Back and forth

Posted on October 18, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

How long, Lord, how long?
The days are surely coming;
God will not delay.

How long, Lord, before
justice rolls like a river?
God will not delay.

How long, Lord, how long?
Pray without ceasing, knowing
the days are coming….

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The widow’s might

Posted on October 16, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

I might be tempted call her a nag, or a scold, or a hag, or worse. A woman I knew said, “My husband says I am an advocate for our child; but I know that’s not the word that the head of school uses to describe me when I get off the phone.” Women are still accused of being strident or shrill if they raise their voices, unladylike if they take off their shoes and their kid gloves. Yet here, centuries before women’s lib was outdated, here is a character who knows her right to be recognized, to be justified. She knows that in the economy of the kingdom of God she has just as much worth as a worthless judge, and she is not afraid to say so, nor to keep saying so, whatever the judge might call her behind her back. What’s more, she is not doing it for a child or a sister or a friend; she is not hiding her own worth behind someone else’s. She owns her own value.

There’s a whole lot else in this story, but this fearless female spoke to me.

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Your faith has saved you

Posted on October 11, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

There are those who believe that a world in which miracles happen is one in which we could not live without the unpredictability driving us insane. Others feel that a world without miracles is one in which we would not want to live, hope being driven thus to despair. I believe profoundly that miracles happen, but to expect them would, I think, be paradoxical, since miracles are by definition outside of our expectations of how things happen. They are mysterious, sometimes showy, sometimes subtle, sometimes secret, always astonishing.
Ten people suffering from leprosy were healed. One, a Samaritan man, came back to say thank you, praising God loudly as he did so. Jesus told him, after a few choice words about the others, “your faith has made you well.”
They are words which bring hope to many; following hard on the heels of his assurance that even a mustard seed faith has tremendous power. But they are dangerous words, too, which have been used to faith-shame the sick, the sad, the sorry, and which have deprived others of medical care. My faith contains within it the trust that God gave us the kind of brains that can dream up mind blowing medical technologies for a reason.
But I digress.
What did it mean for Jesus to tell the Samaritan that faith had healed him? What healed the other nine? What was the difference?
There is an awkward feel to the words that Jesus chooses to talk about the Samaritan’s return: “was none found to return except this foreigner?” Earlier in the gospel, the language of lost and found was used to describe repentance, those returned to God’s embrace. “This foreigner,” religiously suspect in standard Jewish judgement, nevertheless knew exactly whom to praise when good things befell him; he came back praising God loudly.
It is possible that when Jesus told him, “your faith has made you well,” if I am reading my Greek correctly (never a given, although a quick flick through the commentaries gives me confidence), a more precise translation might be, “your faith has saved you.”
It is possible that at this point, Jesus was talking less about the healing miracle that he shared with nine others than the miracle of his repentance, his gratitude, his praise of God which completed his healing, cured his soul as well as his body, restored him to wholeness.
Such an interpretation fits with Jesus’ concern for the restoration of lost sheep, lost sons, lost coins to the fold and the family. It explains why this man heard these words, while the oblivious nine wandered away amazed and bemused by their physical cure, which Jesus had rendered to them. It suggests that our salvation, our wholeness, our well being rests on more than physical fitness or a cure.
I believe in miracles. I believe in the power of prayer and the gift of faith which is a gift from God. I believe that being saved means, among other things, being restored to a place where we can praise God even in a world where leprosy exists, even after countless years of suffering, even when we don’t really understand what is happening or why. I believe that the faith which Jesus commended was the fundamental trust in God which made the Samaritan sure that all of the blessings of this life flow directly from God’s hand, which made him extravagantly grateful, which assured him that he was acceptable in Jesus’ sight, welcome to return to him, even a foreigner such as he.

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Year C Proper 22: All that we need

Posted on October 6, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

Whether the Psalm is spoken or sung or whispered behind closed doors, there is no softening that last line, with its vicious dreams of vengeance. We might be tempted to ask what it’s doing in our Bible, or at least in our lectionary; language like this with its yearning for atrocity. But here’s the thing: if we were to hide our history of bitterness and anger, of envy and regret; if we were to cleanse our collective spiritual autobiography of oppression and violent revolt, we would be tempted to deny that such things could ever take hold of us again. Whereas we see in Syria children gassed to pay back their parents for their disobedience and dissidence; we see in our cities gang violence: a life for a life, an atrocity for an atrocity; we see in the online comments section of the local papers vitriol and vindictive language, cruel intent. We are not immune to the despair that afflicted the Judeans carried off by the Chaldeans, weeping by the rivers of Babylon; and we are not immune to poisonous and paralysing anger. We shudder at such uncivilized language, but we live in a less civilized world than we might wish to hope.

