Thursday, December 1st: St Andrew (day 3) and World AIDS Day

Posted on November 30, 2011 by Rosalind C Hughes

This is the second part of a homily delivered at Trinity Cathedral, Cleveland, Ohio at Evensong on Wednesday, December 1st 2010. The service commemorated both St Andrew (30th November) and World AIDS Day (1st December). You may look back to yesterday’s post for the first part of the homily.

Today, as well as celebrating the example of St Andrew, we commemorate World AIDS Day. I wonder what Andrew has to teach us about our commitment to pursuing a cure, a prophylactic, a remedy for the HIV/AIDS pandemic. It is a disease which affects a multitude of people the size and number of which I doubt our biblical writers could even have imagined. Children are being orphaned, and babies are being born already affected by the virus. This hungry hillside crowd stretches across the world, and no one need go up to the heavens to see it, or cross the sea; there are too many people in our own communities whose immune systems are compromised by this infection, who live with spouses or parents or children whose lives will be shortened by disease. There are too many who mourn. And there are too many who live with the added burden of necessary secrecy, in a society which stigmatizes people for having the wrong sort of viral infection.

The problem may seem too big. The virus may seem to have gotten away from us, to have taken too strong a hold for us to wrestle, but [what about this news (from 2011’s letter from the joint Presiding Bishops of ECUSA and ELCA):

Our global community has made significant advancements in tackling this pandemic. Investments in medicine and prevention education have halted transmission in communities around the world. Infection rates continue to decline. The number of people receiving antiretroviral treatment is increasing—by a factor of 13, just from 2004 to 2009—allowing tens of millions of HIV-positive people to lead  healthy lives. Hundreds of thousands of babies are prevented from being born with HIV and a comparable number orphaned from the virus receive food, education and assistance from churches and aid workers. ]*

There is hope; and if we learn one thing from Andrew’s relationship with the word of hope, the Word of God, it is that an apostolic church is called to spread hope. An apostolic church is called to spread the gospel to everyone, young, old, Jew, Greek, HIV positive or status unknown, that the promise of God to stand by God’s people, God’s word to the world is very near to us.

And as followers of Jesus we, like Andrew, are called to welcome and encourage and support the efforts of those who are called to alleviate hunger, distress, poverty and sickness. As he welcomed the small child with his little piece of food, and enabled a miracle, so we can empower the efforts of those who have something to offer to the effort to fight this disease. As Andrew, by his faith in Jesus’ power, helped a little child to offer food for a multitude, we can help to enable the researchers, the scientists, the doctors and health practitioners, by the grace of God and the wisdom of God’s Spirit, to do something wonderful in the world.

Even as we weep with those who mourn; even as we hold the hands of those who are sick or bereaved; or seethe silently with those who live with a secret in their blood, it is the calling of an apostle, of Andrew, of us, to lift up the hope of God’s promise to God’s world.

The word is very near to you. God is with you.

My friends, may your feet be beautiful as they carry the good news of God to the ends of the earth. May you, with Andrew, proclaim the coming of the Christ, the day of the Lord when the blind receive their sight, when those who were lame walk freely, when the leper is cleansed and reconciled, and good news is preached to the poor; and may each of us take every opportunity we see to bring about the hope that we proclaim. Amen.

*http://www.episcopalchurch.org/newsline_130612_ENG_HTM.htm

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Wednesday, November 30th: St Andrew the Apostle (day 2)

Posted on November 29, 2011 by Rosalind C Hughes

This is part of a homily delivered at Trinity Cathedral, Cleveland, Ohio at Evensong on Wednesday, December 1st 2010. The service commemorated both St Andrew (30th November) and World AIDS Day (1st December). The second part will follow tomorrow. The readings for St Andrew’s feast day are Deuteronomy 30:11-14; Romans 10:8b-18; Matthew 4:18-22.

The word is very near to you. I have a book by that title at home, by Martin Smith. It’s about praying with the Bible, letting the Scriptures inhabit your soul and heart and mind and lead your imagination to God.

The word is very near to you.

