Many moons ago, when I was still a relatively young Christian, I did not like the feast of the Ascension for the very simple reason that physically speaking Jesus was no longer on earth after the Ascension. This must sound very odd. The bodily Jesus isn’t on earth at all now. But somehow, I felt as if he was from the moment of his birth as we celebrated it at Christmas to the moment of his ascension, Every year I felt ‘Emmanuel, God with us.’ God was somehow closer and more approachable.

Perhaps it was also something to do with my ability to comprehend God as long as he was in human form but not to begin to fathom the transcendental God, a God so mysterious and so other. All I knew of that God was,

“My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are my ways your ways.” (Isaiah 55:8)

I had not yet grown into the understanding and, more importantly, the experience of the “otherness” of God as not being “an other,” in the usual sense of that word: alien to me, foreign to me, someone strange and outside me. No, God’s otherness is ‘an other kind of otherness.’ He is so different that he pays those who have worked for an hour as much as he pays those who have worked a day; that he runs out to meet the younger son who has half destroyed the family inheritance and celebrates as if it were the son’s birthday; that instead of condemning a women for her sexual infidelity he makes those who accuse her realise that they are little better, and thereby saves the woman from certain death. God is so ‘other’ that he hears those who cannot cry out loudly, touches those who others believe are full of infectious diseases, pays special care to those who because of their gender are not allowed education, enjoys the company of those considered beyond the pale, and dies a criminal death on a rubbish heap. God is totally other because his ideas so often oppose our meagre ideas of human justice and care and show us deeply wanting.

I stopped feeling an “orphan” at Ascension time, when I realised that Jesus’ leaving the earth was not the end but the beginning of the gospel, as someone said. It is as if the gospels are the first book of a trilogy and we are in the second. The second book begins with the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost and once we have had even the slightest taste of the Holy Spirit in our lives, we are not only comforted (the Holy Spirit is sometimes called the Comforter) but we understand.

In the Acts of the Apostles, despite Christ’s departure, there is no need to speak of an “absentee Christology”. Though absent as a character from the narrative of Acts after chapter 1, the influence of Jesus throughout the rest of the narrative is profound. His name occurs no less than 69 times in Acts. He is at the centre of the church’s controversy with the Jews. He guides the church in its missionary efforts; he empowers the disciples to perform miracles. The ascended and exalted Christ, though absent as a character, is nonetheless a constant presence throughout the narrative. (Mikael C. Parsons)

And as we walk with God, we realise through his presence with us in the Holy Spirit that we have not been left alone to deal with life’s issues, either. God is always very much, Emmanuel, God with us, guiding us and holding us close.

Today we are beginning a labyrinth retreat at Launde Abbey. I am very excited about this as I think a labyrinth is a very useful tool for meditative prayer and contemplation; for review of our lives and our walk with God; for healing of memories and for discernment, and for peace and wholeness. It is also something that one can come to as a seeker or searcher.

But I have found that many people do not know what a labyrinth is. Too many people seem to think it is another name for a maze. Whatever the meaning in the past (and some authorities say it has changed) today the labyrinth is different from a maze.

If you have ever been to a maze you will know that it has high walls or hedges which you cannot see through or over. It is full of corridors that promise a passage to the centre but then, after having given you a very confusing journey, end in dead ends from which it is very often impossible to find your way back the way you came. You can get thoroughly lost in a maze and even a little frightened. It is not surprising that the fourth Harry Potter book, “The Goblet of Fire,” ends in a terrifying maze where the hedges take on a life of their own as they close in on the characters.

In a labyrinth today, certainly as used in Christian spiritual exercises, if the path is followed from the entrance, you will eventually get to the centre. In fact, you can see the centre at all times. It is just that the route to the centre winds around, so that at times you are closer to the centre and then further along the path you may see (and feel) that you are as far away almost as when you started. Are you getting anywhere?

The labyrinth is a good metaphor for the spiritual life. At times we feel very close to God; at other times we feel very far away. Sometimes we feel as if we are turning towards him; sometimes we turn our backs to him; sometimes we are in “consolation” – feeling open and in tune with the world and ourselves; sometimes we feel in “desolation” – distant from God, others and negative about ourselves. But the truth is we are always journeying towards God as long as we stay on the path.

Sometimes, however, our lives feel more like a maze. We cannot see where we are going. We don’t know what we are going towards. Things we hoped would open up for us come to a dead end. We feel as if we have no control, no power; the path we are on is not friendly.

