SERMON PREACHED AT St MARY’S, Nth
OAMARU
and St Alban’s, Kurow
THIRD SUNDAY of the EPIPHANY (January 23rdp)
2022
READINGS:
Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10
Psalm 19
1 Corinthians 12: 12-31
Luke 4:14-21
The story of Nehemiah is one we turn to too rarely. Like most biblical texts, it is a dangerous text to read. Read correctly it will challenge us to look at ourselves, individually but perhaps more as an institution, and ask where we have grown complacent or even corrupt.
Unusually, but not uniquely amongst the
prophetic figures of God’s history, Nehemiah was not a fringe-dweller, but a
central figure in the corridors of power. Foreign power. He was also a person of
integrity, prepared to centre his life on his God, prepared to challenge
corruption.
Unlike John the Baptist, who we
visited last week, and perhaps even Jesus himself, Nehemiah had political influence.
He may remind us more of Joseph, or of Moses, for he had the ears of the
powerful. Most of our religious leaders today are, because religion and faith
is marginalized, forced to speak from outside the corridors of power. But other
powerful prophets speak. I think perhaps of Tory British Conservative MP David
Davis, who last week echoed 1940s Tory MP Leopold Amery, calling to his Prime
Minister “In the Name of God, go.” Have there been moments in New Zealand
history when similar calls for credibility and justice have been made? I can think
of some. Perhaps even in this diocese there have been dangerous calls, right or
wrong.
Nehemiah – the patron of dangerous calls.
Cup-bearer to the king, and faithful servant of God, he dares to ask to be
allowed to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem. For a moment let Jerusalem and the
People Israel be what they have not always been, symbols of the compassionate
love and justice of God. Let us for a moment see the walls of the city as a metaphor,
as walls of justice, walls of protection for the vulnerable, walls of compassion
for those most at risk. They are perhaps walls of protection for abused women
and children. They are perhaps walls that open up to protect the wretched of the earth, protect and empower them. Men and women like Behrouz Boochani, the Kurdish refugee granted asylum in New
Zealand, Nehemiah's walls give them saftey, then hope, safety and a platform from which in turn they might
speak justice.
Those who wish to build such walls of safety for the vulnerable are
few and far between, and often unpopular. In this they are forced to the very fringes of society and must speak only from there, no matter whenre their voice originates. Technically
Boochani was a fringe-dweller, powerless. First he was a Kurd in Iran, hatesd by Iranian and Syrian and Turkish authorities alike, neglected by Britain, the UsA and other European powers. Then, fleeing persecusion, he was incarcerated in Australia’s inhumane
and illegal immigration detention programme. He was held on Manus Island until his smuggled
manuscript and smaller works generated enough awareness for the world to hear
him, and for prizes to accrue. Then, despite the Australian Government’s bloody-mindedness,
he was able to receive asylum from the New Zealand Government. (While New
Zealand’s record on justice is imperfect, moments like the Tampa crisis
and Boochani’s restoration at least serve to remind us that being an
unimportant people on the edge of the world has its advantages, and we are far
less imperfect than our neighbours).
I digress far from Nehemiah, from
Paul’s writings to the Corinthians, from Jesus preaching in Galilee. Or do I? In
each of these there is a call that dwells at the heart of Christ. We are
called to set aside pretentions of power, and adopt the voice of vulnerability, the way of the Cross.
The great Christ-bearing figures of the last hundred years, figures like Maximillian
Kolbe, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Martin Luther King, Desmond Tutu: these have
perhaps gained access to corridors of power, but the teeth of their convictions
were cut in powerlessness, now power. They wielded no weapons. Nehemiah as a cup-bearer may have had considerable
influence, but even he lived at constant risk and earned the trust of Artaxerxes
only at great peril. Power itself – like
money – is not evil. The all-too-frequent abuse of both is the root of evil,
and far too easy to adopt.
Christianity has too often adopted
the language and rhetoric of power. Clergy of the past – and many in the too
recent past (but hopefully none in the present?) saw themselves as powerful. Christian
leaders who became too comfortable in corridors or venues or on the stages of
power too quickly believed in themselves as the subject of the gospel. Their
riches or finery of cloth or mortar was their imposter sign of importance. If
last week I hinted at one such self-proclaimed bishop and his Harley Davidsons,
who as it happens is at present learning a touch of powerlessness in prison, I
am only too aware that in our history our prelates were addressed as “lord,”
and built fine houses in Woodhaugh, and clergy lived in fine parsonages far
beyond the reach of most of their community, and sexual abusers and other
predators used power and influence for evil.
All these become signs not of gospel –
good news – but of the corruption of Christianity. They became bad news. Our grand
infrastructures become not an invitation to encounter Christ but reinforcement of
inequality and injustice. We must turn the metaphor of Nehemiah’s wall on its
head: he rebuilt a wall to protect God’s people from marauders. Too often we became
the marauders ourselves, abusing the vulnerable, or at best muttering “let them
eat cake” to those most in need.
Consequently, God is tearing down our
walls. Western Civilization’s walls, the Church’s walls: these are different to
Nehemiah’s wall. Reading the scriptures is not always straightforward. The
story of the Corinthians could if we had time reinforce this: the holier-than-thou
crowd were fighting hard to keep the vulnerable and voiceless away from the
best seats in the house of encounter with God. But that is a story for another time – I
may even set up a Lenten study on Corinthians here should there be any interest!
As it happens St Mary’s is less likely to absorb the sin of prestige than some
of our other faith-communities: we aren’t that glamorous. And less I seem
unfair, St Alban’s too despite the idiosyncratic magnificence of its buildings
has never quite had the opportunity to rest on its laurels and meditate on its
self-importance (unlike some faith communities I have known!).
Enough. The readings this week really
leave me reflecting simply on the call to us all to live, as the Roman Catholic
Church once put it, simply, so that others may simply live. It’s a bit upside-down
but all Nehemiah wanted was a place of safety for some of the most vulnerable
in the vast Persian Empire. It was a tough call, but in prayer he made it, and
God responded.