When Moses said this to his people, he spoke of the commandments which God had given to them. He spoke of the promises and responsibilities which God had given to them. He was speaking of God’s covenant with the people of the Exodus, a covenant to be their God, to be with them through disobedience and exile and restoration and salvation. The word of God was the word that God gave, as in “I give you my word.” God is never far from God’s people. God reaches into their hearts and minds, God places God’s name on their lips, and turns their imagination toward the source of all being and living.

The word is very near to you.

For Paul, the word of God is the word of the gospel, the newly heard good news of God’s covenant with all of God’s people. It is a word which can be heard throughout the nations, a word which excludes no one and which applies to everyone. No one needs to go up into heaven to find this word, Paul tells his audience, because Christ has come down from heaven and lived among us – the word, indeed, is very near – and has been raised from the dead by God’s gracious action. Jesus is Lord, and we know by this that God has begun the promised restoration of God’s people to life and light. We are saved.

The word which Andrew heard, according to Matthew’s gospel, was “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” And the word which Andrew spoke was, “Yes.” He didn’t ask, as I might have been inclined to, “What are you talking about? Who are you anyway?” No, Andrew recognized the word that had come near to him as the Incarnate Word of God, and he answered affirmatively and enthusiastically.

In John’s gospel, the story of Andrew’s call is told a little differently. He is still one of two men who hear Jesus come near to them, but it is he who then runs to tells his brother, Simon, “We have found the Messiah!” Without hesitation, Andrew not only hears but begins to spread the word, the good news of God’s gracious action in the world through Christ Jesus. Later in John’s gospel, some Greeks approach Philip and ask to see Jesus, and Philip goes to consult Andrew, and Andrew says, “Yes!” and goes to Jesus on behalf of the men. Once again, he has no hesitation spreading the gospel to all and sundry; like Paul, he makes no distinction between Jew and Greek; he knows that Jesus has come to all of creation. And when the crowd was hungry, and a small boy offered the meager supply of food that he had to share among the people, it was Andrew who said, “Yes, of course you can help,” and brought that little one to Jesus, full of faith and in trembling hope that between them the multitude could be fed.

The word was very near to Andrew, and his ministry was to bring the word to anyone he encountered, and to bring anyone he encountered into the presence of the Word of God made flesh, Jesus Christ, whether they be a brother or a stranger, a Jew or a Greek, a scholar or a small child.

Thinking about St Andrew this week, it was the story of his encounter with the small child that kept tripping up my imagination.

If I use the techniques set out by Martin Smith in his book, The Word is Very Near to You, I will imagine myself into the scene, onto that hillside in ancient Palestine, overlooking the town of Tiberias. I hitchhiked there once – that’s a whole other story – but it means that I have an image in my head of the lake there, of the rise of ground where the crowd might have gathered to sit and hear Jesus. I imagine the swell of people; the growing restlessness and unease as they begin to realize the dilemma of the lateness of the hour and the lack of any food and the hunger of their children and their neighbors. The people closest to Jesus are beginning to discuss the situation in hushed tones; we are not far from them, so we overhear snatches of their conversation. Philip, one of the disciples, is becoming worried and argumentative.

Suddenly, I am aware that my youngest son has stood up and is carrying our own family’s barely sufficient supply of food toward the group of disciples. I stand up to call him back: Impetuous child, he is liable to get a scolding from this stranger whose clothes he is tugging on and anyway, if he gives them all of our food, what will we eat? I am increasingly anxious, and wondering how to stop him without making a scene. But the man, Andrew, turns gently to my son, and seeing him, squats down.

“What have we here?” he asks with a smile. “I want to help,” I hear my son say, with all the innocence of youth. “I don’t have a lot, but do you think it will help?” I groan inwardly. Five loaves and two fish, and people spread out along the hillside as far as I can see. But Andrew takes my son by the shoulder. “Yes,” he says, “I think that the master can use this. Let’s go and talk to him.”

