But I have stilled and quieted my soul;
like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
I have often wished that I could manage with three or four hours of sleep per night. At times it rouses me to fury to think that I am forced, by a mere quirk of human nature, to lose a third of my life in sleep. True, a cat – so I’ve heard – loses at least twice that; but on the other hand a cat lives with such intensity, is such a paragon of watchfulness, during that third of its life in which it is awake that I am not sure it doesn’t pack as much living into its eighteen years as I will into my threescore and ten. A cat does not mark time. A cat gets on with its life, and always with total concentration.
Jesus told us that we must become as little children, and that is generally understood – when it is understood at all, and not merely quoted – as referring to a child’s innocence (where did they get that idea from?) or its trustfulness; to a child adults are infallible, even if the child does have a tantrum when the infallible adult does or decrees something it does not like. That probably is true, and we are required to trust God equally absolutely, preferably without the tantrums. Another possibility is that it refers to a child’s simplicity; a child does not learn to be “double-minded” until it reaches the age of reason – now that I come to think of it, that’s quite a good definition of the age of reason. But today, meditating on wakefulness and cats, I wonder whether that might be it. Children and cats have quite a lot in common. Whatever a child or a cat does, it does with all its being. A cat seems to be concentrating not only with its mind but with its every muscle. A child can’t do that: its muscles are not sufficiently under its control; but that seems to increase the impression of concentration of the mind. Every movement needs complete absorption; anything less and the hand will not reach the toy train and the balance of body upon legs will be disastrously upset. Have you seen a small child fall asleep? He does it instantly, decisively, and often with no warning. A cat does the same, but there are two differences: first, most cats have a patch of thinner fur, sometimes almost a bald patch, just above their eyes. When the eyes are closed, the skin of the bald patch is stretched, so that, from a distance at least, it looks as if the cat is wide awake and looking at you. Then, a child wakes up by degrees, maybe reluctantly, and often in a bad temper; but a cat is all there at once. A dog rolls over and looks at you, bleary-eyed; a cat sits up instantly, takes notice, and washes.
When Jesus said “Be vigilant” or “Stay awake” (depending on your translation) he did not mean that we must never sleep. We are not designed never to sleep, just as we are not designed never to eat. Walter Hilton is very insistent that we must observe a reasonable measure in all our religious practices – except in mindfulness of God. We must eat and sleep as our body reasonably demands, as if we were taking medicine. He does not mean that obsessive humanist hygiene against which GK Chesterton rightly fulminated; he means simply that we must take our bodies as God made them and allow them what we may perceive to be their weaknesses. Paul explains the meaning of this kind of vigilance:
“The day of the Lord shall so come as a thief in the night…but you, brethren, are not in darkness that that day should overtake you as a thief. For all you are children of the day; we are not of the night, nor of darkness. Therefore, let us not sleep, as others do, but let us watch, and be sober. For they that sleep, sleep in the night, and they that are drunk, are drunk in the night. But let us, who are of the day, be sober, having on the breastplate of faith and charity, and for a helmet the hope of salvation by our Lord Jesus Christ who died for us, that whether we watch or whether we sleep, we may live together with him.”
The essential thing is not that we should not sleep, for whether we sleep or whether we watch, we can be with Christ; the essential thing is that we should not sleep “as others do”. The Bride in the Song of Songs was not trying to be paradoxical when she said “I sleep but my heart wakes”. She was certainly not making excuses for having fallen asleep despite herself; the issue was far too serious for that. Had she believed that the beloved would escape her if she slept she would have sat up all night drinking coffee and sticking pins into herself and if she had fallen asleep despite the coffee and the pins she would never have forgiven herself; there would have been no well-turned phrases to excuse the inexcusable. But as it was, she knew she could sleep safely, as long as she did not sleep “as others do”, as long as her heart was vigilant.
I suspect that a cat’s heart is always vigilant and that Christopher Smart was not far wrong: a cat is always ready to look up for instructions. It so happens that we cannot generally hear those instructions – maybe because our own hearts are weighed down and sluggish; and it is certainly quite unlikely that it is our instructions that the cat will follow. But a cat is not following its nose; it is drawn on by something outside itself; not a ball or a stick like a dog, but something always out of reach, always upwards. Why do you suppose cats so frequently get stuck up trees? They are not fools enough to believe that they will catch birds that way. They are trying to reach the Voice whose instructions they have followed since kittenhood. A cat does sleep. A cat does eat. But it knows that those are not its first priorities.
