An
illustrated sermon preached by Ray Anglesea at St Catherine’s Parish Church,
Crook, Maundy Thursday, 5th April 2012.
Since spreading its wings in February 1998 Antony
Gormley's The Angel of the North has
become one of the most talked about and controversial pieces of public art ever
produced. Rising 20 meters from a former Gateshead colliery pithead baths, the
Angel, made from 200 tonnes of steel, dominates the skyline, dwarfing all those
who come to see it. Most surprising of all was that the design model for Gormley’s
Angel became the first £1m object to be valued on BBC One's Antiques Road show
in 2008.
But like most of Gormley’s work the Angel at the time of
its construction aroused quite a bit of controversy including a "Gateshead
stop the statue" campaign. His work is still controversial. Here is a piece, called Transport,
it is suspended above the site of the most venerated shrine in all
Anglicanism, the first tomb of Archbishop Thomas Becket, murdered at Canterbury
cathedral in 1170. It is made up of old iron nails taken from the repaired roof
of the Kent Cathedral.
Another controversial
sculpture which excited the religious press last year was this. The
Scottish artist David Mach
made this 9-foot sculpture of the crucified Christ out of 3,000 coat hangers,
in part, to honour the 400th anniversary of the King James Bible. The "Coat Hanger Christ," as it is
being called, was on display outside St. Giles' Cathedral on Edinburgh's Royal
Mile. This year it is in Southwark
Cathedral, London. My Methodist churches in Spennymoor, Sedgefield, Ferryhill
and Crook Churches Together have already viewed it during my Lent services –
their comments reflect that of my wife – they don’t like it!
Perhaps
one of the most controversial pieces of twentieth century art is a piece
entitled Victim no resurrection, a uncompromising and controversial
crucifix painted some 27 years by Terry Duffy in the aftermath of the 1981 Toxteth
riots (it
seems astonishing that last month in Liverpool the Labour Council
made a Tory grandee Freeman of the City, Michael Heseltine. He was overheard to
say that walking the streets of Toxteth
after the riots was one of the most influential experiences of
his political life). Over the years the painting which originally sought to bring attention
to the plight of the poor and black of Liverpool, now inspires a more contemporary
context to Christ’s passion focusing upon issues of global importance, the
victims of genocide, holocaust, slavery, torture, terrorism, tyranny, bigotry
and hatred. From Liverpool the crucifix has been installed in a variety of locations
around the world, Dresden, South Africa, Belfast, New York, Auschwitz, Sudan,
Bosnia, China, South America, Palestine and finally Jerusalem paradoxically at
Easter 2014 for the 'Resurrection'.
I caught up with the cross a couple of years
ago at St Ethelburga’s, Bishop’s Gate near Liverpool Street Station, London. It
seemed to me when I was looking at it that this cross is like a window into human suffering. What
this cross articulated was not salvation, but a very raw scream – a scream
welling up from the guts of pain and suffering. The head of the figure shakes
in chaos. The left hand is flayed open as though fanning the panic, the right
hand frail as though starved of nourishment. In the midst of the image, a knot of
agony: dark, bruised, cut, defaced, bleeding, a vulnerable body – exposed,
defaced, tangled, running.
Looking
into this controversial cross I am reminded of the victims of torture, today;
the victims of natural disaster, the refugee, the asylum seeker – struggling,
alienated, confronting; homeless people longing for change. I am reminded of
the lonely, the broken, the struggling, the elderly fighting old age, my friend
dying with cancer.
I
was reminded of my own deepest fears. When the crucifix was hung last year in
St Martin’s in the Field, London, the vicar wanted to put a question mark at
the end of the title Victim – no resurrection? To seek to imply that yes, in
faith we believe that all suffering is redemptive.
But
as I looked at the crucifix I began to think there is something profoundly
disturbing about a victim without hope. Who wants to acknowledge that? It is
ugly. It is frightening. We turn away. “No Lord, I will never betray you – even
if others forget you and fall away, I will never betray you.” “No, this cannot
happen to you.” “What are you talking about?” the disciples ask Jesus. So what
do we do? We try to make the narrative safe – to turn the horror of this death
into an episode on the way to happy ever after, where Good Friday will soon
lead us into Easter eggs and new life, fresh flowers in an Easter garden. Of
course it struck me that Jesus did not know this narrative and neither did his
disciples. Certainly he may have glimpsed a beyond – but not for sure. Tonight
begins a journey into darkness – a journey made more fearful because, if we
open our eyes, we realise this journey into darkness is the experience of many
and can be our own journey too. It is the journey of faith, where the future is
not known.As
I look at Duffy’s controversial cross and that knot of agony I think of my
mother-in-law soon to be 103 and the weariness of old age. I think of my terminally
ill friend facing only further illness. I think of the anger of a homeless unemployed
person telling me of the injustice he is facing, and what am I going to do
about it? I think of the lives lost 100 year ago this month from that great
ship Titanic which we remembered in our choir concert last
Saturday night at The Sage.
