Saturday, November 25, 2017

Christ the King, Pantocrator and Prisoner

Feast of Christ the King 2017

We call this Sunday the Feast of Christ the King.  With a title like that we expect it to be an occasion of rejoicing and celebration.  This is the Sunday when we end the liturgical year (the completion of the Church’s story) and prepare to start the story again with Advent Sunday: so from the end of the story we will go back to the beginning.  So at this end of the story, we pause and realise that this Sunday is no end but already a new beginning.

On this Sunday I find myself conflicted.  I murmur the lovely words ‘Christ the King’ and make that a prayer in my heart.  It is a cry of longing.  The thought reminds me of a recurring image often found in prominent locations in ancient churches (I think especially of the Eastern Church) Christ pantocrator – it represents Christ as the creator and sustainer of the universe.   To encounter the image is quite startling – it crosses a cultural threshold; a spiritual and imaginative threshold.  This is Christ in glory – beyond the scope of time.   It is unspeakably bold in conception and, when I saw it in Hagia Sophia, the ambiguity of it wrung my heart as, on each side of it, were the huge calligraphic panes that bragged of an Islamic conquest.  And yet the cry of longing remains: I remember Christ’s caution (John 18:36) “My kingdom is not of this world” and I continue to pray “your kingdom come”, even in Hagia Sophia, this magnificent edifice to faith, desolation and loss.

Recollection Tableaux: Inmate shortly after processing, by Susan Hagen
So, I continue to be conflicted: on the one hand the image of Christ pantocrator, creator and sustainer of the universe, and, on the other hand our human condition, finite, troubled, uncertain.  How might we image our condition?  I stumbled across this.  It is a photograph of a sculpture by the artist Susan Hagen and it is called ‘Recollection Tableaux: Inmate shortly after processing’.  The situation is quite unique: it is from an art exhibit at the Eastern State Penitentiary, Philadelphia, PA.  The exhibit depicts scenes of prison life in plaster sculptures. In the photograph the sculpture is brightly spotlit but surrounded by darkness. The image is disturbing; it is a lone figure, hooded and in a prison uniform; everything in this image speaks of alienation and dislocation, of a process of dehumanisation; of subjection to a systematic assault that makes one feel lost, without dignity, without identity and utterly helpless. Even the title shocks me: ‘Inmate shortly after processing’, here is someone rendered as an object not a person; referred to as an ‘inmate’ and subjected to a ‘process’.   

On this feast of Christ the King we contemplate these two images and feel the disparity and tension between them.  In the image of the conquering Christ, the creator and sustainer of all that is, I glimpse, imaginatively, the vision of God’s purpose, that fulfilment envisioned in Revelation (21) when

“…God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.”

But in ‘Inmate shortly after processing’ I recognise myself, and all of us, bound in our human predicament, – bound in our humanity, vulnerable and blind.  More than this, I also start to discern in this bound and hooded figure the helpless Christ of the Passion; the incarnate one who shares our flesh and our predicament; the one who is humiliated, mocked and reduced by the powers and authorities of this world.

I don’t see this connection easily or quickly; it is no glib trick of speech or shuffling of images.  It is a realisation that comes out of the pain that is also a kind of prayer.  We see it in the gospel this morning when the gloriously confused righteous ask their King in glory:

“25:37 … 'Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink?

25:38 And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing?

25:39 And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?'

25:40 And the king will answer them, 'Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.'

On this Feast of Christ the King we rehearse and spell out the difficult grammar of salvation.  In the image of ‘Inmate shortly after processing’ we recognise ourselves and our predicament and holding that, in the manner of the watermark on our paper, we faintly discern the image of Christ Pantocrator, the one who is creator and sustainer of the universe. Dear Lord, your Kingdom come.

Saturday, November 18, 2017

An intolerable parable

This is one of those parables that threaten to drive you to despair.  I find myself angry with it and that maybe because I am frightened by it – that at the end of the great game of life, I never quite did what I should have done.  Too late then to complain: “It isn’t fair”; to point the finger – the others had more , better genes, better circumstances, a happier disposition; or simply you expect too much.  But who wants at the end of the course to be haunted by the dreadful thought, ‘I never did quite enough?’  It’s a parable with a dreadful sting in its tail:

So take the talent from him, and give it to the one with the ten talents.