We know that we need to do better. Whether they really meant it or were simply venting, it is to our credit that we turn away from such violent images as those we say in some of the Psalms. It is a right and a good thing to reject revenge and vilify abuse and atrocity. We are on the right path when we long for peace: peace between nations, peace amongst enemies, peace within our hearts and our families.

So what are we to do about it?

“Lord, increase our faith.”

That was the apostles’ response to the dilemma: Fix it for us. Fix us. Make it right; make us right. Make us strong and faithful and good and wise and loving and true and godly. Increase our faith.

They had been listening to Jesus. He had told stories of rich men and poor people and placing God above all worldly wealth; he had, when the disciples make this request for more faith, just been staking out the responsibilities of leadership, of helping others out of sin, not putting stumbling blocks in their way, but helping them over temptation, breaking old patterns of sinful desire, leading them in right pathways. He had been talking about forgiveness, about forgiving over and over again, until the old hard habits of vengeance finally died. He was speaking to them, these simple fisher folk from Galilee and their friends, as leaders of the new church that was to come, with great and awesome responsibilities, and they were afraid.

“Lord, increase our faith.”

Otherwise, how can we do it? How can we avoid leading others into temptation? How can we deliver them from evil, even the evil of their own hearts? How can we forgive others as God forgives? Unless you increase our faith, like it’s some sort of superpower, we are toast. Our ancestors, as wonderful and wise as they were, broke down and wept by the rivers of Babylon, and made wild noises about atrocities they had seen, which they would pay back, and sometimes, even now, seeing the Romans within the gates of the holy city, seeing their cruel ways, even now, seeing the death that oppression and depression and despair can deal, even now, we see red, and sometimes we know how our ancestors felt, as though they were well beyond deliverance from evil.

“Lord, increase our faith.”

At first, Jesus’ response might seem like a brush-off, even a rebuke. “Faith? What faith? If you had faith the size of a mustard seed…”

But look again. When Jesus tells the story of the unthanked servant, he might as well be telling the disciples, “I may not say it every day, that you are working well, that you are doing just what you are meant to be doing, serving the kingdom of God, but that doesn’t mean that you are not on the right track, doing just what you are meant to be doing, no more but certainly no less; and you are vital to the household of God.” When the disciples take Jesus to task for demanding so much discipleship in a few chapters’ time, citing what they had left for him, with never a backward glance, Jesus will affirm their faith, and their sacrifice: “I tell you, there is no one who has left house or wife or brothers or parents or children, for the sake of the kingdom of God, who will not get back very much more in this age, and in the age to come eternal life.” (Luke  18:29-30)

When Jesus says to them, “If you have faith the size of a mustard seed,” he is speaking to people who already have faith, who have more faith than a mustard seed could measure. What he is telling them is that they already have enough. What he is telling them is that with great responsibility comes great power.

Do we really think that he would send them out with nothing: no purse or sandals or spare tunic, and no faith (see Luke 10:1-24, 22:35)? They already have within them what it takes to do exactly what it is they are called to do: to spread the gospel, cast out demons, raise up people of hope in a land of despair.

The second letter to Timothy makes exactly that point: “I am reminded of your sincere faith …I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you …; for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.”

Whatever it is we think that we lack, personally, by way of things like faith and fortitude, or corporately, worrying about numbers of people in the pews, children in the Sunday School, contact with the community, tithes of treasure and time and talent – whatever deficiency we think is holding us back from doing the work that we are called as disciples of Jesus to do has already been made good by God’s reaching out to us in Jesus Christ, by God’s call on us to become disciples. With that great responsibility comes great power.

The anointing that we received at baptism, the anointing of the Holy Spirit each and every Pentecost, each and every time, in fact, we ask for it: these things carry great power. What we need, more than a fresh injection of faith, is the courage to use it. What we need, more than to supersize our order of prayer, is to wield it. What we need, we already have. What we need is to remember to use it at all times and in all places for the good of the kingdom of God.

