Sermon

Ylva Blid-Mackenzie

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“Weep if you must,

Parting is hell,

But life goes on,

So sing as well.”

 

The well-known closing lines from Joyce Grenfell’s poem, often read at funerals, are appropriate for today, I feel.

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Only, of course, singing can only be in our own home, or perhaps in the car, right now. Maybe just as well. I remember trying to join the choir for an Advent season. It was not a great success, and best not repeated.; although I LOVE to sing! But love alone does not make you a good singer, or a choir member. Luckily it turned out that I had some other gifts…

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And that is what St Paul is wanting to gently point out to his Roman readers in our Epistle reading. Everyone has their area where they can do most good. Some of us can sing. Some of us can play the organ beautifully, like Christine, or another instrument, like Pandy. Some of us can teach. Some of us can – sort of – preach. Some of us can speak truth to power – that is, they can prophecy – and some of us can “minister”, says St Paul, whatever we understand by that term. We are members of Christ’s body, he says. All are equally valuable, all are necessary, but not all are the same. So, my gentle challenge to you, as I leave, is – what is your gift? How can you best be an effective ‘member’ of Christ’s body?

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“Parting is hell.” Yes, I’m not finding this easy. You have all been part of my family, my Church Family, all these years. From first starting to attend church in fits and starts, then evermore regularly, to getting more and more involved in prayer, worship and leading. All the small acts of kindness, of encouragement, of support, and yes, of love, that you have given me over the years. They add up. They matter, more than you think.

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I hope I have been able to give something in return. Because I do care for all of you. You matter to me. This is why parting is so difficult. To be able to go to a new place we have to leave something, some people behind.

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I have been in a sort of limbo this summer, just as you have and still are, in the interregnum, and maybe in your lives as well, as we do not know what Covid will do next. My Ordination, which you would all have been so warmly welcome to attend, did not go ahead at the end of June, as was planned. Now it will hopefully happen at the end of September, but with minimal amounts of guests, only my family and one or two more.

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Hence, I will be leaving you as a lay person, really no different from when I joined you, and yet so very different! The grey hair, for one!!

No, but jokes aside, God, with your able help, has made me grow and change and, sort of, expand (and I’m not only referring to the waistline here) – as all are capable of and as all are invited to do. God wants to transform each one of us. He has a task for us, often unknown to us ourselves, which he wants us to discover and to perform, but more than that, he wants us to grow into the full person, the authentic person, the true person that we have the capacity to be.

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Look at our Gospel reading. Jesus chooses Peter out of all the disciples to be the foundation for his Church. Peter. Rash, clumsy Peter. Overexcited Peter. Slightly dense Peter. Was there really no one else? But Jesus sees what others could not. He sees a man as a rock. Dependable, solid. Loyal. And yet, Peter went on to deny him three times!

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So, it’s clearly not because we are perfect that God wants us on his team. No one is more surprised than I, that I now leave you to become a Curate in Benenden and Sandhurst. Who had anticipated that? Not me, that’s for sure.

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I remember when I did the training to take funerals as a lay person. As the discussion came about what I should wear, it was decided that I ought to have a cassock. On the order form you could indicate if you wanted your cassock to be able to take a dog collar. I ticked an emphatic ‘NO’, as I was sure I would never become a priest! If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans, as the old Jewish proverb says….

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That dog collar, will it change me? It will certainly change how others see me. For good or for ill, people have a view on ‘Vicars’, or people in Holy Orders. They have expectations, prejudices, preconceived ideas, which no one could live up to. But knowing this, there is also a temptation to dismiss it. “I’m just a regular guy, or girl”. That’s not true either. The dog collar says something. Something about the trust that will be placed in me by the Church, but ultimately by God, and the trust that people should be able to have, when they meet me.

You don’t wear a dog collar. But maybe you wear a cross? How often have I met people, clocked that they wear a cross, and felt immediately reassured, or connected? They will ‘get it’. They will be sympathetic. They will be kind. Of course this is not true of every Christian, just as it is not true of every priest, but that is my expectation. And often it has been proved to be right. So, when we wear a cross, or a collar, it is both a privilege and an obligation.

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“Life goes on”. Yes, it does. There will be many reasons to miss each other, but many more to meet up again. I will still be living at Madrona Nursery, and I will still be running both the Nursery and my design business. You can always come and find me there. The tea urn is on and fruit cake is served! After three years of Curacy we will see what happens – God has a plan, that’s all I know, and I do fully trust that it’s a good one.

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“Weep if you must”. All who know me know that I’m a little bit lachrymose. I easily well up. I’m sentimental. As the Germans say: I’m “built close to water”. At first, I saw this as a great barrier to ministry. How could I possibly sit by the bedside, or talk to the bereaved, if my eyes filled up? But, as I prepared to go in front of the Bishops’ Panel, I had to accept that this is part of who I am. And as soon as I accepted it, it became much less of a problem.

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My role model here is Gundolf (or Gundulf), one time Bishop of Rochester in the 11th century. He was a very holy man, and a very capable one. A monk from Bec in Normandy, he came to England following the Conquest. As Bishop, he transformed the landscape around him, building several important castles and both the White Tower of the Tower of London and Rochester Cathedral. He was also known as a real cry baby! Only, in Gundolf’s time this seems to have had a different take-up. Crying was seen as a sign of holiness and of deep connection to God. The fact that Gundolf would cry at Mass twice a day just made him more admired! So, if, like me, you feel like weeping, just think of Gundolf. If it was good enough for him, it’s OK for us too!

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In our Old Testament reading from Isaiah, God promises to transform Zion, to make her wilderness like Eden and her desert like the Garden of the Lord. In that garden will be found “joy and gladness, thanksgiving and the voice of song.” This time is a little bit like the desert and the waste places – featureless, indeterminate, unknown. But God’s promise holds here as well. He will transform our desert time, and our waste places into a flowering garden, filled with song.

Church and village will be brought to life again. Singing will return. This is a promise from God that we can trust. But also, we can let God transform us, here where we find ourselves, and make our desert flourish, perhaps watered with tears, but full of unexpected flowers!

Amen