25:29 For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away.

25:30 As for this worthless slave, throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.'

This poor last servant misses the point, and the poor clueless man finds himself in the outer darkness for clinging to the supposed safety of burying his talent in the ground.
John Wesley commented, "So mere harmlessness, on which many build their hope of salvation, was the cause of his damnation."  How might we craft his epitaph: “I did no harm but that wasn’t enough?”
Then there is the ethical and economic question of the parable: this looks like a triumph of capitalism and the market forces – if you have more than others you will succeed and success is rewarded by even more; whereas the poor, the marginal, the one talent multitude will be stripped of all they have.  Is this a parable cheering on the mega rich and the entrepreneurs?

You may remember at some stage being required to read and learn John Milton’s famous sonnet (19) on his blindness ; you may remember how he writes about his blindness and his vocation to be a poet; he questions God’s justice and in the end resolves the debate – by arguing that the scope of God’s purpose is greater than any can imagine and “They also serve who only stand and wait”.  It’s a great example of an artist arguing with the parable; stretching and testing it.

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'

-John Milton 1608-1674
Sonnet XIX

You will realise that this is a parable that invites you argue with it.  Is God fair?  But is that simply as irrelevant as if we were to complain about water being wet!

The parable however probes us.  It prods us where we are most vulnerable – where we are most fearful and uncertain.   The rhetoric of the parable casts us into the role of the unfortunate servant – the one who is afraid – and there the parable confronts us, challenges us, with where our fearfulness can trap us.  If the currency of the talent is about our capacity for love; in other words our capacity to be free and to reach beyond ourselves, beyond our preoccupation with ourselves; then what happens if we bury love, it we hide it away?  Something in us dies …

So take the talent from him, and give it to the one with the ten talents.

25:29 For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away.

25:30 As for this worthless slave, throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.'”

That is why we are here: for the art of love which requires endless practice, a constant rehearsal…

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Remembrance Sunday

Remembrance Sunday - some reflections

An Address for Remembrance Sunday Civic Service 2017
St Paul's Cathedral, Dunedin

My thoughts for this Remembrance Sunday began over a month ago.  It was 15 October and we gathered in this Cathedral to bless and dedicate the Parata Chapel.  To honour the grandparents of Canon Hoani Parata whose flag is above us here today.  That faded New Zealand flag above us here is the same flag that he took with him in the First World War where he served as a military chaplain.  As always happens on such occasions stories were shared.    One story stuck with me.  It concerned Victor Spencer, the 1st battalion Otago, shot by Firing Squad at dawn 24 February 1918.   On that morning Hoani Parata was the Chaplain who walked alongside Spencer.  It is remembered that Spencer’s last words were to him: ‘Are you there Padre?” “I’m here.” The Squad fired.

So on this Remembrance Sunday we remember this grim incident; we remember the faithfulness of a padre who walked alongside a doomed man from Southland; we remember the harshness of what Spencer suffered; we might even try to imagine the anguish and the shame his family suffered; and we thankfully may also remember his posthumous pardon, too many years later, in 2007.  Perhaps most powerfully of all we may reconsider where we would stand in this story – I hope we would wish to stand alongside Canon  Parata and with him respond “I’m here”.

Every year we make the same promise in the words of the Ode   “at the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.”  The promise to remember what we have never ourselves known is a rather tenuous thing, however well intended.  If the promise is to have some integrity it must mean that we exercise our moral imagination and our critical faculties; that we turn away from empty platitudes and patriotic sentimentality and remember with some realism – that in the mess of war terrible things happen and in the chaos we look desperately for signs of hope. ‘Are you there Padre?” “I’m here.”

This is the year that marks the centenary of New Zealand’s Blackest Day as it has been called:  The Passchendaele engagement of 12 October 1917, a futile attack on the Bellevue Spur at the cost of c.846 men.  Historically we are well informed of what the military campaigns were like: I think of Matthew Wright’s recent book The New Zealand Experience at Gallipoli and the Western Front.  Diaries, letters and various papers from those who survived the war have been keenly collected and there is a Passchendaele Society that respectfully keeps the intolerable memory alive.