And they disappear together into that tight knot of people, and the arguing voices hush, and I hear a laugh, not of disparagement but of joy, of love, of gratitude, and a moment later my youngest son comes running back to us and yells, “Sit down! Jesus says we’re going to have a picnic!” And my little boy’s face is shining.

How apt, then, that the people of St Andrew’s, Elyria, will spend this evening serving a community meal to those who hunger for what they have to share.

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Tuesday, 29th November: Three days of St Andrew

Posted on November 28, 2011 by Rosalind C Hughes

A few weeks ago, a friend posted to facebook wondering about the “possessive ‘s” that we tend to add to our church’s names. The subtext being, don’t we all belong to Christ? Energetic discussion followed, complete with a helpful grammatical explanation of the broader usage of, for example, “the Church of St Andrew” or “St Andrew’s” that doesn’t have to mean that the church belongs to Andrew.

Most of the Christ Churches I know, on the other hand, don’t use the apostrophe. Freaky.

Anyway, it got me thinking about how, why and what it mean for us to have dedicated our churches in the names of various saints. That train of thought was driven further by the coincidence this week of our own patronal feast at St Andrew’s. Andrew’s feast is tomorrow, but our midweek Eucharist is always Tuesday, so we’re celebrating St Andrew today. After all, feastdays were made for the church, not the church for feastdays (to coin a paraphrase).

But to return, why do churches name themselves for saints? We know that Jesus Christ is the head of our church, our destination and our faith. Churches named for Christ, or the Good Shepherd, or Our Redeemer, then, have it easy (in that respect). If we are named for St Andrew, though, or dedicated to his memory, always secondary to our calling as a church of Christ, we invoke something of his example; we evoke a kinship to him; we identify with his story.

I’ll explore a little more of Andrew’s example to us, a little more of his story in the next two days, but here’s what one person has written about him:

“Andrew gave Christ, and life, to others simply by giving others to Christ.”*

And here’s Jesus’ word to Andrew and the other disciples from today’s (first Tuesday in Advent) Eucharistic readings:

“Blessed are the eyes that see what you see! For I tell you that many prophets and kings desired to see what you see, but did not see it, and to hear what you hear, but did not hear it.” (Luke 10:23b-24)

I wonder if anyone reading has a patron saint of their own, perhaps chosen by their parents and godparents at their baptism, or by themselves at Confirmation or another rite of passage. If so, I wonder how your patron saint’s story opens your eyes to see what you might not otherwise have seen, or your ears to hear what you might not otherwise have heard. I’d love to hear your stories.

* Sam Portaro, Brightest and Best: A Companion to the Lesser Feasts and Fasts, revised ed. (Cambridge: Cowley Publications, 2001), 4

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Monday, November 28th: Prayer for peace

Posted on November 27, 2011 by Rosalind C Hughes

From today’s Eucharistic lectionary (Psalm 122; Isaiah 2:1-5; Matthew 8:5-13):

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: “May they prosper who love you. Peace be within your walls and quietness within your towers.” For my brethren and companions’ sake, I pray for your prosperity. Because of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek to do you good.” (Psalm 122: 6-9)

Jerusalem has been a byword for peace and prosperity, for the presence and saving help of God. It is a temple of God’s presence with God’s people, a holy city. Its name is closely related to Salem, a god’s name associated with prosperity and peace, and the Hebrew word for peace, shalom,* and the poet-psalmist uses these similarities to weave peace and prosperity into the very name of the holy city, the seat of God.

Yet in our own time Jerusalem has become a byword for conflict, for irreconcilable differences, for violence and despair. The holy city has become a stumbling block on which at least three religions and many cultures stub their toes and blame one another. We wonder whether we shall ever see peace, even as we proclaim “the peace that passes all understanding,” and look for the season of “peace on earth.”

Isaiah’s writings know of Jerusalem in war and in peace, under destruction and reconstruction, as a home and as the idealized home of the exile. The prophet knew that the holy city of Jerusalem was a real place, subject to real wars and politics. He warned of its downfall, he witnessed its destruction and desolation. Yet he kept faith in the promises of God. He remembered that as well as a living city, it was a symbol of God’s promise of God’s presence with the people. He knew that God’s promise endured longer than human wars, wants and despair. He continued to look for the day when God’s peace would prevail over all the earth. Only when all of the nations looked to God for their peace would it happen; but when it did, they should never “learn war” again.