I think it is very difficult for us adult human beings to attain to that combination of recklessness and single-mindedness which cats display so naturally and which a child can clumsily imitate. But that is what Jesus is demanding of us when he tells us to watch. Can you imagine a cat or a dog sleeping through a burglary? Well, it is of little consequence, sub specie aeternitatis, whether or not we sleep through earthly burglaries. But it is of the utmost importance that we do not remain asleep “as others do” when the Divine Burglar (his choice of title, not mine!) comes to us, And I am not just talking about his coming at the end of our lives, or at the end of the world; we will wake up then, all right, but if we’ve been asleep “as others are” until then, it will be too late. The Bride knew that she had to be attentive, had to be awake in heart if not in body, at all times. There was no telling when, or how frequently, the Bridegroom would present himself, or what exactly he would require of her at each visit.
The post-resurrection appearances of the Lord provide a good parable to express the degree of attentiveness we need. He was not always recognisable, even to those who truly loved him. Short of a divine dispensation, you only saw him if you were expecting to see him, which was why John knew him at once. Peter and Mary Magdalen – who arguably loved him no less – needed telling, and as for the travellers on the road to Emmaus, they were like the Bride on the occasion when her attention did wander: he was gone before they knew it.
It goes without saying that it is not enough to remain “sober” in the strict sense, to abstain from excessive strong drink and food and other bodily pleasures. As I have frequently said (and I have a reluctant St Augustine on my side) these are not the serious sins, not the serious lapses in vigilance. And both Augustine and I know something about sin. Bodily sins are sins, and bodily excesses are excesses and not helpful in our journey towards God or in preserving our attention to him. But it is in our souls, in the spiritual part of our being, that we “chiefly resemble God” and it is certainly with that part that we chiefly attend to him and serve him. No bodily sobriety, vigilance or service is of any value if the soul does not watch and serve – and the mind too. We may eat, drink, marry and be given in marriage, as much as we like, as long as our soul is serving the living God and walking in his light. We cannot and must not judge others; we would not have known which of the two men in the fields, which of the two women at the grindstone, would be taken and which left. We should not be concerned about them except to pray for them (which is part of vigilance). The cat attends to itself and to the Voice it hears, its ears twitching as it sleeps to pick up the merest whisper. Let us do the same.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
This week's sermon
Christ yesterday and today; the Beginning and the end; Alpha and Omega; all time belongs to him and all the ages; to him be glory and power through every age for ever. Amen.
I suspect that the feast of Christ the King may arouse some mixed feelings – if it arouses any feelings at all, of course, not being entirely familiar to an Anglican or Episcopalian congregation. It was in fact introduced in the Roman Catholic Church by Pope Pius XI in 1925. This was, significantly, the sixteenth centenary of the Council of Nicaea. which defined the dogma of the Consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and added to the Creed the words "of whose kingdom there shall be no end," thereby affirming the kingly dignity of Christ.
Mixed feelings? I know that some people consider that this feast emphasises Christianity to the unreasonable detriment of all other faiths, and that it is therefore divisive. Well…maybe it is in one sense. A rather traditional old priest of my acquaintance, when accused of being “divisive” in his insistence on certain aspects of Christian morality, roared “The Day of Judgement will be divisive!”. And, whether we like it or not, so it will. It is not up to us to condemn others, but it certainly is up to us to make sure that Christ and no-one else is our king. It is a word used by Jesus himself. In one alternative reading for this Feast, the Parable of the Sheep & the Goats in Matthew chapter 25, it is notable that at the beginning Jesus refers to the Son of Man, but at the end, when judgement is pronounced, he says “The King”.
Now, I am mystified by the strange logic which refuses to adorn churches and vestments beautifully (which need not mean expensively!) on the grounds that Christianity and Christians should be humble and simple. Fine. But how refusing to God the honour and glory due to Him can demonstrate my humility I am at a loss to understand. The churches and vestments do not celebrate me, nor is God only my God, as if His splendour reflected upon me and not upon others, whose God is inferior or non-existent. As Pius XI pointed out, God is the God of the atheists too, whether they like it or not.
I wonder whether the same sort of reasoning might be behind the discomfort some people do feel when they consider this Feast. We have so long been warned against “triumphalism” and “imperialism” that we have come to believe that it is a serious sin. But, great heavens! – and I choose my exclamation with care – could someone tell me what is wrong, or mistaken, about proclaiming, with joy, and from the housetops, the triumph and the power of God? “Far be it from me to boast”…indeed. But have we forgotten the second half of that phrase: “except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ”?