And every year we gather to remember them and to try and peel back the scab of memory and face again what happened; perhaps catch a sense of what it must have been like; and we flinch to think of such things. 

But to remember is to do something more than that.  To remember requires we engage the past with our present, this is an activity of our moral imagination.  We may simply ask ourselves about our country and how we now live: does what we have and do honour the memory of those who died in this war?  Where do we stand?  We hear the question “Are you there Padre? “  Could we answer ‘Yes’?

Of course we know that our society has changed; but how do we feel about the emergence of deep divisions in our nation; social and financial divisions that have made us, I suspect more than in any other time in our history, a nation of haves and have-nots; and a nation perilously divided by those who pay taxes and those who manage to avoid them or at least pay far less than their fair share.  This is a global phenomenon, as the recently released so-called ‘Paradise Papers’ have made clear.  

The concept of care for the common good has been horribly eroded and the common bonds that make for a truly civilised society have become ever more fragile.  As social bonds have fractured – for instance in  the cost of housing, access to health care, the fact of child poverty and diminished job opportunities – the question of where we stand in our society is not just a rhetorical flourish but a matter of where we set our hearts and minds.  

Remembering on Remembrance Sunday is, I suggest, a kind of prayer. A martyr (Oscar Romero) once wrote that:

“The guarantee of one’s prayer is not in saying a lot of words. The guarantee of one’s petition is very easy to know: how do I treat the poor?  The degree to which you approach them, and the love with which you approach them, or the scorn with which you approach them – that is how you approach your God.  What you do to them, you do to God.  The way you look at them is the way you look at God.” (The Violence of Love)

.That’s a simple test.   ‘Are you there Padre?” “I’m here.”

Saturday, November 4, 2017

The Door to the Soul

A reflection for All Saints and All Souls

All week I have been quietly mulling over the two Feasts we celebrate this day.

Byzantine Style Icon of All Saints
The most immediate thing about these Feasts is that they are connected.  On the surface All Saints celebrates the heroes of the Faith and All Souls remembers all the Faithful Departed, but each Feast flows into the other as both require us to see the church and the purpose of God in all creation with a larger vision and with a more generous and hopeful imagination.

I use the word ‘imagination’ deliberately.  Imagination is a door to the soul.  Where we are blind and deaf and despairing it is the imagination that can move us and draw us to renewed insight, unheard sound and renewed hope.  We must protect and cherish the imagination – it is the artist in our souls that warms the spirit and gives life. 

This door to the soul is daily under attack by things that delude us and ultimately may twist us: advertising is an obvious example; it cultivates consumerism, conspicuous consumption of things and feeds envy.  It promotes the delusion that things offer happiness, success and fulfilment.  The imagination hooked by this drags us to a dead end.  An even bleaker example is pornography: it poisons the wells of the spirit; it sets the imagination to work against itself; it distorts intimacy and in the process debases others as mere objects for use and abuse.  We understand it is addictive and its tentacles are everywhere in our connected world.  An imagination twisted in this way can open only into darkness.

Thankfully, despite such darkness, the experience of the imagination opening us to the life and light of the spirit is not uncommon – it may be an encounter with a book, a painting, a film, some music that stirs us, a poem – but whenever this happens the limits of our world feel enlarged, there is a sense of light, and we are charged again to revisit what we have mistakenly thought was ordinary and dull. It can seem as if we are awakened from sleep. The poet Coleridge claimed that the purpose of poetry is to achieve just that:

“awakening the mind’s attention  from the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the loveliness and wonders of the world before us; an inexhaustible treasure, but for which, in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish solicitude we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand.” (Biographia Literaria, Chapter 14)