Jesus in his teaching invited all of us to trust. The path he invites us to follow him on is a friendly path. His way (and in the first days of the Church, those who were Christians were said to follow “the Way”) is one that will take us eventually to the God who loves us. Each seeming dead end will open up and invite us into a new place; even dying will do this for us. His road is open and empowering; not enclosing and frightening. Truly, the metaphor for our walk through life is one of labyrinth, rather than maze.

There has been a lot of news and interviews around the theme of poverty in the last couple of weeks.  This is hardly surprising when you consider that it was Christian Aid Week and there was an excellent advertising campaign highlighting part of the work of Christian Aid on our televisions.  But it is, of course, about so much more than the call to look after those who are less fortunate than we out of some altruistic motive (although, understand me, I am not putting down altruism!).  Looking after those who are poor makes good sense in the end because it is self-serving in an entirely rational and wise way.  In an inaugural parliamentary lecture to launch Christian Aid Week, Dr Rowan Williams, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, highlighted the role that inequality plays in provoking violence.  Growing inequality threatens social cohesion, prosperity and democracy the world over.  The link between violence and historic poverty, terrorism and poverty and poverty and the breakdown of the rule of law in normally law abiding countries is well documented.

In our country we are told that there is a growing divide between the rich and the poor.  The harsh spending cuts are being felt in cities with the most children living in poverty.  A worrying 38% of kids in Manchester live below the breadline – 33% in Liverpool.  People can only take so much.  When they see so much wealth around them and know they have so little, their resentment and anger will grow.

“The Spirit Level” is a brilliant book which came out a few years ago with the subtitle, “Why equality is better for everyone.”  This book is full of the sort of statistics and graphs that usually turn me off, but the evidence it produces is challenging and overwhelming.  It asks similar sorts of questions to the ones Archbishop Rowen asked in his lecture.  Why do we mistrust people more in the UK than in Japan? Why do Americans have higher rates of teenage pregnancy than the French? What makes the Swedish thinner than the Australians? The answer: inequality.  If we want health and contentment; if we want the joys of the kingdom of God – peace, justice, love and mercy.  If we want to live well with our neighbour and happily with ourselves, we have to share; we need to seek a more equal society.  Too much wealth in too few hands is bad for us, including being bad for the people who have it.

Christian Aid Week may be over for this year, but the message of Christ continues, love your neighbour as yourself (that you may live well in the land your God has given you.)

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

We are in the season of Easter still, the season of resurrection. But we sometimes forget that resurrection is not bringing back to the same old life but taking us on to new life. Jesus was different after the resurrection. We, too, are different when we have died and been raised with Christ in this life, let alone whatever comes next. This new life is experienced differently, lived differently, as if from a different angle. It is, at its best, life in all its fullness.

I was reminded of this last Saturday, the 3rd May, when I had the great privilege of being one of a thousand people, mainly women wearing dog collars, who marched from Westminster Abbey to St Paul’s Cathedral for a service of thanksgiving for twenty years of women’s priestly ministry. It was in 1994 that dioceses across the country first ordained women as priests and I was one of them, ordained at St Paul’s Cathedral on the 16th April of that year.

It was a particular pleasure and privilege to have presiding over our Eucharist at St Paul’s, the Canon Treasurer of the cathedral, Philippa Boardman. I first knew Philippa when she was a member of the youth group in the church I attended, where I taught Sunday School. We were both lay people, of course, and young! Assisting Philippa at the Eucharist as deacon was the Archbishop of Canterbury and this was a particularly moving and powerful statement of shared ministry but also a vivid reminder that we are called to be servants – all of us, lay and ordained.

Philippa was there fighting for the rights of women to be ordained priest right from the beginning. It was her photograph that was splashed all over the front page of many of the newspapers the morning after the vote to ordain women was passed in General Synod in November 1992 – a happy, laughing face of joy. But, lest you think that Philippa is simply a political woman, in the past twenty years she has worked as parish priest in some of the very poorest and toughest areas of London. New life – yes! Twenty years ago Philippa could not have imagined that one day she would celebrate the Eucharist with the Archbishop at her side on the twentieth anniversary of women’s ordination to the priesthood. I am sure the life God has given her to lead in between has been exhilarating and tough, joyful and dismaying, life enhancing and exhausting. I am pretty sure there have been times when she has wanted to give it all up. It goes with the territory. But it is all real life.

But, as the Archbishop reminded us in his very simple but very incisive message in the cathedral, in the end, we are called not simply to celebrate (although that day a party was in full swing – and quite right, too!) We are called, lay and ordained, to follow Christ and dare to minister wherever the need is. Women’s priesthood simply makes whole that offering of the fullness of the image of God spoken of in the Creation story. In 1994 that was recognised more fully and women were given authority to lead, but more importantly to serve because a priest never stops being a deacon, and deacon and priest together express the authority that has service as its core value; in imitation of our Lord Jesus Christ who knelt to wash his disciples feet.