Glorying in the Cross is not just thanking God for having died to save us. It is not, primarily, rejoicing in our share of the Cross. The Cross, the point of the Cross is, first, not the suffering but the love which is behind the suffering; and therefore the effect of it. Love may not have an external moving cause – in God it has not; all his motivation is within himself – but it must necessarily have an external (by which I mean external to itself) final cause. The final cause of the love which underwent the Cross was our salvation; and that is not a question of warm feelings, or even of forgiving us our trespasses. The Cross would not have been necessary for that. As Thomas Aquinas says, a single drop of Christ’s blood would have been enough to save the whole world from every sin. But there was one thing for which the Cross was necessary: it was the decisive event among those events which we glimpse in the Apocalypse: the war against the devil and all its works. The Cross is not just (though it is that) the sign of love. It is the sign of victory. I do not understand how Almighty God can have a genuine struggle with his finite creatures; but if he can, and our faith tells us that he can and he did, then the Cross is that struggle and that victory.
This feast is a shout of joy; of joy – and, yes, relief – that the devil did not have the last word, that God is almighty, and that all is well.
If this is triumphalism and imperialism, the triumph we celebrate is not ours. It is the triumphalism that led us to add to the Lord’s Prayer “for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever”. It is also an underlining of the paradox that God reigned on the Cross – one of the alternative readings for this feast is the death of Jesus. His power is so absolute that even apparent defeat cannot overcome it. I think we need this reminder just before Advent, just before the incarnation, when God seems so terribly powerless and vulnerable. His love is obvious – it cannot be in doubt. But his power, the power of a new-born baby, or indeed of an embryo, which for so much of modern science is a “non-person”, can indeed be in doubt. But not after the feast of Christ the Universal King.
It is striking that this feast was introduced at a time when monarchies everywhere were breaking up or had broken up, when the very concept of kingship was passing away as if old-fashioned and no longer relevant to this new world. And now, in the third millennium, there are only a handful of kings and queens left, and none of them, in the west at least, has any real power: those there are are mostly figureheads, or even figures of fun (see Private Eye, constantly!)
But I do not think Pius XI was out of touch and trying to hold back the tide of the modern world by introducing a feast which gave Christ an outdated title. On the contrary, I believe that he read the signs of the times; saw the future clearly, and drew the only conclusion possible for a Christian or, come to that, a Jew. “Do not put your trust in princes, in mortal men, who cannot save. When their spirit departs, they return to the ground; on that very day their plans come to nothing.” It is inevitable that all kingdoms and kingships will pass away; there is only one that will not. “The God of heaven will set up a kingdom that will never be destroyed, nor will it be left to another people. It will crush all kingdoms and bring them to an end, but it will itself endure forever.”
As Christ said: In the world you will have tribulation; but fear not – fear not! – I have overcome the world.
I’ve been speaking about Christ the King – but we should also remember the traditional Anglican name for this Sunday, dating from long before the introduction of that feast. This is Stir-Up Sunday, which has nothing to do with Christmas puddings, but refers to the old collect for the day; one, I think, that should not be lost.
And so let us pray to Christ our King: Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
I suspect that the feast of Christ the King may arouse some mixed feelings – if it arouses any feelings at all, of course, not being entirely familiar to an Anglican or Episcopalian congregation. It was in fact introduced in the Roman Catholic Church by Pope Pius XI in 1925. This was, significantly, the sixteenth centenary of the Council of Nicaea. which defined the dogma of the Consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and added to the Creed the words "of whose kingdom there shall be no end," thereby affirming the kingly dignity of Christ.
Mixed feelings? I know that some people consider that this feast emphasises Christianity to the unreasonable detriment of all other faiths, and that it is therefore divisive. Well…maybe it is in one sense. A rather traditional old priest of my acquaintance, when accused of being “divisive” in his insistence on certain aspects of Christian morality, roared “The Day of Judgement will be divisive!”. And, whether we like it or not, so it will. It is not up to us to condemn others, but it certainly is up to us to make sure that Christ and no-one else is our king. It is a word used by Jesus himself. In one alternative reading for this Feast, the Parable of the Sheep & the Goats in Matthew chapter 25, it is notable that at the beginning Jesus refers to the Son of Man, but at the end, when judgement is pronounced, he says “The King”.
