrete: how do I respond to this setback? How do I live with my limitations? How do I live with the reality that whatever choice I make in this situation comes with difficult consequences? What can I do in the face of a challenge that is far bigger than my own limited sphere of influence? How can I love when that love may find no reciprocation? Christian faith is profoundly realistic when it comes to such questions. I confess to feeling a degree of impatience when people suggest that religion offers easy answers for the simple-minded. It does not. It offers clarity but not easy comfort, encouragement but not escape, penitence, not self-justification. Above all, what faith offers us is perspective. It urges us to see beyond the immediate and towards the ultimate, beyond the self and towards the whole, beyond the perishable and towards the imperishable. And it offers us concrete strategies to make this possible.

If Christian faith is a matter of tending the garden of our lives, then its practices and insights are ones which require persistence, confidence and hope. Gardens are not the work of hours and sometimes not even the work of one lifetime. When Timothy was encouraged to see himself as a workman rightly handling the material of his life, he was given a pattern for such a way of life. Firstly, a workman like this must die to self, die with Christ. I was urged last week to say something radical in my last sermon with you, and here it is. We must die with Christ. This means nothing less than a complete re-centring of our lives so that they do not revolve around self-concern but are lived in radical freedom, abandoned to the greater truth of life in Christ, life in all its fullness, life that is free from the compulsions of success, recognition, status or domination. But this is also a life that is free from self-loathing, blame or condemnation. As Timothy was told, the Word of God is unfettered, free, abundant.

There are many practices and disciplines that allow us to tend the garden of our lives and the greatest among them is our practice of unceasing prayer, the prayer of the heart. But today’s Gospel offers another, perhaps less obvious one, and that is the practice of gratitude, of giving thanks. Here, an outsider receives the gift of health from Jesus, but he receives even more when he responds with gratitude. The other nine lepers are also freed from disease, but only he is freed to embrace life because he has discovered its fundamental truth, and I can let you into its secret: life is a gift! There’s another radical statement for you today – life is a gift! And what do you do when you are offered a gift? Well, you might do two things. First, you receive it. Second, you give thanks. The first movement is related to my first radical suggestion to you this morning – receiving a gift requires a kind of death to self. To accept a gift is to relinquish control, to be open-handed and open-hearted. It is a kind of vulnerability because it says that I do not have all that I need in myself. It says that I am willing to express my insufficiency and my place in the great chain of life. Our life is not our own creation but a gift from God.

The second movement is the heart of Christian worship – thanksgiving. The very offering we make Sunday by Sunday, the offering of the Eucharist, is an offering of thanks. We say that it is right to give our thanks and praise before the priest goes on to give thanks, in our name, to God for the gifts that make us who we are. When we give thanks, our relationship to the things for which we give thanks changes. They are no longer instruments of our purposes but gifts to be relished. This simple act is what gives us strength to endure. This is what makes it possible for us to handle rightly the material of our lives.

Today I give thanks for seven wonderful years of life with you all. We have shared much and I am humbled by the privilege of doing my little bit to cultivate the garden of our life together. Keep on digging, planting and watering with patience and with gratitude. I give thanks for you and I give thanks to God, the giver of all good gifts, for he is faithful and his mercy endures for ever.

Pentecost 17 – Marion Chatterley, Team Priest – 6/10/2019

From the second letter to Timothy ‘Guard the good treasure entrusted to you’.

Words written by St Paul, probably just before his execution; words of command, not just for Timothy but for those whom he would teach.  Words to pass down through the generations of believers.

I’d like to think this morning about the good treasure that has been entrusted to us, what it might mean for us to guard that treasure and how we might pass it on to future generations.  Some of you will have noticed that we launched a new social media campaign at the beginning of this month.  Our hashtag is Treasure our Cathedral and over the coming months we’re going to be sharing posts on a daily basis that reference the life and witness of this place.  When we began to think about the social media campaign, our starting place was the rhythm and cycles of prayer that are at the heart of who we are and what we do.  Day by day, in words and music and silence, in the majesty and the beauty, this place supports and enables the prayers of its people. We are steeped in the prayers that have been offered here over the ages, we add to and enliven those prayers and leave our own legacy for those who will follow us.