It has been an interesting few days.  Our last archbishop, a man for whom I have a very large amount of time, said that the UK is now a post-Christian country.  Our Prime Minister said that Christians should be more evangelical in their faith, and was roundly rebuked by some of our more vocal athiests.  Finally, the Vatican beatified two former popes, the radical and liberalising John 23^rd and the conservative John Paul 2^nd, as if to balance one against the other.  Against all this background, yesterday’s gospel blazed its own eternal message.

We had the story of “Doubting Thomas,” a wrong translation because nowhere in the original Greek is Thomas accused of doubting.  He is disbelieving or unbelieving – but of what?  Certainly not Jesus.  There can be no question of Thomas’ loyalty even to his dead friend.  No, Thomas disbelieves in the resurrection.  Why?  Because unlike Mary Magdalene, unlike the other ten disciples, he has not seen the risen Lord.  When we accuse Thomas of doubting we must remember that he is asking for no more than his friends have received, physical proof.  So, perturbed in spirit by their extraordinary claims, he says he will not believe unless he sees Jesus for himself and puts his fingers in the wounds made by the nails and his hand into the hole caused by the spear in Jesus’ side.

Jesus comes a week later and goes straight to Thomas, inviting him to see and touch.  Despite some rather gruesome pictures by painters like Caravaggio, which show Thomas tentatively putting his finger in Jesus’ side, there is no evidence in the gospel story that Thomas did that.  It was enough for Thomas to see the risen Jesus for him to fall on his knees, crying out, “My Lord and my God,” the most powerful resurrection confession of all of them because the first one that names Jesus as God.

What is so important about Thomas’s story is that we are reminded as fully as can be, that the raised body of Jesus carries the wounds of the crucified man.  Lest we forget or haven’t really grasped it, this story serves to remind us that it was God who suffered and died on the cross and that God forever bears the wounds of this suffering world “in his own body”, whether that is on view in Jesus or in the heart of God.

Jesus died an ignominious, cruel death, was buried in an anonymous tomb and the authorities hoped he would be forgotten.  But death could not defeat him and neither will our present times.  Like a phoenix from the ashes this story will rise again and again because who cannot respond passionately to a God who has “borne our sins and carried our diseases” and who continues to carry and to suffer for his suffering world.

Janet Morley called her book of poetry for Lent and Holy Week, “The Heart’s Time,” and it truly is.  Lent and this Holy Week especially invite us to concentrate on what our heart really longs for, needs, desires and craves.  At the very deepest part of ourselves we long for love and belonging, and at the very deepest part of that deep place we know the love we so urgently seek is more than we can find in another human being.

Holy Week is especially the time for the heart but it is so easy to let it pass by without receiving even a little of what it has to offer.  Over and over again I see people bypassing the cross of Good Friday and moving to the jollity of Easter Day – and I say “jollity” rather than joy because you don’t get what Easter Day is really about without Good Friday – you don’t get the joy of new life in Christ, which is more than anything, the knowledge that God loves you right to the bottom of that deep down place – unless you see that love fully exposed on the cross.

Of course, it is totally understandable, to want to avoid the cross and its horrors.  We all know the temptation to turn away from bad news stories in the media, particularly those which are full of suffering.  The cross is utterly horrific.  No one denies that.  But the extraordinary thing about Christ crucified is that as you gaze on the figure you are taken to another level, a deeper level.  You go past the outside and see the point of the whole thing.  The cross connects heaven and earth in its vertical line.  The arms of Jesus stretched out on the horizontal beams embrace all the earth.  Jesus himself is the faithful human one who never turns away from God, who never turns away from us.  He allows us for the first and only time to see what it might mean to be truly human, as God intended us to be; in perfect loving and trusting relation to him; resting in his care for us.

Jesus is raised on the cross and we are invited to gaze on him to see that which only the heart can see, love made perfect, love that tells us who God is, love that at last rescues us from fear and separation, love that forgives us because it can do no other.

All this – and so much more – is missed, if we only want the jollity of Easter Day.