All our readings for today challenge and can stir the imagination in us and we should read them till they do.  The writer of Revelations holds before us a vision of heaven – ‘a great multitude that no one could count’ – and we may well struggle with that thought, a vastness before which we shrink. In the Epistle John presents our future and our hope: “What we do know is this: when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is’. Is that truly our hope or does it also carry a sense of dread?  In the Gospel – the passage we know as the ‘Sermon on the Mount’  and the beatitudes – Jesus unfolds a way of being in the world that seems flatly contrary to nearly everything we regard as normal.  ‘Poor in Spirit’, ‘meekness’, ‘mourning’ – what sense do we make of these qualities in our daily life?  These are questions that on the surface seem to cut us off from life, ambition, a glittering career path, but paradoxically these beatitudes draw us deeper into life, away from illusion and into truth. 
Christ Enthroned and the Court of Heaven, Fra Angelico, 1428

The imagination is the door of the soul: it helps us see the world differently and it enlarges the way we think of the Saints and think of ourselves and each other.  With this in mind I offer you a poem for this season by Malcolm Guite.

‘A Last Beatitude’

And blessed are the ones we overlook;
The faithful servers on the coffee rota,
The ones who hold no candle, bell or book
But keep the books and tally up the quota,
The gentle souls who come ‘to do the flowers’,
The quiet ones who organize the fete,
Church sitters who give up their weekday hours,
Doorkeepers who may open Heaven’s gate.
God knows the depths that often go unspoken
Amongst the shy, the quiet, and the kind,
Or the slow healing of a heart long broken,
Placing each flower so for a year’s mind.
Invisible on earth, without a voice,
In heaven their angels glory and rejoice.

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Snatching at 'Being'

30th Sunday in OT Evensong 29.10.2017

Reading: Ecclesiastes 11, 12

I remember  an anecdote with Billy Connelly mocking  a certain kind of English teacher – one who, as he put it, would tie a poem to a chair and beat it with a hosepipe until it yielded what it meant!  There may be preachers who would take a scriptural text and do something similar.  Not however, I think, with Ecclessiastes.

Not that it does not give scope for some mockery:  ‘vanity for instance’.  The Hebrew ‘hebel’ has been translated as ‘vanity’ – an interesting word, and evocative too; I have embarrassed memories of theological student days and of friends muttering “vanity, all is vanity” after lectures or seminars, not that we had the slightest notion of what we were talking about but it was a mild put down to anything that might have been thought ambitious or pretentious, or anything we had not understood.

The effect of reading Ecclesiastes against the constant but irregular drumbeat of vanity can be disheartening.  We encounter such wonderful language; such  evocative imagery – there are moments where one catches the sense of life, the world, and of our different stages in the journey: the bloom of youth and the difficulties of age;  but all these may grate when we feel we are told that such intense awareness is all vanity. ‘Too much, I choke, on such nutritious imagery’ (Larkin).  For example these wonderful words:

“Remember your creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come, and the years draw near when you will say, ‘I have no pleasure in them’;

 2before the sun and the light and the moon and the stars are darkened and the clouds return with the rain; 3on the day when the guards of the house tremble, and the strong men are bent, and the women who grind cease working because they are few, and those who look through the windows see dimly; 4when the doors on the street are shut, and the sound of the grinding is low, and one rises up at the sound of a bird, and all the daughters of song are brought low; 5when one is afraid of heights, and terrors are in the road; the almond tree blossoms, the grasshopper drags itself along and desire fails; because all must go to their eternal home, and the mourners will go about the streets; 6before the silver cord is snapped, and the golden bowl is broken, and the pitcher is broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern, 7and the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the breath returns to God who gave it. 8Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher; all is vanity.”

One of the problems is that we take vanity to mean ‘meaningless’ which is the word used in some translations  (NIV and New Living Translation) and that thought is quite contrary to the consistent message of scripture.  The Teacher uses language that makes our best thoughts and common experiences more present to us.  This is a heightened use of language that incarnates the boundaries of our being.   However this awareness of our human condition, how we are caught in time, wrapped in finitude and mortality, is not meaningless: such awareness is an invitation to wonder and thankfulness; to the consecrated life!

The word we mistranslate as vanity is better understood as smoke or vapour: In describing human life as vapour or breath, Solomon emphasizes that life is brief and beyond our control. Life is vapour because the world goes on unchanged in spite of all our frantic activities (1:3-11); because things slip through our fingers when we try to grasp them and through our minds when we try to understand them; because nothing lasts, yet everything stays the same; because it ends in death (2:16), and we have no control over the future (2:18-19).
We are caught in time, wrapped in finitude and mortality, and in this dance of life we are drawn into wonder.  