Our building is clearly not just our gathering place, but also our spiritual and, for some, our emotional home.  There are physical treasures within this place – art and embroidery; woodwork and glass.  All gifted to us by skilled craftspeople – some in years gone by and some created in recent months and years.  Those visual arts may help us to focus, may remind us of something of the nature of God.

The first treasure then, is tangible.  And within this tangible space come the treasures that bring the building alive.  Our liturgy is one of our treasures – beautifully crafted words that help us to engage with the core of our worship, to share in the breaking of bread and the distribution of wine.  Our liturgy expresses our theology, feeds our minds and our hearts, points us towards the Divine.  In this place, that liturgy is supported and enhanced by our musicians.  Carefully chosen music, performed in a way that is neither intrusive or for its own sake, but liturgical music offered as a part of our expression of worship.

These offerings are, of course, dependent on the work and gifts of individuals who lead and support the different elements of our worship.   People are one of the treasures of this place.  And, of course, people are our treasures not just in this place and in this area of our lives but throughout all of the aspects and areas of life we inhabit.  People are our connections and our inspiration.  People are our carers and those who care for us.  People are those who love us, those whom we love and those whom we find it difficult to love.  And we know from our understanding of Scripture that each one is loved by God, each one is treasured by God.

So what does it mean for us to guard our treasures?  In some ways, the answer to that question is obvious if we’re thinking about our building and the things that are within it.  We have a responsibility to care for this place, to look after the artefacts and crafted work that surround us.  To guard it in order to pass it on to future generations and to make sure that it is in good order when we do so.  And we now understand that our stewardship extends beyond the simple care of our building and possessions.  Stewardship includes our responsibility within this place to care for our wider community and to take into account the environmental impact of all that we do.  Last week our children unveiled the new banners that remind us of those responsibilities.

They spoke about our use of sources of energy; the materials we use; the day to day choices we make – and the impact of all of those on people across our globe.

We were also reminded last week of our more local responsibilities to people who may be less fortunate than us.  Our foodbank collection was a practical way for us to care for others; it was also a symbolic way for us to treasure the more vulnerable people within our communities, to remind ourselves that we have a responsibility to care for God’s people alongside our responsibility to care for God’s created world – it’s not an either/or.

Within every place of worship we have a responsibility to treasure and honour, to hold the balance between ‘in here and out there’, recognising that everything we do is grounded in our collective life of prayer.  We offer the best worship we can – in our words and our music, in the ways that we conduct our services and in what we seek to share about God within the content of those services.   In praying together, we journey together.

We guard all that we treasure week on week as we gather as the body of Christ in this place, and others, because the ultimate treasure isn’t the building or the liturgy or the music or even the people – the real treasure is the grace that we receive when we encounter and engage with the risen Christ in our midst.  The real treasure is the love of God which is revealed to us in the tangible and intangible treasures that are right here in this place.

One of our responsibilities is to ensure that the gift we find in this place is kept healthy and alive in order that it can be shared with future generations.  It’s been a real pleasure to welcome the Friends of Cathedral Music over this weekend and we hope that you will take something of what we treasure back with you to your home churches.  It is incumbent on each one of us to honour our traditions and to do whatever we can, to give in whatever way we can, in order to ensure that the treasure is not just preserved but enhanced and enriched for the benefit of those who will follow us.

Let’s return to our hashtag – Treasure our Cathedral.  Whether or not we are people who engage with social media, we can share the message of that campaign.  The treasure that is this Cathedral, its building and artefacts, its liturgy and music, its people and their commitment – that treasure is too good to keep hidden.

We all carry the responsibility to share the Good News that we find here, to invite others to experience the treasures that are on offer.  In so doing, we will play our own part in ensuring that this place and all that makes it what it is, will be available for many generations to come.

Friends of Cathedral Music – The Royal Diamond Fund

“Last week I payed a visit to Liverpool for three days with The Royal Diamond Fund representing the St Mary’s Cathedral choir in their concert bringing together lots of choristers from all over Britain in aid of helping families in challenging financial circumstances meet the costs of chorister life.