October marks the month of our annual stewardship campaign, and most of you should have received letters this week; if you didn’t, and you think you should have, please let me know or call the office. Today we launch our stewardship campaign, and yet the scriptures tell us, rather than asking for more, that we already have everything that we need to do the work that has been entrusted to us as the church of God, to proclaim good news to the poor and freedom to the captives, peace among all people. All that remains is to use it faithfully.

We have everything we need to uproot an oak tree and plant it in the middle of Lake Erie. More usefully, we have everything we need to carry the kingdom of God into the heart of Euclid, and plant it there. We have Jesus. We have God’s own Christ, God’s own Spirit. We have all that we need to sing, all that we need to heal, all that we need to grow. We have all that we need to make a difference.

Thanks be to God.

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Year C Proper 22: opening thoughts

Posted on October 4, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

Whether the Psalm is spoken or sung or whispered behind closed doors, there is no softening that last line, with its vicious dreams of vengeance. We might be tempted to ask what it’s doing in our Bible, or at least in our lectionary; language like this with its life-for-a-life ethic, its yearning for atrocity. But here’s the thing: if we were to hide our history of bitterness and anger, of envy and regret; if we were to cleanse our collective spiritual autobiography of oppression and violent revolt, we would be tempted to deny that such emotions, such actions could ever take hold of us again. Whereas we see in Syria children gassed to pay back their parents for their disobedience and dissidence; we see in our cities gang violence: a life for a life, an atrocity for an atrocity; we see in the online comments section of the local papers vitriol and vindictive language, cruel intent. We are not immune to the despair that afflicted the Judeans carried off by the Chaldeans, weeping by the rivers of Babylon; and we are not immune to poisonous and paralysing anger.
So what are we to do? If human nature is so fatally flawed by the Fall, how are we to hope for a better future?
“Lord, increase our faith.”

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Brought to you by:

Posted on October 3, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

I wish I could give you the details.
I’m a little hazy on them myself.
I can tell you that today was brought on entirely by prayer.
It wasn’t the words, God knows, nor the miniscule, mustard-seed faith that wrote them.
It was something subtle, something sacramental.
God reaching through the universe to say,
“I hear you. I see you. Here, this day is my gift to you.”
This is the day that the Lord has made, and I am bewildered, and awestruck, and thankful.

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Drafting angels

Posted on September 29, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

Like any other, I crave the pastor’s Sunday afternoon nap. Instead, I find myself out on my bike, winding out the day and running out whatever needs to be let go so that I can sleep at night. On a feast day for St Michael and All Angels (of whom I am quite fond; we were married in their church), this is what results:

Drafting Angels

Drawing circles with my cycle
in the air and on the Tarmac,
gyroscopic,
the eternal arc.
Nothing to hear but the wind in my ears;
John Donne, randy poet priest
considered angels to be
disturbances in the air.
The rush of a passing semi truck-
those that don’t kill you make you strong-
the rest is stillness, silence, except for
the demons urging you on.

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Year C Proper 21: The rich man and Lazarus

Posted on September 29, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

So we have reached the finale of the season of rich man parables.

You will remember that in these parables, the phrase “a rich man” is used to indicate not simply someone who has a lot of stuff, but someone who “stores up treasures for themselves, but is not rich towards God,” as Jesus says elsewhere. It is like the hymn which speaks of “our wanton, selfish gladness, rich in things and poor in soul.”[1]

This rich man’s crime is not to have wealth, nor even to wear purple and eat feasts, but his sin is the neglect of his neighbour, Lazarus who lives at his gate. The Law of Moses was very clear about the poor who live outside the gate, and the duties and responsibilities of those who were better off to care for them. It was a scandal and an outrage that this man, this rich man, should let Lazarus fester with the dogs. The outrage is compounded in the scenes after death, when the rich man still wants to treat Lazarus as a servant to do his bidding; even from Hades he is issuing orders! Yet when he was alive, he was not willing to feed him, or to let him live in the house, or to offer healthcare beyond the licking of his dogs. He was rich in things, but poor in soul.

God, rich in mercy, has sent the angels to sweep Lazarus up into the bosom of Abraham, a picture of paradise. In one of the many, funny little asymmetries of this parable, although Lazarus gets a name and the rich man doesn’t, the rich man gets a voice, but we never hear Lazarus speak, so we don’t know much about Lazarus except that he was poor; nothing about his moral character or religious beliefs or observance. We only know that God, rich in mercy, has seen fit to receive and comfort him.