Many of us long for that peace which passes all understanding. We know how far away it is when we see headlines that underscore the violence of our everyday lives (pepper spray as a shopping tool?) let alone of war. We see glimpses of it when we notice those who love peace better than being right.

As we look forward to the angels singing “Peace on earth, goodwill to all people,” we can only hope and trust in God’s promises, that all will be brought together in peace on God’s holy mountain, and learn war no more. And we can promise to avoid teaching war by the actions of our own, everyday lives.

*The Oxford Bible Commentary, John Barton and John Muddiman (eds), (Oxford: OUP, 2000) Peace.

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Sunday, November 27th: Advent begins

Posted on November 26, 2011 by Rosalind C Hughes

 From St Andrew’s Episcopal Church, Elyria    :     December Carillon (Newsletter)

ADVENT

If Advent were a place, it would be one of those regions that you drive through on your way somewhere else. We rush through it with our eyes on Christmas, hoping, waiting, preparing, anticipating, doing all of those Advent things which ready us for the coming of the Christ-child, for the coming of Emmanuel, God with us. But do we ever pause to recognize the beauty of the place itself?

Once, driving from my parents’ house in Wales towards our home near London, I came across emergency signs alerting me to the fact that the main highway was closed up ahead. I could not get home the usual, 70 mph way; I had to divert through the country towns and villages to wend our way slowly home. Frustrating, yes, and it took three times as long as usual. But I soon came to realize how much I usually missed, passing by on my headlong hurtle home.

We even at one point, rounding a bend in the road, found ourselves looking in astonishment at that enigmatic stone circle, Stonehenge.

Advent’s purpose in the Church Year is to point us toward the coming of Christ. It gives us time to prepare a place in our hearts, minds and lives for the arrival of Emmanuel, God with us. It carries us toward the joy of the manger at Bethlehem, the dawning of a new light in the darkness of midwinter, and the glory of the final coming of God’s kingdom on earth.

It used to be said that it is as blessed to travel with hope as to arrive.

This Advent, then, I invite you to join me in a few detours along the way, a few pauses in our preparations, a few rest stops in unexpected places:

 The Advent blog

Most days in Advent, I will be offering a reflection on one of the Daily Office readings, or on another Advent theme, via my blog, which is easy to find at www.rosalindhughes.com

 Advent Sabbaths

On Friday evenings from 5-6 pm, beginning in Advent, I invite you to join me for an hour of Sabbath refreshment and renewal in our peaceful church sanctuary. This will be a time to prepare spiritually for the coming of Christ, not only at Christmas, but in the midst of our everyday lives, our usual journeys. We will begin and end with prayer; the time in between will offer various spiritual practices and opportunities for rest, inspiration and exploration of Advent. You may come for all of the hour or for some, to fit your need and schedule.

 Who knows what we may see as we travel together in hope, expectation and with eyes wide open through the uncharted country of Advent?

1 Corinthians 1:3

Grace to you, and peace, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

This seems a good way to begin this series of Advent meditations. The idea behind them is to create space for reflection and the increase of peace during this time of busy preparation and often fraught expectations and emotions. They will be based on daily lectionary readings, celebrations of the saints who have preceded us, or seasonal occasions. The verse quoted above is from today’s Revised Common Lectionary for Sunday.

I hope that my reflections may at least occasionally be thought-provoking, but they are not intended to be contentious; I invite you to offer your comments, queries and corrections, should you feel so inclined, in the comments sections. Peace, my siblings in Christ.

Peace, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ

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Perspective

Posted on November 23, 2011 by Rosalind C Hughes

It’s Thanksgiving Eve, and I’m a little weary, to be honest. The house is nowhere near as clean and pretty as it should be by this time; the teenagers want more taxi rides, more cookery classes, more soda (nothing new). I’m anxious about our new pet – why weren’t three cats, a bird and a fish enough, anyway?