On day one the morning was full of travelling, planes and trains. And then the afternoon was more eventful, we (me and my dad) made our way across Liverpool to the Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral where we made our first impressions and had the first rehearsal. What was striking about the first rehearsal was how incredible 70+ singers all sounded together in one room, and the level of professionalism and skill everyone had, it’s an unforgettable sound.

Day two, rehearsals in the morning meant getting up early but I didn’t mind, that morning everyone was introducing themselves and making friends, it’s refreshing to hear everyone else’s stories of their own choirs and hearing other choristers that have the same life as you’ve had, sometimes chorister life can feel isolating from others but when you meet people that do the same thing as you do everyday and have such similar yet so different experiences, you can really appreciate the experiences you’ve had.

From rehearsal to concert we had a break where we visited the Tate modern art museum, an interesting and confusing place but nonetheless beautiful.

Just before the concert I was chosen along with a few of my friends to meet the Duchess of Gloucester who joined us for the first half of our programme. The concert included pieces from ‘Zadok the Priest’- by George Handel  to ‘Yesterday’- by The Beatles to ‘You’ll never walk alone’ – by Richard Rodgers (in memory of The 96) and was all round a greatly enjoyable experience with great friends and great music.

On day three we had a few hours to spare before travelling home so we spent the day firstly in the (incredible and moving) Beatles Story, and then walking across the harbour to the (also extremely moving) Slavery Museum ans then we rounded off our day in the John and Yoko exhibition, which very nearly brought me to tears being a Beatles fan, I think we visited these in perfect order and would highly recommend all of these to anyone of any age who is interested (especially the John and Yoko exhibition). 

We left Liverpool with a tear in our eye and a smile on our face, all round a great experience I will cherish for years to come.

Thank you for making it possible.”

Nora Rose, Senior Chorister

Marion Chatterley – Lent 3 – 24/3/2019

Here we are, already half way through Lent and I suspect that many of us will be struggling to maintain whatever Lenten discipline we set for ourselves.  The first couple of weeks are usually OK, we can keep up the momentum and the focus but by this stage in the journey we can begin to feel a bit weary and to wonder why on earth did I decide to do that?  And anyway, what’s the point?  At the end of yet another week of news that is almost unbearable to watch, a week when we’ve watched in horror as an entire country has been devastated and left changed for ever, what does it matter that we are struggling with some small and probably temporary change in our own lives?

This morning’s Gospel doesn’t at first sight offer any encouragement.  It is essentially a question and answer session.  We’re confronted with the issue of bad things happening, we’re warned against making differences between people – and then we’re given a rather impenetrable steer towards a way forward.

The fundamental question Jesus points us towards is: why do bad things happen indiscriminately.  Notice that this isn’t quite the more usual question in our society of why bad things happen to good people, this is a broader question, why do bad things happen and impact on whoever happens to be in their way.  The reading reminds us very starkly that tragedy doesn’t impact on people in any hierarchical way according to their past behaviour, tragedy impacts on the good and the bad; the flood waters or the cyclonic winds or the terrorist bullets – none of those discriminates in any way, shape or form.  The devastation is real regardless of the back story for the victims.  The popular press may be quick to try to identify the most innocent of the victims, or to create a hierarchy of sadness, but the blunt truth is that the needless loss of any human life is a tragedy and should be mourned.

So what does Jesus say?  In his translation of this morning’s Gospel the Jesuit scholar Nicholas King adds in a small word – King’s translation reads: unless you all repent…  That additional word gives a clarity, an emphasis; it makes sure that none of us imagines that we are let off the hook.

This first half of this morning’s reading is clear about two things – there isn’t a hierarchy of victimhood and there isn’t a hierarchy of repentance.  We could all be victims; and at the same time, we all need to repent.  So let’s think about that word repent for a moment.  Those of us who were here on Ash Wednesday were marked with ash and the priest used a form of words.  Those words have changed a little in our current liturgy – we used to say ‘repent and turn to the Gospel’ and we now say ‘turn away from sin and follow Christ’.  That phrase gives us our church’s definition of repentance – turn away from sin.  This is about something more than feeling sorry that we did this or didn’t do that, this is about amendment of life, a change in direction, perhaps even a shift in our focus.  It’s about both personal and collective repentance – things happen round about us and we are not divorced from them.  They may happen in other, far away parts of the world.  But they happen to people like you and me.  They happen to communities like yours and mine.  They happen to people at prayer and people at play.  And it is so easy to feel helpless and hopeless.