The Teacher reminds us of the limits of our capacity and that despite all our knowledge the mystery of being eludes us; the One is who the very ground of all being remains beyond our understanding and all our efforts at management of our world and understanding are like smoke in the air, sifting through our fingers whenever we attempt to grasp it.

Saturday, October 21, 2017

In The Field Hospital for the Soul


There are those life-changing moments when something in us is stirred and we see the world differently: the birth of a child is one of those moments.  There is a sense of miracle in the emergence of this new life - this product of the reproductive systems of nature; and yet there is the uniqueness of this new life; this is no clone but an individual being, someone who is utterly distinctive and holds an innate capacity to contribute to the world.  Most parents have known the awe of such a moment.  You don’t have to be a church-goer or a Christian to have had something of sort stir in you.  It seems to be wired into our humanity.

Baptism celebrates this uniqueness, it celebrates who we are; it celebrates the miracle and the wonder of creation and it reminds us who we are: it connects us with God and prepares the way for this new life to be nurtured and fulfilled.  For us all, baptism is one of those moments when we see the world with renewed and deeper understanding.

Have you watched any of David Attenborough’s BBC nature programme series Planet Earth?    When watching these films, have you felt (as I have) a sense of wonder at the sheer variety of species and the complex responses of life to a changing environment?  Even as I am amazed at the diversity and differentiation in life, I am also humbled as I become aware of how everything in this planet is interconnected and one form influences another.  The realization of this is overwhelming; I just can’t grasp the scope and the massive implications of this process as it unfolds.  The universe is charged with glory.

We hear Moses ask the Lord “show me your glory, I pray.” The response seems strange: “while my glory passes by I will put you in a cleft of the rock, and I will cover you with my hand until I have passed by; then I will take away my hand, and you shall see my back; but my face shall not be seen."  Why is God’s response to Moses request qualified in this way?  I suggest is that it is because the writer knows that the glory of God is more than we can imagine or understand: and that while we may glimpse something of God obliquely in creation, we cannot grasp not the reality of the Holy itself; so it is that Moses may see God’s back, but not his face.

“Show me your glory” the irony of that request is that it is humankind, we, who are ‘made in the image of God’; and it is we who are made to reveal the glory of God.  Let’s push that a little harder: why are we here?  What is our role in creation?   Saint Irenaeus of Lyons summed it up in one phrase: “The glory of God is a human being fully alive.”  ... “The glory of God is a human being fully alive.” To be fully alive is our life’s work. Our life’s work – think of it! That is why we have the church: because as human beings we have so much to learn and a great talent for getting things wrong; for not seeing the truth; and for grabbing at such baubles as money, prestige and possessions instead of the truly important things.  To become ‘fully alive’ is a messy process and the church helps us, not as a club for good or perfect human beings, but more as a field hospital for the soul to bring us back into health.

The gospel this morning with this encounter between the Pharisees and Jesus is a harsh reminder of our capacity to ignore what is important and dismally fail to be “fully alive”.   Confronted by Jesus the Pharisees have no sense of him as the one who is ‘fully alive’.  Instead they surround him with their malice and hypocrisy.  They try to trap him with the denarius, the empire’s coin, minted with the Emperor’s image, each coin more or less identical, no living image here, no creative richness, no life, no differentiation.  Is this the measure of who we are?  Is this the measure of our lives?

That is why we are here this morning.  The Cathedral is just a field hospital for the soul.  We come here to take our bearings; to trace our way through the tests and challenges of life.  Here we learn to discern God’s call; we learn to pray; we are nourished by the sacraments; we become ‘tuned’ to the holy and to be receptive to wonder and mystery.  So, in baptism this morning we welcomed Logan to membership in this field hospital of the soul; so, together we are learning -  admittedly slowly and by  fits and starts - how we may give glory to God as a people who will yet be fully alive! 

Saturday, October 14, 2017

The Garment of our Lives


Reading: Matthew 22:1-14.

There is a challenge this morning: we celebrate the dedication of a Chapel honouring the Parata family and alongside that we address the question of the gospel and its meaning for our lives.  Can we find a point of connection?  So, I begin by offering you a phrase, a question, for reflection.  What is ‘the garment of our lives’?