Now, I am mystified by the strange logic which refuses to adorn churches and vestments beautifully (which need not mean expensively!) on the grounds that Christianity and Christians should be humble and simple. Fine. But how refusing to God the honour and glory due to Him can demonstrate my humility I am at a loss to understand. The churches and vestments do not celebrate me, nor is God only my God, as if His splendour reflected upon me and not upon others, whose God is inferior or non-existent. As Pius XI pointed out, God is the God of the atheists too, whether they like it or not.
I wonder whether the same sort of reasoning might be behind the discomfort some people do feel when they consider this Feast. We have so long been warned against “triumphalism” and “imperialism” that we have come to believe that it is a serious sin. But, great heavens! – and I choose my exclamation with care – could someone tell me what is wrong, or mistaken, about proclaiming, with joy, and from the housetops, the triumph and the power of God? “Far be it from me to boast”…indeed. But have we forgotten the second half of that phrase: “except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ”?
Glorying in the Cross is not just thanking God for having died to save us. It is not, primarily, rejoicing in our share of the Cross. The Cross, the point of the Cross is, first, not the suffering but the love which is behind the suffering; and therefore the effect of it. Love may not have an external moving cause – in God it has not; all his motivation is within himself – but it must necessarily have an external (by which I mean external to itself) final cause. The final cause of the love which underwent the Cross was our salvation; and that is not a question of warm feelings, or even of forgiving us our trespasses. The Cross would not have been necessary for that. As Thomas Aquinas says, a single drop of Christ’s blood would have been enough to save the whole world from every sin. But there was one thing for which the Cross was necessary: it was the decisive event among those events which we glimpse in the Apocalypse: the war against the devil and all its works. The Cross is not just (though it is that) the sign of love. It is the sign of victory. I do not understand how Almighty God can have a genuine struggle with his finite creatures; but if he can, and our faith tells us that he can and he did, then the Cross is that struggle and that victory.
This feast is a shout of joy; of joy – and, yes, relief – that the devil did not have the last word, that God is almighty, and that all is well.
If this is triumphalism and imperialism, the triumph we celebrate is not ours. It is the triumphalism that led us to add to the Lord’s Prayer “for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever”. It is also an underlining of the paradox that God reigned on the Cross – one of the alternative readings for this feast is the death of Jesus. His power is so absolute that even apparent defeat cannot overcome it. I think we need this reminder just before Advent, just before the incarnation, when God seems so terribly powerless and vulnerable. His love is obvious – it cannot be in doubt. But his power, the power of a new-born baby, or indeed of an embryo, which for so much of modern science is a “non-person”, can indeed be in doubt. But not after the feast of Christ the Universal King.
It is striking that this feast was introduced at a time when monarchies everywhere were breaking up or had broken up, when the very concept of kingship was passing away as if old-fashioned and no longer relevant to this new world. And now, in the third millennium, there are only a handful of kings and queens left, and none of them, in the west at least, has any real power: those there are are mostly figureheads, or even figures of fun (see Private Eye, constantly!)
But I do not think Pius XI was out of touch and trying to hold back the tide of the modern world by introducing a feast which gave Christ an outdated title. On the contrary, I believe that he read the signs of the times; saw the future clearly, and drew the only conclusion possible for a Christian or, come to that, a Jew. “Do not put your trust in princes, in mortal men, who cannot save. When their spirit departs, they return to the ground; on that very day their plans come to nothing.” It is inevitable that all kingdoms and kingships will pass away; there is only one that will not. “The God of heaven will set up a kingdom that will never be destroyed, nor will it be left to another people. It will crush all kingdoms and bring them to an end, but it will itself endure forever.”
As Christ said: In the world you will have tribulation; but fear not – fear not! – I have overcome the world.
I’ve been speaking about Christ the King – but we should also remember the traditional Anglican name for this Sunday, dating from long before the introduction of that feast. This is Stir-Up Sunday, which has nothing to do with Christmas puddings, but refers to the old collect for the day; one, I think, that should not be lost.
And so let us pray to Christ our King: Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
This week's sermon
16 November 2008
Prov 31:10-13, 25-31; Rev 7:9-17
November is the month of the saints, so I hope you won’t mind me grabbing the opportunity to preach on the subject of heaven – and hell.