Yesterday, I went to George Square to participate in an Edinburgh University response to the shootings in Christchurch.  About 200 people came together; a Muslim student sang the call to prayer; shoes were laid out to remind us of the lost lives; words were spoken and silence was kept.  What was really moving about the event was the gratitude expressed by the New Zealanders and the Muslims amongst us.  People who have never been to New Zealand; people of other faiths and no faith came to support and show care and grief and respect.  Nothing a terrorist does can ever take that away.   The human to human response that was evidenced at that vigil gives us hope that goodness is inherently strong, that there is a collective desire to turn away from sin.

And that brings us to the second half of this morning’s reading.  The fig tree that isn’t managing to bear fruit.  The fig tree that is in danger of being cut down and replaced by something more productive.   That fig tree is perhaps a good example of how easy it is to sink into victimhood – to look elsewhere for reasons we’re not flourishing.  To play a blame game.

And we’re then reminded that the tree might not manage to reach its potential without help.  The suggestion is that tree may be lacking in nutrients, may be longing for the food of life that will enable it to flourish.

The fig tree is an illustration of the parts of ourselves that have not yet been sufficiently nurtured and nourished, the parts of ourselves that need more time.  The parts of ourselves that lack nutrients, that long to be filled with the food of life.  And God, the gardener, God the creator and architect is offering that opportunity.  Let’s give it some more time.  Let’s wait and see whether there are any promising shoots emerging.  Let’s see what difference the right nourishment might make.

The tree may not emerge into full fruit within that first year, but what a difference there will be if we simply begin to see the signs of growth.  The signs that the care and the nourishment, the attention that has been paid to that rather sad fig tree might just be enough to turn things around.  Slowly and painfully – bud by bud – but a move in a positive direction, a move away from sin and towards Christ.

Returning to the question of our Lenten discipline – whatever form that takes.  Our thinking about the fig tree offers some help here.  The tree of our intentions may well be needing a bit of water and TLC.  And we may still feel as though nothing much is happening.  The result of our efforts is not just in picking the fruits, there is perhaps even more value in the journey towards that end, the journey that forces us to pay attention, to be consistent, to care.

We care for ourselves; we care for people we know; we care for people we will never meet.  And in so doing, we make a small impact on the potential for those shoots of hope to emerge.

Standing alongside our Muslim sisters and brothers won’t of itself change the world, but it might change how just one person sees us and equally importantly, it might change how we see them, and in turn how we see ourselves.

Closure of the St Mary’s Cathedral Workshop

It is with profound regret that we announce that the Board of St Mary’s Workshop has decided that from Monday 18th March 2019 the Workshop will cease trading, and shortly close.

The Workshop was founded more than 30 years ago to train stonemasons and renovate the stonework of St Mary’s Cathedral. For 25 years, it received substantial funding from Historic Environment Scotland and others to complete those tasks, taking on a couple of apprentices every year as work on the Cathedral continued. In recent years the Workshop received further funding to complete the renovation of the Cathedral, but also to develop a different model of training stonemasons, which, we hoped, would allow the Workshop to prosper and continue its core task of training apprentices.

This Shared Apprenticeship model, formed in collaboration with Skills Development Scotland, meant that apprentices worked not just on the Cathedral but on placements across the industry. The income from those placements, together with support from CITB, HES and other funders, would cover the costs of training and running the Workshop.

However, we have been unable to secure the funding required to make the model sustainable. The Board developed several alternative potential models for the scheme but could not identify one that was sustainable in the long-term without additional funding.

The Board was left with no alternative but to declare the Workshop no longer a going concern and begin to wind it up. We are making active efforts to place our 12 apprentices with other employers.