This is being written on April 6th, the fifth Sunday of Lent and the beginning of Passiontide. The gospel this morning was the raising of Lazarus and this story, according to some theologians, is where the “tide” really turns against Jesus. John’s gospel which can be divided into two parts. The first part is the one about the Signs that Jesus performed. The second is about Christ’s “Glory,” a word John uses all the time to talk of the Passion: Jesus’ arrest, torture, crucifixion and death. For John the glory of God’s love in Christ shows forth through these terrible events:

For God so loved the world…”

The raising of Lazarus is the last of Jesus’ Signs but also the event that determines the religious authorities to have him killed, rather than the remarks he makes about the temple, according to John. What happens, other than the most extraordinary event that would make you think they would turn to Jesus (the raising of Lazarus) to bring them to this pitch of fear and hatred?

There is some evidence in the text that there is a breakdown in attitude within the religious authorities themselves. At the end of the set gospel we read this,

Many of the Jews therefore, who had come with Mary and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him. (John 11:45)

When John writes “the Jews” this is his shorthand for the antagonistic Jewish authorities, the Pharisees, Sadducees and Priests – those who stood for the status quo and were against Jesus from the start. Before this incident with Lazarus there is a sense of a united front amongst the authorities, but here we read that some start to believe in him. If our gospel reading had gone on a little further we would have read:

But some of them went to the Pharisees and told them what he had done. 47 So the chief priests and the Pharisees called a meeting of the council…Caiaphas, who was high priest that year, said to them…“50 You do not understand that it is better for you to have one man die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed.”

The greatest fear when it comes to power is when those who we thought were on our side and thought as we did, change sides. Our position is crumbling. The authorities had begun by ridiculing Jesus. As his influence grew so did their smear campaigns and their intellectual attack. Now, afraid as they see even their friends succumbing to his influence and the terrible threat of Roman reaction, they are determined Jesus must be eliminated.

We may not think we are prone to such reactions but perhaps we should look at ourselves more closely; look at the way you feel about your culture, your belief system and your politics. Who threatens you? Who would you like simply not to be around so that you could be a little more comfortable inside your skin; a little less disturbed? And where does our pre-conditioned prejudice stop us from seeing and hearing the truth.

On retreat last week I was reminded of how important waiting is. It is not at all something that we are used to or good at in our world today. As someone pointed out one of our new gods is called “Instant;” another is called “Distraction” – the need to be entertained in every moment. Neither of these gods sits comfortably with waiting. There is a kind of courtesy involved in waiting. We wait for or wait on someone or something until they are ready. Waiting demands patience. It demands that we hand over power to the other. It lives by the old adage that the best things in life are worth waiting for.

What do we have to wait for? First thing, upon waking and best done gazing out the window, cup of tea in hand, we wait for the spirit of the day to make itself known. As we pause and gaze, resisting the temptation to switch on the radio or hurry up and get dressed, we allow God’s presence to be felt. You can’t force this. You have to wait. But the reward is that already the day has depth and meaning. Even if this is the only pausing we do all day it will change the taste of the day.

Leaving the house the temptation is to be full of what we are going towards, our journey to work, or what we have to do. We can be completely oblivious to life outside our heads. We are also living entirely in the future and not in the present moment at all. So the invitation as you open the front door and step out is to pause and again wait on the day. Let it come to you; let it greet you in the weather you step into: the physical feelings of warmth or cold on your skin, the sounds of birdsong, breeze, rain, traffic. Smell the smells: everything from tarmac to sweet smells of grass or box hedge to coffee or curry! Observe the trees; notice the ones coming into bud. Be aware of the people. Look at the sky, at the buildings, at the birds in the trees. And then just pause again. In those moments of being and waiting the day tenderly gives itself to you.

In everything we do we are invited to be patient and to wait so that the other may come to us. So we wait on a painting we are looking at until it begins to “speak” to us. We read a piece of scripture or a poem slowly and sometimes more than once and then just sit with it until something communicates itself to us. In conversation we wait for the other person to share without hurrying into our agenda. If the conversation gets deep we allow the silences. With a small child or animal we wait until they feel confident enough to come towards us. We respect their space and needs.

We can get into the habit of pausing during the day and allowing all the richness outside ourselves if we practice it. The more we practice just stopping and waiting for a few moments, the more habitual it becomes and the more alive we feel. It probably starts though with that waiting first thing in the morning. A new day full of its own life and I am allowed to be part of it, thanks be to God.

Temptation is one of those subjects that comes to mind in Lent, especially when we are feeling the temptation to eat or drink something we have given up during this forty day period. Do you ever give in? I sometimes do, after I have made a good case for it in my head!”