Milton puts these words into the mouth of Lucifer:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in hell:
Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven”
I think that would be echoed by a frightening number of people who have completely failed to understand the nature of heaven and of hell. As with so many things Christian, the secular world seems to have got completely the wrong end of the stick about heaven and hell. Have any of you listened to the Radio 4 comedy called “Old Harry’s Game”? It is set in hell, and stars Andy Hamilton as Satan. It is very funny indeed. For a while I felt I really should not be listening to it; not because it is blasphemous – though some people might find it so – after all, there is an old and venerable tradition of poking fun at the devil. CS Lewis claimed that the devil hates to be laughed at, and who knows. I must say, I can’t imagine that the devil cares in the least whether or not we laugh at him; I suspect that it is laughter itself he dislikes or, at least, the sort of laughter that means happiness or, worse, joy. I felt I should not be listening to Old Harry’s Game because it promotes the idea that hell is quite a jolly place, full of interesting people, and where it might be possible to “rule”. How often have you heard someone say that hell would be a much more interesting place to go to than heaven; “I’d rather be with Oscar Wilde and Napoleon than Mary Whitehouse and Sarah Palin!” Can you imagine the boredom, they say, of sitting on a cloud and singing hymns all day long!
I would not like to sit on a cloud. I would not like to sing hymns all day in the way we sing hymns in church. However I would very much like to sing hymns as one sings a love song. Because that, of course, is what heaven is all about and that is what differentiates heaven from hell. And because most of us share that sneaking feeling that heaven could be quite dull and hell quite diverting (I blame Dante) the truth must be insisted upon, in season and out of season.
Heaven is not where the pious or servile go. Heaven is where the loving go. Hell is not where people who sin go. Hell is where the people who do not love go. And that is the only difference, and it is a world of difference. I assure you that if a stereotypical paragon of virtue did not love, you would not find them in heaven. And I assure you that if a great sinner did love, you would not find them in hell. Jesus told us so. When the Pharisee was shocked that he allowed the Woman Who Was A Sinner to touch him, he replied “I tell you, her sins – and they are many – have been forgiven her, for she has loved much.” Sin and love cannot coexist for long.
You’ve read lives of the saints. You know that all the saints (according to their Lives) are entirely perfect, probably died with their baptismal innocence intact, and (unless they are Joseph Cupertino) were also unusually beautiful and unusually intelligent.
The people who write those Lives have got it all wrong, as wrong as Milton’s Satan. Saints, well saints on earth, saints in the making, are simply one kind of sinner, a sinner whose sins are outweighed by their love. Are you shocked when the psalmist thinks and speaks of himself as righteous? You shouldn’t be. Listen to what he says: “Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the man whose sin the LORD does not count against him”. Not the person who has never sinned. Not even the person who doesn’t sin any more. No: the person whose sins are forgiven – because their love weighs more than their sin. St Augustine put it beautifully: he said Amor meus pondus meum: My love is my weight; meaning that the weight of his love was caught by heaven’s gravity and drawn inexorably to God.
The confusion about heaven and hell is related to the confusion about sin. Have you noticed how the secular world talks about sin? Sin, to them, is something you enjoy but shouldn’t. Smoking. Eating chocolate cake. Adultery. Well, I have news for them. Only the third of those is a sin, and the sinful element in it is not the enjoyment. Arguably the enjoyment is the only good element in it, but I won’t press that too far. You should not commit adultery not because it is fun, but because it is harmful. At best it harms your relationship with God, because it is dishonest; at worst it harms you, your partner in crime and their spouse. And perhaps yours. Oh, and your relationship with God. It is replacing true love with false love.
The devil is the father of lies. God is truth. There must always be deceit in sin. Sin is always in some way hidden, hole-and-corner. For everyone. But especially for those of us who believe in God and supposedly live in his presence. It is impossible for us to pretend before God. So we have to pretend to ourselves too. There is not just the sin, there is the disposition-to-sin that has to come before it, the shift into unreality, the shift out of God’s presence, the shift into a place where sin is possible. The place of unreality, the place of unlove. And the place of total unreality, of total lie, of total unlove – that is hell.
I think you will already be getting the feeling that hell would not after all be that interesting place where you could anticipate chatting with Oscar Wilde and Napoleon, nor heaven that tedious place where you would have to sit po-faced on your cloud listening to Mary Whitehouse. There’s a well-known story told about a dream of heaven and hell, and even if you have heard it, it bears repeating.
"In my dream I was in hell, and there were hundreds of tables full of food. And everyone was weeping and cursing because their elbows had been straightened and they could not feed themselves. I was then taken to Heaven, and again saw a huge feast prepared.