We know a little more about the rich man, and the parable paints a picture of a journey that we would not want to follow. The rich man thinks about it, and realizes that he does not want his brothers to follow his same path either “Send Lazarus to warn them,” he says. Why doesn’t he ask to go himself? He has a voice! But we have never heard Lazarus speak.

Back in the days of the parable when Jesus described those who store up treasure but are not rich towards God, he was telling his dinner host to stop inviting his rich friends to fill up his house, and instead to invite the likes of Lazarus to gather around his table; partly to feed them, of course; Lazarus longed for the crumbs that fell; but also because around a table people gather to do more than eat. They talk. They tell stories. They listen. They learn about one another. They become neighbours; maybe, if they’re lucky, even friends.

The rich man was deficient in charity, but he was also deficient in his relationships. He neglected Lazarus, and he demeaned him by leaving him to the dogs. He also failed to see Lazarus’ inherent worth and value even when he was clasped to Abraham’s bosom! No wonder Abraham did not hold out great hopes for the rich man’s scheme to change his brothers’ hearts and minds. The tragedy of Lazarus’ life is not only his hunger and his sores, but his silence. That, too, the rich man could have remedied if he’d had just a moment to listen instead of giving out orders.

Another line of that great hymn goes, “Save us from weak resignation to the evils we deplore.” We are not to be resigned to injustice; we are not to be silent about the plight of those who have no voice.

And yet there is hope. The rich man did want to warn his brothers. He had begun to think beyond himself, and repentance has a wonderful way of re-building bridges that sin has burned; perhaps, even, a bridge across that chasm that has opened up between himself and Lazarus, between Hades and the bosom of Abraham.

Repentance has a wonderful way of rebuilding bridges that sin has burned.

Jeremiah bought a field, defiantly proclaiming that justice, economic and otherwise, would return to his land. The writer of the letter to Timothy demanded that his hearers be rich in good works, to be generous and to share the blessings with which they have been abundantly blessed. There is so much joy to be had in the sharing good things. But repentance, of course, is not just about giving money.

This series of parables, the ones that revolve around a rich man, has reached its climax in the reversal of fortunes predicted at the beginning of Luke in the Magnificat – God has raised up the lowly, and sent the rich away empty. These stories have been about our relationships with money – how we use it, and whether we let it use us; and about our relationship with God – whether we truly consider God to be our core value, our centre and our goal, our foundation and our pinnacle, or whether we have allowed something else to edge God to the outskirts of our lives. We can’t have it both ways.

They are also about our relationships with one another. They are about restoring generosity, kindness, empathy and sharing as central values of our ethical lives. They are about sharing fellowship with those we are least likely to invite to dinner, and listening to them, laughing with them, learning them, loving them. They are about loving our neighbours as ourselves, something the cartoon character rich men had long forgotten how to do.

We had a wonderful first Euclid prayer walk yesterday – forty people at least gathered and walked and prayed, or stayed in the chapel and prayed. People came from different churches and we met our neighbours, we talked with one another, I heard so many stories of people’s lives. Today, as some of you know, is the feast day for St Michael and All Angels, and as one woman told me her story yesterday of angels in New York City on one dark September day some years ago, I got serious goose bumps.

There are stories we would never hear, people we would never know, blessings we would never apprehend if we never looked outside our own doors, outside our own circles, to invite people in.

In the end, there is hope, I think, for this rich man. Repentance can rebuild bridges that sin has burned, and he is beginning to turn. Our prayer walk vests yesterday included in their logo the slogan, “Love God, Love Your Neighbor, Change the World.”  Repentance changes the landscape; it rebuilds bridges where there had been dust and ashes, and reconnects us to one another and to God. It can change our world; it can change the world.

Here’s one practical way that some of you might be able to change someone’s world during October, to give a voice to one who has been silenced through violence and fear. During October, churches have been asked to speak out about domestic violence and abuse, so and we’re going to be collecting used cellphones for recycling by the Domestic Violence and Child Advocacy centre. If you have an old phone that you have replaced, which is still languishing at home doing nothing and doing you no good, it can literally give a voice to those who are crying out in silence.

And do join us next month for our Euclid prayer walk. It is a truly wonderful way to build bridges between neighbours.