One of the things you notice about special services in the Cathedral is that there are usually clergy who ring or email to enquire about what curious items they are expected to wear for the occasion!  Is it albs or cassock and surplice? Eucharistic or choir dress? If stoles are worn, what colour? Is this a service when copes are an option?  Usually everyone wants to get it right!  No one wants to stand out by looking different.

It’s a very human feeling and not just in the church!  You know the sort of situation:, there is a dinner invitation and there is that sort of discussion that goes on at home while you get ready and one says to the other (Caution is the better part of valour, so I won’t identify anyone but you can fill in the blanks): One says, ‘What are we to wear?’ The other replies  ‘Oh I don’t think it matters.” The question is pressed further, “Posh dress or jeans?’ The answer comes back, ‘Yes, that will be fine.’  

We could revisit this conversation when it happens that the jeans were chosen and the invitation turned out to have been for a black-tie dinner! You might imagine the conversation back home afterwards.  ‘We looked like hillbillies from Hicksville!’ ‘O it will blow over; we’ll laugh about it later.’  ‘What world do you live in?’

The dress code is the sign of belonging and getting it wrong results in embarrassment or exclusion: it happens at High Table, in clubs, the officer’s mess and certain fine dining restaurants; for instance in places where jackets and ties are required and where jandals are excluded.

We understand this: we may rebel against it and decide to flout convention and expectations but that decision carries consequences that we impose upon ourselves.
So, what sense do you make of the parable Jesus tells this morning?  What is ‘the garment of our lives’?

The gospel reminds me of other stories: for instance the story of the women waiting for the marriage celebration; the wise women who have kept their lamps ready and the foolish ones who have no oil (Matthew 25:3-13).  Behind that parable and the parable we face this morning is the tension between the way of wisdom and the way of folly.  It is an ancient tension that runs through the wisdom literature of the Old Testament – for instance we catch echoes of it in the psalms.

Remembering that, nonetheless, my knee-jerk reaction is sympathy for the character who doesn’t meet the dress-code.  How could he be expected to meet the dress code of the Kingdom when, without warning, he is pulled into the banquet hall?  It seems absolutely unfair!  (But cf Luke 12:15-25)  And yet the truth of our lives is that we have little control over important matters and we certainly can’t control when we will die.  You will remember the famous parable in Luke (12: 15-25) where the wealthy landowner sets out his plans to build numerous barns to store and grow his business but God says “You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?” So our life is that vulnerable space where all sorts of things may happen and quite beyond our planning.  What is ‘the garment of our lives’?

With that thought in mind, what do you really make of this story of the garment without which this guest at the banquet is so roughly and arbitrarily cast out into darkness?  This has to be a metaphor – but of what?  There is a history behind and a tradition.  

The best account of it is in the tradition of Jewish mysticism, in the Jewish Kabbalah, the book known as Zohar.  In the Kabbalah this world can be thought of as a vestibule to heaven and all that we do is preparation for eternity.  We learn to become our true self and in the process prepare what we may imagine as ‘the garment of days’ that fits us for eternity.  
So I quote from the Zohar:
“It has been taught: Happy are the righteous for their days are pure and extend to the world that is coming. When they leave this world, all their days are sewn together, made into radiant garments for them to wear. Arrayed in that garment, they are admitted to the world that is coming to enjoy its pleasures. Clothed in that garment, they are destined to come back to life. All who had a garment will be resurrected as it is written: 'They will rise as in a garment' (Job 38:14).”
What then is ‘the garment of our lives’? It is the self we have spent our lives holding before God.

On this day of remembering the name ‘Parata’ in this Cathedral we find ourselves giving thanks for those who have lived wisely and well; those who have so followed Christ that their memory is to us a source of light, a warmth of love and a sustaining and gentling presence that encourages us on our way as we seek to follow Christ.  To live in this way is to be changed and to work for change in our world.  We seek to become lights in the darkness of a world that is damaged by exploitation and defaced by greed.  We become workers for the Kingdom as we follow Christ: this is ‘the garment of our lives’.