The Board would like to thank all the employees of the Workshop over the years for their hard work and efforts. Not least our current Trainers, Jordan Kirk and Max Scott, and our Administrator, Maggie Tennant, who have worked tirelessly to try and find a future for the Workshop and to continue to produce the highly skilled stonemasons that our historic buildings need. It is a matter of deep regret and sadness that that has proved impossible.

John Conway – Managing Director
John McKinney – Chair

Andrew Philip – Lent 1 – 10/3/2019

Staying True to Our Calling

What gets to you most? I don’t just mean what most gets your goat; I’m thinking about what goes to the heart of who you are. Who are you when everything is stripped away?

That’s what faces Jesus in today’s Gospel. The temptations he fends off in the wilderness come from deep inside him and strike at the heart of who he is. After the very public high of his baptism, at which the Holy Spirit has descended on him, at which his identity as God’s Beloved Son has been proclaimed by the voice of God the Father, Jesus is sent by the Spirit into the desert to grapple with his identity and calling.

The question behind our Gospel passage is: what sort of Son is Jesus going to be? How is he going to live out his calling? For, each of the three temptations is an enticement to Jesus to become a false version of who he is; to be untrue to his calling not by rejecting it but by allowing it to be twisted subtly out of shape; to become fake good news.

The first and third temptations begin with, ‘If you are the Son of God …’. Scholars tell us that this would be better translated ‘Since you are the Son of God …’. Satan, the plausible but lying voice inside, is not trying to deny Jesus’ Sonship but to twist it out of shape.

We too face the temptation to be untrue to our identities as children of God and to our calling to be part of God’s redemptive mission, the temptation to allow the pattern of Christ in us to be twisted out of shape. Every day for us brings the question: what sort of children are we going to be? So what does the text tell us about the temptations that we, along with Jesus, face and how to withstand them?

The first temptation flung at Jesus is to turn stones into bread. For a famished Jesus to make bread from stones seems like a good idea. And if he can accomplish that, he can easily feed the hungry masses. But it is a temptation to accept and be false sustenance — a quick fix, a spiritual fast food that addresses the wrong need. Jesus will, indeed, satisfy the hungry with bread, not just in the feeding of the 5,000, but in the bread that is his body broken on the Cross. A far cry from desert rocks transmogrified as if in a Hogwarts classroom.

Next, Jesus is tempted with the power and glory of all the world’s kingdoms. But this is false glory and power on offer. The issue is whether Jesus will become the kind of king the world already knows too well: one who rules by might and force of ego. But for him to do that would be to turn away from the servanthood he came to model, to reject the way of the Cross and, ultimately, to forgo the joy, glory and power of the Resurrection.

This temptation is, however, also a cloak for a deeper, more subtle one: the enticement to worship the false gods of status, influence and ego. Satan shows his hand here when he tells Jesus, ‘If you will worship me, it will all be yours’. It surprises me how many commentators seem to take at face value Satan’s claim that the kingdoms are his to give away. I mean, we’re talking about a character who is described in the Gospel of John as ‘a liar and the father of all lies’. Jesus knows this voice is faking it and that to turn away from the God who called and named him is to turn away from truth.

Finally, having failed to tempt Jesus away from worshipping the true God, Satan tries to get him to put God to the test. This is a temptation to false faith, a lure to risk everything in order to prove God in a way God hasn’t called him to do. Instead of this swift, dramatic spectacle, Jesus chooses the long, hard road to the Cross and the hope of Easter morning.

Through all these temptations, Jesus remains true to his identity and calling. To the long way round. To the way that looks crazy but leads to life.

Like him, we encounter voices from within that entice us to be untrue to our identity and calling. What sort of children will we be? Will we run after quick fixes instead of walking the long road to Jerusalem with Jesus? Will we get wrapped up in budgets and finance instead of being bread broken for the world? Will we get caught up in seeking influence instead of looking to serve our communities? Will we be enticed by dramatic ideas or be willing to lay down our lives quietly in service?

The question is how we keep true to our calling. First, like Jesus, we should remember whose we are. At his baptism, Jesus was declared the Beloved Son; our baptisms likewise proclaim that we are Beloved of God. We need to hold on to this identity before all others.