Of course, God has been changing landscapes since Creation began, and Jesus of Nazareth, raised by a carpenter, knew plenty about building bridges and engineering solutions to the problems caused by the chasms that open up between us. Jesus teases us with these parables, because he knows that in the end, we are each of us as arrogant and haughty as the rich man, and each of us as needy and as pitiful as Lazarus, and repentance will heal the breach in our own souls, too. So he invites us to his table – sit, eat, drink – and serves us with that sumptuous feast, the bread of heaven, the cup of life everlasting, the true and eternal treasure.

And so, as the hymn draws to an end: “Let the gift of thy salvation be our glory, evermore.”

[1] God of grace and God of glory, Words by Harry Emerson Fosdick, The Hymnal 1982, According to the Use of the Episcopal Church #594/595

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Year C Proper 20: The parable of the dishonest manager

Posted on September 22, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

We all knew, in the old westerns, who the bad guys were by the colour of their hats. These days, if you go to a movie and a smooth character speaks to you in a somewhat refined British accent, you are going to keep an eye on that character: he’s probably up to no good.[1] From Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs, to Benedict Cumberbatch in Star Wars, even the voice of Jeremy Irons as Scar, the wicked uncle in the Lion King, it’s a pretty good bet that if you hear an English accent, the movie maker is trying to semaphore to you a message: this is not the character you want to be rooting for. [If you are reading this online and don’t know me, imagine, if you will, that I sound something like Helen Mirren. Or maybe Judi Dench. If you do know me, humour me.]

In Luke’s gospel and beyond, the phrase, “a rich man,” serves something of the same purpose. It is a marker, an indicator that tells you more than the simple presentation of a man with a lot of money could. It is not clear that having possessions is in itself enough to make you the bad guy; after another “rich man” parable, Jesus speaks of those who store up treasure for themselves, but are not rich towards God (Luke 12:21). That is the kind of person that we are meant to imagine when a parable begins with the words, “a rich man:” those who store up treasure for themselves, but who are not rich towards God.

Remember that Jesus was sitting at dinner with the Pharisees, then he went out and was eating with the tax collectors and sinners, to the Pharisees’ chagrin. He told them all some stories about who was lost and how they were found, and how delighted God was to welcome them home. Now, he tells a different story.

Jesus, never one to flatter much, describes the character of the manager in weak and whiny terms: oh my, what shall I do, I could never hack manual labour, I couldn’t bear to beg … all I know is how to manipulate money to make it do what I want. So he continues, despite having lost his job over it, in the same vein as he has been going all these years. He calls in his master’s debtors, falsifies their loan documents, and tells them they owe him one. He is the opposite of the model of repentance, of seeing the light and amending a life; despite his protestations, he does know how to dig and he is digging in ever deeper.

The surprise twist comes when the master returns and is pleased with what the manager has done; actually, I think that he laughs at him, and slaps him on the back, and says, “Well played, my son!” Remember, this master is “a rich man,” not only wealthy but one who stores up treasures for himself without regard to God or his neighbour. He is not a model we want to follow, but he sees that his manager is out of his same mould, he knows the game, he is “one of us.” The student has pleased his master after all, although we are not told if he gets his job back.

A man was incarcerated in a high security prison on the Isle of Wight, off the southern coast of England. Whilst there, he had fallen under the wings of one of the most notorious criminal families in England, the Krays, south London gangsters with a fearsome reputation. This young man somehow charmed the brother of the infamous Kray twins and entered his circle of protection through the prison drug programme. It was always the same way with the family: they looked after their own. Even while they were causing menace and mayhem in south London, the gangsters were known for their kindness to their old mum. If you were one of them, you were safe. If you were one of them, you were protected, for at least as long as the friendship lasted.

“Make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth, so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into their eternal homes.” Making friends by means of dishonesty – like the corrupt manager, like the Parkhurst prisoner – will earn you favours with those in the know, and this may come with real and tangible benefits. But this is not a story of repentance, of seeing the light and amending a life, and it does not have the same happy ending. Look at the home into which they welcome you: a top security prison; a lifetime of servitude to a selfish rich man, or worse. It’s hardly the loving and joyful embrace that welcomed the lost sheep, the lost son.