Here is the Irish sculpture’s Rowan Gillespie’s new
statue Titanica, crucifix in shape, unveiled
last week in front of the new Belfast Titanic Museum. I think of the
service men who lost their lives 30 years ago in the Falkland conflict, the
plight of today’s people in Syria, Christians in Zimbabwe and Pakistan – an
unexpected and sudden death on a Spring morning, a death that left the family confused, bewildered, even
angry. The sudden mystery of death can seem cruel, sudden and like all deaths
final, irrevocable, absurd, often savage. The world can be a contradictory
place. There is so much wonder in it, so much splendour, like David
Attenborough’s recent acclaimed Frozen Planet. So much enjoyment and pleasure
like a good novel, the love of grandchildren, the music of Beethoven, the Beatles
and Red Hot Chilli Peppers. On the one hand one is bedevilled by the sight of
so much poverty which destroys human life; diseases which frustrate the
happiness of thousands; hunger and want which afflicts multitudes; the threat
of war and disaster and constant violence turns a garden of paradise into a
valley of death. How can all this suffering, all this agony, all this darkness
be reconciled with the God who claims he is a God of love, of mercy and friendship?
And
I know...... know deeply that all of us at some stage in our lives we like that
bereaved family must make that journey into darkness, that journey into the
unknown. Christ is in that very position on the night he is betrayed, on this
Holy night. And tonight we have come once more to look to him. He is about to
make that journey we most fear, to ‘the root of the scream’ on the Duffy
crucifix. What does he show to us? What does he leave with us which can help
us? Why have we chosen to remember this?
Take heart! Jesus is not simply going
to leave us with platitudes, and words. He is going to leave us actions –
sacraments, visible signs, to help us in the darkness.
The
first thing we are told is that he had always loved his disciples in this world,
and he loved them until the end. The reason we have gathered tonight is
that this is not past tense; this is now. We too have gathered here as
Christ’s disciples and we are told, he loves us until the end. To show that
love Jesus performs an action. It was awkward and controversial then for
the disciples; it is awkward now. It disorientates us, makes us
uncomfortable, feel embarrassed and unworthy. “Not my feet. Choose someone
else’s.” Our leader, the one we respect, admire, love, look to, give authority
– strips off his outer garments and wants to wash our feet. There is an impulse
to resist this. “I don’t want my feet washed. I don’t want this reversal of
roles.
I want my God to control things, not
to serve me, not to depend on me.” “I have given you an example,” he says, “and
you must also do what I have done to you.” In the face of his own death, Jesus’
action is not one of obvious defiance but profound humility. Quite the opposite
of self defence, he responds to his impending betrayal and attack with an
action of complete self-giving – an action so contrary to self-preservation
that it disturbs us, disorientates us, perhaps makes us cry out with Peter,
“Are you going to wash my feet too?” He even responds to his betrayer with
love.
The next controversial action that we will remember
tonight is also startling, disorientating, hard to explain. Jesus will take
bread in his hands and say to us: “This is my body, given to you,” take wine
and say “this is my blood, shed for a new relationship between humanity and God
– my blood poured out for the forgiveness of sins.”
In
a very direct and radical way Jesus is giving himself to you, body and spirit,
as we enter the darkness. I cannot say these words at a communion table without
sensing that they reach to the deepest part of all of me and all of us. I
cannot explain these actions, I don’t think any sacramental theology ever
really can explain and define them or make them safe. And yet these actions do
speak to us. Speak to us at the deepest level of our personhood. We must dare
to live them. This is God’s love given to you. This is God’s life given into
your life. This is the visible sign of the truth that will lead you through the
darkness.
Perhaps at moments, we, like those
first disciples, will lose sight of all of this. We will be swept up into doubt
and confusion, but return again and again to these signs – even with trembling.
This is the height, the depth, the breadth of God’s love. Nothing will separate
you from that love. On the one hand, this seems to be the most vulnerable
thing, the most exposed thing to be offered, and yet it is also the most
precious gift in all the world and the one we are called to share.
This
is where resurrection begins. Begins in darkness. Begins in fear. Begins in
doubt. Begins in the offering of a love seemingly so powerless.
Amen
Exodus
12.1-4, 11-14;
John
13.1-17, 31b-35
Ray
Anglesea is a self supporting minister working in St Andrew’s Dawson Street
LEP, Crook and in the wider West Durham Methodist Circuit