Secondly, we need to listen to the Holy Spirit. Jesus is filled with the Spirit at his baptism, led into the desert by the Spirit and filled with the Spirit when he leaves the desert to begin his preaching ministry. Likewise, we are given the Spirit at our baptism and filled with the Spirit as we open ourselves to God through regular spiritual disciplines of prayer, Bible reading and worship.

And this points us to another resource we have, and the most obvious one from the text: Scripture. Jesus doesn’t argue with the temptations; he simply refutes them with Scripture: the wisdom and strength of his tradition. It’s interesting that he uses desert Scriptures — verses from Israel’s 40 years in the wilderness. He learns as much from Israel’s failures as from its faithfulness. If Jesus needs that, how much more do we need to steep ourselves in Scripture. It is the memory book of our tradition, showing us how God has spoken in the past, showing us patterns to follow and develop, showing us how to pattern ourselves after Christ.

As we move through our own 40 days in the wilderness, I encourage you to take something up for Lent: reflect on the temptations. Make them into a form of prayer. Perhaps ask yourself, at the end of each day:

  • What has sustained me and how have I sustained others today?
  • What did my words and actions today say about who or what I worship?
  • How did the way I lived today show my trust in God?

As you ask yourself this, listen for the whispers of the Holy Spirit calling you ever deeper into life, ever deeper into your identity as a beloved child of God.

Andy Philip – Candlemas – 3/2/2019

I’m sure I’m not alone in coming away from this morning’s Old Testament reading with the setting from Handel’s Messiah ringing in my ears. Those of you who know the aria will doubtless be glad that I am not going to attempt to sing it, but the way Handel sets the text certainly captures the imagination. The opening passage — ‘But who may abide the day of his coming and who can stand when he appeareth’ — smoulders darkly and elegantly. But, at the words ‘for he is like a refiner’s fire’, the music bursts into flame and vividly brings to life the prophet’s blazing simile.

Malachi’s description of God’s presence as like a refiner’s fire conveys great intensity. It takes tremendous heat to refine gold and silver. Silver melts at around 900°C while gold must be heated to 1064°C for it to liquify. So the refiner’s fire is around five times as hot as the oven for your Sunday dinner. I hope you’ll excuse me mentioning such temperatures on a cold and frosty morning in our chilly cathedral, but it helps us to grasp what Malachi was trying to put across. It leaves us in no doubt that, for him at least, the presence of God was a tremendously powerful, all-consuming experience.

It might be difficult at first to see what this has to do with the presentation of Jesus in the temple. If we are looking for connections between today’s Gospel passage and our Old Testament reading, we more readily see them in Malachi’s assertion that ‘the Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple’ (Malachi 3:1). It is natural for us Christians, who believe that God was made flesh in Jesus, to read this prophecy as being fulfilled in Luke’s narrative: here we are — the Lord is turning up in his temple in Jesus. But if that is how we read it, the prophecy is fulfilled in such a paradoxical fashion. For the Lord whom Malachi describes as a refiner’s fire comes not as an inferno but as an infant.

Anyone who has spent much time with babies will certainly attest to the fact that they have their own intensity, and sometimes it’s a wonderful intensity, but, unless we are talking about Jack Jack from The Incredibles, it certainly isn’t the same as a refiner’s fire. So, what is the connection?

On Monday, the cathedral’s Poetry Close-Up group met. We gathered to read and discuss TS Eliot’s poem ‘Little Gidding’. It’s a dense and difficult but rewarding piece. At one point, Eliot speaks of how

The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre —
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Eliot is saying that we face the choice of being burnt up by the fire of judgement or consumed by the ‘pentecostal fire’ of Love. The fire of Love saves us from the fire of judgement.

We are not often comfortable talking about judgement. Perhaps it doesn’t feel like a good fit for the inclusive and welcoming community that we aim to be, grounded in God’s love. But we can’t engage honestly with Scripture and avoid judgement for very long. Maybe our understanding of it is still shaped at some level by mediaeval depictions of devils prodding unfortunate sinners into various eternal torments. So we find it hard to see how judgement can co-exist with God’s love, even if that love gives us a way to escape the fire.