But.

The new pet is a hedgehog. Those of you who grew up where I did might be raising an eyebrow. For those of you who didn’t: it’s a little bit like saying we got a pet squirrel. They aren’t pets – they’re just there. They snuffle around the back steps after dark, looking for food. People used to put out bread and milk, until the official advice went out that they prefer cat food – and it’s better for them. They are ubiquitous.

Except when they aren’t. Here, they’re an “exotic animal,” not native to this continent let alone this country. Here, one drives nearly 300 miles round trip to get one, with the contents of a teenager’s shoebox of savings six months deep. The breeder that we got this one from said today,

“I’ve always wanted to see one in the wild.”

It made me realise how lucky I am to have lived with hedgehogs and with raccoons; with skunks, squirrels and snakes; with coyotes and cats and monkeys.
(When my youngest daughter – the hedgehog fancier – was little, she used to spot monkeys from her buggy when we went out walking. She called them “naunies, ” which was a contraction of “naughty monkeys,” because they stole a chocolate bar from her brother once!).

It’s been a long day – so far – and I’ve spent most of it on the road, because I can, with a daughter that I love, to pick up an animal she will love, which is as familiar as my childhood home. I returned to pumpkin pie made by her sister and the insistence of her brother that he gets to bake the pecan pie next!

I’m so lucky.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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Christ the King: Year A Proper 29

Posted on November 20, 2011 by Rosalind C Hughes

This sermon was delivered at St Andrew’s Episcopal Church, Elyria, Ohio, November 20th 2011.

 On this last Sunday before Advent, as the church prepares itself for the winter waiting, looking for the light of the world in the darkness of the earth’s sleeping, at least in our northern hemisphere, we celebrate Christ the King. Before we look for the arrival of Emmanuel, God with us, as a vulnerable infant, we end our year in triumph, celebrating God’s glory manifest in the Risen Christ and Lord.

 In the parable that we hear this morning, the king sits on the throne of judgment, sorting the people as a shepherd sorts the sheep and the goats. He will, as Ezekiel says, feed them with justice. The self-satisfied and self-seeking, the sleek and the fat sheep who pushed with flank and shoulder and butted the weaker animals out of the way, they will receive the treatment that they deserve. The weak, the poor, the least of the flock will be tenderly cared for. In the parable, the king does not address the little ones, but promises reward and rest to those who cared for them on his behalf.

 In the parable, the least of the flock, the vulnerable, the very young and the very weak, the hungry and the thirsty, the helpless and those at the mercy of the elements and of their fellows – these represent the king himself.

I was hungry – did you feed me?

I was thirsty – did you give me a drink?

I was homeless – did you offer me shelter?

I was cold – did you give me a warm coat or quilt?

I was sick, I was in prison – did you visit me?

The King – Christ the King, as we understand the parable – knows the answer. He has already divided the people into those who were generous and merciful to those they had the power to be generous and merciful to, and those who were selfish and did not offer comfort to someone who needed it.

This parable has been the foundation of many a mission ministry. It has prompted the work of countless feeding ministries, of clothing and quilt ministries, of homeless shelters, of prison ministries and the personal ministries of hospital volunteers. The tag line, “Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me,” has been seen on Episcopal Relief and Development literature and campaigns, and in personal email signatures. This parable has inspired passionate living and sacrificial giving; it has saved lives.

It is also a parable of judgment; and those can make us anxious.

I’m sure I’m not alone in the knowledge that there are too many times, too many people that I could have helped but didn’t; when I have said, no, I can’t give you anything right now. People I have not visited in the hospital, or in prison. When a man stole the downspouts from another church I once served in, one of our members visited him in jail, heard his story, prayed with him and for him for a change of heart, for God’s transformation in his life, and I was humbled, because he went and I hadn’t thought of it.

And there have also been times when, people with whom, God help me, I have ticked my way through the list: I have fed you – check. Clothed you – check. Given you shelter – check. Prison visitation, hospital vigil – check.

