Pentecost 13

Isaiah 51.1-6; Matthew 16.13-20
As you enter the Cathedral through its great West doors, I don’t how many of you look up, above the arch, and see, seated there, St Peter. You know it’s Peter because he carries in his right hand a large key. And in the Lady Chapel, in its East windows, stands the figure of Peter brandishing a somewhat similarly oversized key. That iconography goes back, of course, to the passage we heard as today’s Gospel from Matthew – Jesus renaming Simon as Peter, the rock. The rock on whom Jesus will build his church, and to whom he gives the keys of the kingdom. That prominent place for Peter by, or above, the door is understandable given that exchange between Jesus and Peter, and reinforces the popular belief that Peter is the gatekeeper, the one whom you will meet at the gates of heaven, using his key to let you in, or lock you out.
I wonder, however, how true that characterisation is to the exchange between Jesus and his disciples, for whom Peter is the spokesperson – an exchange which leads to Peter’s renaming and the symbolic presentation of the keys of the kingdom. The exchange begins with Jesus asking his disciples to share with him what his impact – or rather that of the Son of Man, a term Jesus appears to often use of himself – what the impact has been on the general population: ‘Who do people say that the Son of Man is?’ And the question elicits a mixed bag of responses, perhaps reflecting the stir that Jesus has caused, but also the sense there is no general agreement; still a degree of controversy or discussion about where he fits, what he’s about. But the follow up question cuts through any prevarication; is not concerned with what others might think; or any longer with the figure of the Son of Man. Now Jesus addresses the disciples directly, and asks them to declare their minds: ‘But who do you say that I am?’
And Peter famously responds, cutting to the heart of things and nailing his colours to the mast: ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’
And it is to that declaration that Jesus responds by re-naming him, and telling him he has the keys of the kingdom. It is a declaration of faith, a moment of truth-telling, a cutting to the chase that leads to Peter’s renaming, to the founding of the church, to the giving of keys. It’s important to remember that Peter will quickly reveal that he doesn’t understand the full import of that declaration, that his notion of messiahship will be contradicted and undone by Jesus’ way of suffering and cross. His moment of truth-telling is the beginning and not the end of understanding. But nevertheless, the keys of the kingdom are given in response to a willingness to seek after truth. And not just a general truth – not the truth of what other people are saying – but the truth as it makes demands on Peter and the other disciples – ‘Who do you say that I am?’ And what does that mean for you; what does it commit you to?
To enter this building, under Peter and his key, should make us expect that same moment of demanding, costly truth-telling. To come into this Cathedral is to be in the business of seeking after truth. Not just general, abstract truths, but the truth that is personal, that we live by and into. A truth that demands something of us – faith, commitment. ‘Who do you say that I am?’
We are focusing today on the Coat of Hopes – bringing into the Cathedral that remarkable garment. As Marion told us at the beginning, it is a Coat that was assembled and made in the process of pilgrimage. Pilgrimage toward COP26 in Glasgow, but more particularly pilgrimage toward the precarious future our planet faces given the climate and ecological emergency that our patterns of life have unleashed. It was made by asking people to be honest about their hopes, as well as their fears and griefs; and then by weaving those together. It is a Coat that embodies therefore a collective moment of truth-telling; not truth in the abstract, but as it is embodied personally, with all its demands, and questions.
Barbara Keal, who devised and oversees the Coat on its pilgrimage, asks that its song be sung every time the Coat is worn, or presented. I’m not going to attempt to sing that from the pulpit – you wouldn’t want that. But, particularly in the context of those piercing questions addressed to Peter and the disciples in our Gospel, the Song similarly asks questions of us as we engage with the Coat:
Ask me where I'm going
Ask me what is my purpose
Ask me what my name is
They call me the Coat of Hopes

In Edinburgh today, then south to Galashiels I'm bound
Worn and walked along my way when those willing can be found
In truth my destination is each person that I meet
The turning of our future is on all our backs and feet

Ask me where I'm going
Ask me what is my purpose
Ask me what my name is
They call me the Coat of Hopes

Next Sunday we will embark on the season of creation time. That will be a focused time to confront and explore the truth of what we are doing to our global home, what our appropriate responses to that might be, what that demanding truth asks of us. But today we are asked by the Coat – by the hopes it embodies and represents – whether we can make a similar commitment to hope.
To hope is not to express a general optimism that everything is going to be ok. As St Paul insists, hope is the virtue that is born in times of tribulation, when the demands of this moment become clear; when we are honest and willing to be truthful. Hope is born when we refuse to take the easier, and readily available options of our time, the options of cynicism or despair. To enter the church is to begin to be truthful, and even in that moment to find faith and hope.
On Friday evening, the Cathedral hosted the remarkable artist Issam Kourbaj. I would encourage you to seek out his book Dark Water, Burning World – a few copies are still available in the Resurrection Chapel after the service. At the heart of his recent art, in response to the Syrian uprising, the civil war, and the consequent fleeing of millions of refugees, Issam has started making small boats. The boats themselves are made out of bent metal – repurposed bicycle mudguards. And in each boat, held in glue at the bottom of the boat, stand a group of tightly packed matchsticks, each one of them burnt. These tiny boats are almost toy-like, but are not toys, but rather bearers of hard questions. The matchsticks are like people, of course, as seemingly disposable as our collective response seems to make them.
The matchsticks – the people – are huddled together, frightened, in a boat that is barely sea-worthy. Each single one bears the scars of what they are fleeing. They are all burnt, but they are none of them broken. They stand upright, and together. In their shared predicament they form a community.
On Friday, Issam was asked about if there is any hope in his images, his boats. His answer did not come easy – hope had to be wrested out of this situation; could only be born out of a recognition of the tribulation. But, he said, the glue, the resin, that held the matchsticks, the people, upright; that held them close – that was the hope.
What holds us upright? Holds us close, and forms community – the church - in this time of tribulation? To answer those questions, honestly; to allow their demand to shape us, that is to be given the keys of the kingdom; to be the church; to answer Jesus’s question to each of us. Amen.