While the last judgement is part of the picture that the Bible gives us, and the mediaeval torments aren’t, it is clear from Simeon’s words to Mary and Joseph and from our Malachi passage that the biblical writers conceived of judgement as something broader and more immediate. Judgement is part of salvation, not just something that happens to the damned. It is part of being purified, which is ultimately to be made whole.

Simeon recognises in the baby Jesus one who ‘will purify the descendants of Levi and refine them like gold and silver’ (Malachi 3:3). He tells Jesus’ parents how their child is ‘destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed’ (Luke 2:34–35). A number of commentators read this to mean that some people will fall and others will rise. Other commentators think that the people who are in view here will all fall and then rise because of Jesus. The Gospel writer doesn’t make it clear. But it is evident from this passage that Jesus’ brings both judgement and redemption. The one does not come without the other.

Simeon and Anna both welcome this. They rejoice in the salvation that Jesus will bring to them and their people, a salvation that includes judgement.  We can all think of people we might like to face judgement — with the way the world is going at the moment, they are probably queuing up in our minds — but are we able to rejoice in judgement not for others but for ourselves? Silver and gold, once they have been refined, can be worked into something far more beautiful and useful than in their raw state.

  • Can we see in judgement the love of God that draws out of us what is detrimental and forms us into a new creation?
  • Can we see in judgement the love that makes us whole?

In many ways, this is what we do when we join in the confession. We know that we have fallen so we ask that we may rise.

We must not forget, however, that this refiner’s fire — this great conflagration of judgement and grace — comes to us not in roaring flame but in a helpless and vulnerable baby, unable even to prevent himself from being taken up in a stranger’s arms. This tiny flame, who will grow into ‘a light to lighten the Gentiles’ (Luke 2:32, KJV), is passed from hand to hand just as we must pass the light of the good news from person to person, which we do not only through preaching but through concrete, loving action. Jesus, the Light of the World, asks his church to become the light of the world.

‘Who may abide the day of his coming and who can stand when he appeareth?’ The answer is that, through his sacrifice on the Cross — the sign that will be opposed (Luke 2:34) — we all may abide. We all can be Simeons and go in the peace that we long for.

As Eliot says in the closing lines of ‘Little Gidding’:

all shall be well and
All manner of things shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

Marion Chatterley – Epiphany III – 27/1/2019

Nehemiah 8: 1-3, 5-6, 8-10;    1 Cor 12: 12-31a;    Luke 4: 14-21

Today is Holocaust Memorial Day, a day that has become a regular feature in the calendar and in the UK has broadened its remit to include not just the Holocaust of the second world war, but more recent incidents of genocide.  This year is the 25th anniversary of the Rwandan genocide and so we are asked to remember that shameful and devastating time in the life of a small African nation.  A time when within small villages, neighbours betrayed one another; a genocide that left no community untouched; a time whose impact is still being felt.  I’ve met some survivors of that genocide and they will live the rest of their lives as people who have been damaged by trauma.   One little example of that was a day when I introduced two women to one another, two women who had both lived through the genocide and are now in Scotland.  In my innocence I thought that each would be pleased to meet someone from her home country, but within moments I realized that there was something much bigger at play.  Each needed to identify very quickly which side the other belonged to, to identify friend or foe.  Luckily it was OK – but no thanks to me.

The strapline for Holocaust Memorial Day this year is Torn from Home.  Both of those women were effectively torn from home but they had brought their pain and history with them – and that history of home was far more significant than any shared story they may have had in this new place that they have come to call home.

One of the intellectual struggles we all have is to imagine how people find themselves in a position where they are committing despicable acts of violence against people whom they once called friends and neighbours.  And, of course, the journey from here to there is an incremental process.  That process has its roots in our sense of identity – the ways that we see ourselves and how we translate that sense of self onto other people.  We never really see ourselves as others see us- and we can be quick to forget that we don’t see other people as they see themselves.  You’ll know the Robert Owen quote ‘All the world is queer save thee and me, and even thee’s a bit queer’.

We make divisions and differences in all sorts of ways – many of which are completely trivial.  Think of the debates about whether jam or cream should be spread first on your scone or scone.   I do wonder whether