I know that neither way gets me over to the sheep’s side. In fact, I am convinced that the only way that I can get there is by the grace of God.

Did you ever, as a child, sing that Sidney Carter song of this parable?*

When I needed a neighbour, were you there, were you there?

Jesus, singing to his children, was the one in the song who was hungry, who was thirsty, who was cold, naked and needy. We knew this because the last verse was a promise:

Wherever you travel, I’ll be there.

Only God could make that promise.

The idea that God, in Jesus, could become so vulnerable, so needy, could throw himself so entirely on to the mercies of the human condition, dependant as it is on the goodwill of friends and family, the kindness of strangers, the fairness of governance – when we sang that song as children, that blew my mind, and broke open my heart. That Jesus could go through the dangers of childbirth, the hunger and helplessness of infancy, the pain of the anticipation of death, the thirst of the dying man on the cross, all to demonstrate and realize God’s love for God’s people – that was an incredible thing to me. That was what first brought me to church, to find out more about this extraordinary Son of God who would go to such lengths to bring us to the knowledge and love of God.

And it is only when I remember that astonishment, that surprising grace, that unbelievable love that I have the chance to come anywhere close to loving my neighbour as myself, to offering the cool, living water to a thirsty soul. I wish it happened more often. I pray that it happens more often.

The sheep in the parable knew no more than the goats that when they served their neighbour they were serving God. They did not do it to gather credit for themselves, or to curry favour with the King. They did it because it had become second nature to them, because their first nature was shaped by their love of God. They were touched by grace, and all that they did they did with love and with thanksgiving.

There is something of a joke hidden in all of this, of course, which is that where the sheep are going, there will be no more need of their generosity, their self-sacrifice, because there will be no more hunger, thirst, suffering. Their work is done, and they may truly rest.

The goats – well, they do still have work to do. The eternal punishment that Matthew describes for them may be translated as a work of pruning, like the pruning of a tree so that it may produce more and better fruit. Its intensity is such that it is called eternal, although that is not necessarily the same thing, we are told by the commentators, as forever.1 It is not, I think, in the nature of God, who loves us enough to become so vulnerable to us and for us, to leave anyone without hope.

If I call you sheep, I hope that you will take it as a compliment. As Paul wrote to the church at Ephesus, “I have heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love toward all the saints, and for this reason I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers.” I have seen already in the short month that I have been here the way that the community looks to you for comfort, for food and warmth, for healing words and for the love of God.

Remember where your love comes from. The commandment to love our neighbours as ourselves is second only to the commandment to love God with all of your heart, and all your mind and with all your soul. Remember the grace that God offers each of us, because only by the grace of God do we have grace to share with our neighbours. As we celebrate Christ the King, remember how first he came among us, and remember how much God loves us.

Thanks be to God.

1The Interpreter’s Bible, volume VII (New York & Nashville: Abingdon-Cokesbury Press, 1951), 564

* I don’t have a reference for this song; I remember singing it from an OHP at school! I did find out from www.ehymnbook.org that it was by Sidney Carter.

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Psalm 1 – A Walking Meditation

Posted on November 18, 2011 by Rosalind C Hughes

shadow barsHappy are they who have not walked in the counsel of the wicked, nor lingered in the way of sinners, nor sat in the seats of the scornful!

Their delight is in the law of the Lord, and they meditate on his law day and night.

They are like trees planted by streams of water, bearing fruit in due season, with leaves that do not wither; everything they do shall prosper.

It is not so with the wicked; they are like chaff which the wind blows away.

Therefore the wicked shall not stand upright when judgment comes, nor the sinner in the council of the righteous.

For the Lord know the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked is doomed.

(Book of Common Prayer, p. 585)

THere is an irony to this psalm which is less subtle in autumn than in springtime or the height of summer. Surrounded by bare-branched trees, I read of the ones who are like trees whose leaves do not wither, and I found myself suddenly in dubious company.

Then I looked again at the beginning. Is it not strange that the very first line of the Book of Psalms is written negatively? Happy (or in other translations, Blessed) are they who have not walked in the counsel of the wicked, nor, nor…

They are the ones singled out for their unusual nature, their unique, perhaps unicorn-like characteristics!