No, Jesus tells the tax collectors and sinners, and the money-loving Pharisees, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t make money your priority at any price, and still consider yourself servants of God. You can’t treat your neighbour dishonestly and turn around to God and say, “I didn’t mean it, honestly.” To quote Shakespeare, “All that glisters is not gold.”[2] God longs to give us the true riches of life within the divine embrace, life in the light, life in full, but if our gaze is fixed on filthy lucre, we will only see its dim reflection.

Here’s what I hear Jesus saying: Be dazzling as children of the light. Be so astonishingly upright and transparent in your dealings that you blind the children of this generation with your honesty and leave them bewildered. You can’t serve two masters, you can’t have it both ways, so choose the way that leads to eternal life, to the eternal home that is worth inheriting, not a top-security prison but a loving home with a warm embrace and a fatted calf.

When I was a student, the first time around, long ago, juggling financial forms, a priest told me, “You know, there is such a thing as being too honest.” I have to tell you, according to this parable, according to Jesus, he was just plain wrong. You can’t have it both ways, no matter what wise men and Pharisees might say!

The Church of England had a little public embarrassment recently when the new(ish) Archbishop of Canterbury blasted short-term lenders and vowed to drive them out of business with ethical investments, only to have the Financial Times reveal the following day that the Church, in fact, had investments in just such a company within its portfolio.[3] To his credit, the Archbishop admitted the error and launched immediate action to correct it, but it just goes to show, no matter how high and holy you may be, you can’t have it both ways.

The bottom line is that Christians are called to scrupulously ethical dealings with money; they are called to engage with economic justice, fairness, and even generosity; they cannot claim to play the worldly games of chance and trickery, of greedy acquisition and sharp dealing and still serve God. The law of Deuteronomy warns, “Do not be hard-hearted or tight-fisted toward your needy neighbor. You should rather open your hand, willingly lending enough to meet the need, whatever it may be. Be careful that you do not entertain a mean thought” (Deut 15:7b,9a).

It’s a tough line, and it must have sounded as high-minded and unrealistic to the tax collectors as it does to us today; it’s certainly a tough line for our politicians, fighting over budget priorities, where food stamps and health insurance fight against  bombs, bailouts and bureaucracy; it’s a tough line, but it is our calling. It is our choice every day, in every transaction we make, to serve God, through means of honesty and fairness, supporting economic justice and true generosity; or to serve money, letting it control us, making the bottom line the boss of us. We cannot have it both ways, says Jesus. Each decision that we make, of where to spend our money, where to shop, how to save, to whom to give our money is an ethical choice, a decision to serve God or our own bottom line.

It’s a tough line, but if you were in the movie, which hat would you want to wear; what accent would you want to use to deliver it?

The reward of repentance is so much richer than a night on the couch in the home of a crooked friend developed by dishonest means and shrewd dealings. The reward of repentance, of seeing the light and amending a life, is that loving embrace that rushes out to meet the prodigal son on his return home, the party of angels celebrating the return of the lost lamb, the delight of the One who made us when we finally turn our face towards heaven, even heaven on earth.

You can’t serve God and money, warns Jesus, but trust me, God is worth more, lasts longer, never runs out and is never overdrawn. And you can take that to the bank.

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Year C Proper 20: Thick as thieves

Posted on September 21, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

An extract from tomorrow’s sermon:

A man was incarcerated in a high security prison on the Isle of Wight, off the southern coast of England. Whilst there, he had fallen under the wings of one of the most notorious criminal families in England, the Krays, south London gangsters with a fearsome reputation. As with many dishonest people, it’s difficult to get to the truth of the story, but it sounds as though this young man somehow charmed the brother of the infamous Kray twins and entered his circle of protection through the prison drug programme. It was always the same way with the family: they looked after their own. Even while they were causing menace and mayhem in south London, the gangsters were known for their kindness to their old mum. If you were one of them, you were safe. If you were one of them, you were protected, for at least as long as the friendship lasted.

 “Make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth, so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into their eternal homes.” Making friends by means of dishonesty – like the corrupt manager, like the Parkhurst prisoner – will earn you favours with those in the know, and this may come with real and tangible benefits. But this is not a story of repentance, of seeing the light and amending a life, and it does not have the same happy ending. Look at the home into which they welcome you: a top security prison; a lifetime of servitude to a selfish rich man. It’s hardly the loving and joyful embrace that welcomed the lost sheep, the lost son.

 No, Jesus tells the tax collectors and sinners, and the money-loving Pharisees, you can’t have it both ways…

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