Christ and the Cross
God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength
Do you ever have one of those days? Do you ever have moments when you feel that everything, but everything is getting on top of you? That kind of experience when you feel that you can’t rely on anything or anyone, that you’ve got far too much to do, that you are over-worked, underpaid - indeed, undervalued, which is even worse - and that, frankly, nobody gives a damn...? The kind of day when you want either to burst into tears, have a screaming match with someone, or lock yourself away from the rest of the world with either a large chocolate cake or a litre of whisky, or preferably both?
If you haven’t, I would love to know what your secret it. If you have - well so have I. Frankly, in the last month, I’ve had two or three of those days - which is rare for me - days when I’ve really had enough, and have been close to tears, anger or other forms of excess at level beyond which I don’t normally go. And it happens to us all, I think, for different reasons, and in different ways, and at different times. The question is what we do about it...
Because, of course, it’s not good to shout at people, much though I, and perhaps you, sometimes want to do so. And I’m not really one for bursting into tears - I only usually cry at very silly, inessential things - usually the Simpsons. And while most of you know I have predilections both for chocolate and whiskey, there has to be an element of moderation, even though I am often tempted to think otherwise. So what do I do about it?
Well, I’m a lucky person in so many ways, and one reason I am lucky is that, whatever I’m feeling, like most people I have to get on with my job. And, on a normal weekday, my job involves coming in here at 8.30am and 5pm to say my prayers - sometimes with other people, and sometimes on my own. And, no matter how rushed, or angry, or manic, or upset, or whatever I am feeling, I sit in my stall in the Lady Chapel and I look at the crucifix - the portrayal of Jesus on the cross - and I remember that, actually, he knows exactly how I’m feeling (and, furthermore, he knows how I’m feeling with far better cause than I will ever have). And do you know, by the end of 15 minutes quiet prayer, I am always feeling better than when I began. And I think that that is because God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength
I hope you understand that. I really hope you do - and, given that you are here in church this evening, taking part in this service, I think there’s a good chance that you do understand exactly what I’m talking about. But, if that is true, you and I have to recognize that we are talking a language that the world outside really doesn’t understand. For, as Paul put it in that reading we just heard, Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles. The world simply doesn’t get it - and we can see that in all sorts of ways...
I saw it on the lips of my parents when I first told them that I wanted to be a priest. They were horrified - horrified that I would waste my life, rather than getting a real career and accumulating a real salary. I saw something very similar from the parents of a girlfriend who thought that we were getting serious, and were horrified that their daughter might throw her life away on someone who had so little earning potential.
You and I have seen it in many context, I suspect, when people have discovered that we indulge in this strange process of going to church. Why, they wonder, do we bother. It is far from uncommon to see a reaction to a serious profession of Christian faith that is clearly a mixture of uncomfortable embarrassment, coupled with a sense that we are clearly mildly off our heads. Clearly, in the eyes of many, we are fools - just as much today, as when Saint Paul was trying to explain his newfound Christian faith to the world around him. And what fools we are:
And that’s because God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength
That verse - which is the equivalent of what is usually called a Mission Statement for the well known Christian website Ship of Fools - that verse reminds us that, perhaps, not all fools are quite the same. Reminds us, perhaps, that in our foolishness there is something that is nevertheless profoundly appealing. Indeed, only this morning, I found myself in conversation with a newcomer to church who had come through our doors for the very first time, because they were looking for comfort. For comfort and support in dealing with those huge, fundamental issues that can give any of us sleepless nights - for comfort and support in working out what life was about, and how to make sense of the fact that we are all going to die. Foolish or not, it was to us - us, the Body of Christ - that this person turned. I don’t know if we were a first resort or a last resort - it doesn’t matter - but this person recongized that while we may not have an easy sign to recognize, or conventional wisdom that the world understands with which to offer reassurance, we had something even more important.
And what is it that we have? St Paul was clear: Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are called...the power of God and the wisdom of God.
For when the chips are down, we might just be the people that have something authentic to say about sadness and worry and suffering and agony and even death itself. We might just have something to say for those times when success stops succeeding, and when strength fails to solve problems. In the middle of the horrors of the First World War, a free church minister called Edward Shillito penned the profound words
For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength and that is what the Cross tells us constantly, as we look on that figure broken down by pain and death, hanging limp and broken on its beams. That is why we dare call that extraordinary Friday Good. That is why, I believe, God has something useful to do for me and say to me when I have one of those days, and end up in a state of emotional turmoil sitting in the lady chapel, and come out feeling better. Because God knows about our suffering, our fear, our pain, and even our death - and he knows first hand. And that gives us, us who are the Body of Christ, something remarkable and something unique to say to the wider, waiting world.
That little strand of war poetry, of course, stemmed from an age when the church was still respected. While I think many of the soldiers who died awful deaths at the Somme and in the other battles of the Great War may not have understood the point behind their senseless slaughter thousand by thousand, but, I suspect, they would not have felt they could question either God or church as to what was happening to them. The world has changed since then - changed in such a way that the message of the cross - the message of God’s foolishness and weakness is all the more necessary. So let me end with some words from a much more contemporary source - from a poet called Les Murray, who is generally regarded as Australia’s greatest living poet. I should say that you are likely to remember this sermon for one word of his I am about to quote - I am relying on your own wisdom and maturity to ensure that the word will not be the only thing you remember about this sermon, and, indeed, you will remember the context into which he places it.
For Murray is writing, and writing very movingly about his father’s death. The poem is called The Last Hellos, and for anyone who has endured the lingering death of a parent, it speaks poignantly to the agony that can involve. And so, in the poem, Murray traces his dad’s last few months of increasing helplessness, as he talks about the courage of his bluster and the firm big voice of his confusion, through to the two last days in the hospital, and the inevitable funeral. It’s not, at first, a poem you could call optimistic, even if it is realistic. And then, at the end, by way of a PS, comes a sentiment so out of the blue and shocking and amazing, that the first time I read it I was moved to stillness and silence for several minutes. For Murray, evidently, recognizes how important God’s foolishness and weakness truly is. And so, having consigned his father sadly into the grave, he finishes by saying
Snobs mind us off religion
nowadays, if they can.
Fuck thém. I wish you God.
Or, in the words of the author of our final hymn,
All heaven is singing,
'Thanks to Christ, whose Passion
offers in mercy healing, strength and pardon.
Peoples and nations, take it, take it freely!'
Amen! My Master!
Dominic Barrington, 14th September, 2008