The rest of us live gathered together like the trees of the forest who bear fruit, yes, but imperfectly, and whose leaves wither and fall. They will be renewed and refreshed in the springtime, but in the meantime they blow away like chaff on the wind, they are scattered and bare.

The Psalmist points us towards hope in the God who gathers in lost sheep. “As a shepherd looks after his scattered flock when he is with them, so will I look after my sheep. I will rescue them from all the places where they were scattered on a day of clouds and darkness” (Ezekiel 34:12).

This God will not leave us forever at the mercy of the wind, but will gather us before the judgment seat and allow us to stand before the council of the righteous to receive God’s gracious and fearful determination.

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When

Posted on November 14, 2011 by Rosalind C Hughes

In the beginning,

you created time, moments

given to live in.

Our time’s not our own.

Although you made us with all

the time in the world,

the little we find

we keep tightly wound as though

we make time for you.

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The parable of the talents

Posted on November 11, 2011 by Rosalind C Hughes

While I was growing up, the pretty china with the pink rose pattern lived a life of static beauty in a glass-fronted cabinet in the dining room. We could watch the plates while we ate from the other, everday ones. The rose pattern china never left the cupboard, except to be packed in newspaper and packing cases when we moved house, moved dining rooms.

On the one hand, this preserved, pickled state of being meant that the rose pattern plates, a wedding gift, survived the forty-three years of my parents’ marriage and beyond. Still, I hankered to use them, just once. I wondered if they had really been created to sit in stacks in a cabinet, or whether they were once destined to feed a family, to serve sweet foods for celebrations, for sustenance, for occasions of hunger and grief.

The word “squander” comes to mind. To squander the gift of this rose pattern dinner service might have meant, to my parents, to use it profligately, to allow it to be stained, chipped and broken by use and familiarity. To me, its beauty was squandered by restricting its usefulness, restraining it from living up to its promise and as a delicious backdrop to delectable food.

Reading this Sunday’s gospel, I wondered what else we hoard and squander by its under-use.

We buy food and take it home then throw it out because we gathered up for ourselves more than we could eat, and shut it away instead of sharing it out. A 2007 cnn.com story remarked that 5% of the food that Americans throw away could feed 4 million people for a day.*

I have a coat which I inherited from my mother, which I have worn once in the five years since she died. I am ashamed to think of the warmth and comfort it might have offered someone in the countless winter evenings and nights that have passed since her passing.

We sing in the shower and dream of stardom, but murmur our praise in church for fear of astonishing our fellows. We embarrass ourselves out of passionate praise for the God who gave us voice, and fail to encourage one another.

We hoard our stories. We hide our tears. We stifle our laughter and joy. We are embarrassed to share the beauty of our miracle stories. We murmur the gospel which calls our names aloud and bids us not only follow Jesus ourselves but go out and make disciples of all nations, to share the good news that we have heard, and broadcast it as virally as we spread cute cartoons and smart jokes on facebook.

My parents did not preserve their plates out of selfishness, or out of prissiness, or out of miserliness. They were afraid of breaking, chipping, soiling their gift, because it represented to them the generosity of the giver, and the celebration of their marriage. Still, I believe that they were wrong. The gift is not diminished by use. The joy of consuming and sharing the gift may well be greater than the satisfaction of a set well kept.

The danger of squandering a gift is not only present when the gift is opened and spent, but also when it is hidden and hoarded.

Thinking about it, we do that to this parable all too often. We allow its figures to decompose into fear; we set its drama as dogma, its exhortations into extortion, instead of allowing it life and light, the power of a story, the humour of a riddle, the wisdom of a fable. Perhaps, instead, we should share it out, risk breaking it open, spoiling it and chipping its edges, along with the rest of the gospel gifts which Jesus left us.

http://articles.cnn.com/2007-09-24/world/food.leftovers_1_food-waste-greenhouse-gas-methane-emissions?_s=PM:WORLD

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