We are told that Jesus was “tempted in every way as we are, but without sin.” The gospel writer might appear to be telling us that Jesus never gave in to temptation. But, as someone once said, this doesn’t mean that it was easy for Jesus. Anyone of us who has ever really been tempted and has struggled against it, knows it can be very hard. Perhaps it is most hard when everyone around you is doing whatever it is you are holding out against and teases you or jeers at you for not joining in. Perhaps it is even more difficult when you are not absolutely sure you are right. The point is that the one who is tempted in every way as we are but doesn’t give in, knows more about temptation, not less. Those of us who give in quickly and easily know very little about it, because we give into it so easily. So Jesus knew more about temptation than the average human being, not less.

Reading the story of the Temptations in the Wilderness one could get the idea that this episode was a one-off and that Jesus was not sorely tempted again until the night before his death when praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. But most human beings are assailed again and again by the same temptations. Under stress or strain many of us succumb. What if Jesus was also tempted when tired or under particular stress or strain?

When Jesus realized that they were about to come and take him by force to make him king, he withdrew again to the mountain by himself. (John 6: 1-15)

This verse is from the story of the feeding of the 5,000. Unlike its counterparts in the other gospels, John mentions the time of year: it is Passover. Some believe that this is John’s “Last Supper” as that event is not mentioned in this gospel. The bread that comes from an amount so small feeds thousands, keeps them alive and well. Christ’s sacrificial death is the Bread of Life and will feed millions and give everlasting life. But what of the last verse of this particular event, v 15.

We are told that Jesus withdraws when he realises that the crowd are about to make him king. In the Wilderness all the temptations are fundamentally about winning power, through feeding people, force or magic tricks. He turns away from all three because they will not win peoples’ hearts and minds to God’s way of love. In the story of the Feeding of the 5,000, Jesus, whilst not turning stones into bread most certainly multiplies loaves so that all are fed- and then suddenly the crowd want to make him king: the temptation to power.

Jesus withdraws to be by himself. Is he running away again from the temptation to be popular, relevant and powerful? It doesn’t matter if he is because he is running where we should all run, back to the real source of life, back to his true self, and away from what the world would have him be, back home to his Father-God. Or is Jesus simply seeking to be alone and refreshed by the Holy Spirit; back on balance, centred, quiet and still?

Re-turning to God is what we all need to do when tempted. It is also what we also need to do when we have simply had a long, hard day and there have been just too many demands on us. Pulled outside of ourselves and fragmented we return to the Father in prayer and we become ourselves again, back on balance.

One of my Lenten disciplines this year is to read all four gospels during the 40 days of Lent. This may sound a hefty task to take on but in reality it is about 10 minutes a day. The plan I am using is the “Biblegateway” one and you can access it through the internet. You even get one day a week rest day – the Sabbath – Sunday!

It is really good to read a chunk of the bible through every day and many of us do so through reading plans or the daily office but to get a run at the gospels is a real gift. I am experiencing two contrasting things. First, a sense of familiarity and comfort from words I have lived with most of my life (certainly my adult life) and secondly surprise as I see things I have never noticed before. So the familiar is full of the unfamiliar. The God of Surprises keeps tapping me on the shoulder.

One such moment happened last week when I was reading Matthew 12 and the story of the disciples picking the ears of corn to eat as they walked through a field on the Sabbath, “because they were hungry.” The ever watchful Pharisees immediately jumped on the event complaining to Jesus that his disciples were breaking the Sabbath law about work (not about eating someone else’s wheat, you notice!) In verse 7, Jesus replies,

But if you had known what this means, “I desire mercy and not sacrifice”, you would not have condemned the guiltless. 8For the Son of Man is lord of the Sabbath.’

The words that jumped out at me were, “you would not have condemned the guiltless.” I had never really seen them before with such clarity. I know how often I condemn the guiltless in my thoughts, if not in my words and actions. If there is someone whom I am having difficulty with I am just as likely as the Pharisees to search for something that I see as wrong in the other person and jump on that, condemning people who may well be truly guiltless, but if they are not who deserve a little more understanding and compassion from me then I am willing to give them.

The chapter continues with two more illustrations of the Pharisees condemning Jesus who is guiltless. The first is when he heals the man with the withered hand, again condemned because this act of mercy is on the Sabbath; the second when he heals a blind-mute man. On that occasion Jesus is accused of being able to do what he does do through an association with Beelzebub, the devil!

The chapter is a vivid indictment of the human inclination to condemn the guiltless, not only personally but within society as well. In the UK we have always been very good at blaming people who are poor for being poor, for example, instead of really looking at the root causes of poverty and addressing them. Some of our media make matters worse by talking of people on benefits as “scroungers” whereas we know that many people are working in low paid jobs, are elderly or disabled. And this is just one example of our condemning the guiltless or at least not treating them with mercy.

I wonder what Jesus would say to us?