Those in Heaven also had straightened elbows, but were full of joy, because each person fed someone else and was fed in return."
So you might say that in one thing Milton’s Satan was right: not that there can be any ruling in hell, but there most certainly could be joyful service in heaven. God does not need our service, not here and not in heaven; but there, as here, what is required of us is love. How better to show love than in service?
I note that I have developed a bit of a habit of preaching about love, in one way or another. I hope I am not becoming repetitious. But even if I am, I am in a good tradition.
Jerome says, that when John the Evangelist was an old man in Ephesus, he had to be carried to the church in the arms of his disciples. At these meetings, he was accustomed to say no more than, "Little children, love one another!" After a time, the disciples wearied at always hearing the same words. They asked, "Master, why do you always say this?" "It is the Lord's command," was his reply. "And if this alone be done, it is enough!"
And that is what, please God, we will be doing for all eternity. And if you doubt the joy of it, try singing your favourite hymn as a love song, and I think you’ll know what I mean.
.
Prov 31:10-13, 25-31; Rev 7:9-17
November is the month of the saints, so I hope you won’t mind me grabbing the opportunity to preach on the subject of heaven – and hell.
Milton puts these words into the mouth of Lucifer:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in hell:
Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven”
I think that would be echoed by a frightening number of people who have completely failed to understand the nature of heaven and of hell. As with so many things Christian, the secular world seems to have got completely the wrong end of the stick about heaven and hell. Have any of you listened to the Radio 4 comedy called “Old Harry’s Game”? It is set in hell, and stars Andy Hamilton as Satan. It is very funny indeed. For a while I felt I really should not be listening to it; not because it is blasphemous – though some people might find it so – after all, there is an old and venerable tradition of poking fun at the devil. CS Lewis claimed that the devil hates to be laughed at, and who knows. I must say, I can’t imagine that the devil cares in the least whether or not we laugh at him; I suspect that it is laughter itself he dislikes or, at least, the sort of laughter that means happiness or, worse, joy. I felt I should not be listening to Old Harry’s Game because it promotes the idea that hell is quite a jolly place, full of interesting people, and where it might be possible to “rule”. How often have you heard someone say that hell would be a much more interesting place to go to than heaven; “I’d rather be with Oscar Wilde and Napoleon than Mary Whitehouse and Sarah Palin!” Can you imagine the boredom, they say, of sitting on a cloud and singing hymns all day long!
I would not like to sit on a cloud. I would not like to sing hymns all day in the way we sing hymns in church. However I would very much like to sing hymns as one sings a love song. Because that, of course, is what heaven is all about and that is what differentiates heaven from hell. And because most of us share that sneaking feeling that heaven could be quite dull and hell quite diverting (I blame Dante) the truth must be insisted upon, in season and out of season.
Heaven is not where the pious or servile go. Heaven is where the loving go. Hell is not where people who sin go. Hell is where the people who do not love go. And that is the only difference, and it is a world of difference. I assure you that if a stereotypical paragon of virtue did not love, you would not find them in heaven. And I assure you that if a great sinner did love, you would not find them in hell. Jesus told us so. When the Pharisee was shocked that he allowed the Woman Who Was A Sinner to touch him, he replied “I tell you, her sins – and they are many – have been forgiven her, for she has loved much.” Sin and love cannot coexist for long.
You’ve read lives of the saints. You know that all the saints (according to their Lives) are entirely perfect, probably died with their baptismal innocence intact, and (unless they are Joseph Cupertino) were also unusually beautiful and unusually intelligent.
The people who write those Lives have got it all wrong, as wrong as Milton’s Satan. Saints, well saints on earth, saints in the making, are simply one kind of sinner, a sinner whose sins are outweighed by their love. Are you shocked when the psalmist thinks and speaks of himself as righteous? You shouldn’t be. Listen to what he says: “Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the man whose sin the LORD does not count against him”. Not the person who has never sinned. Not even the person who doesn’t sin any more. No: the person whose sins are forgiven – because their love weighs more than their sin. St Augustine put it beautifully: he said Amor meus pondus meum: My love is my weight; meaning that the weight of his love was caught by heaven’s gravity and drawn inexorably to God.
The confusion about heaven and hell is related to the confusion about sin. Have you noticed how the secular world talks about sin? Sin, to them, is something you enjoy but shouldn’t. Smoking. Eating chocolate cake. Adultery. Well, I have news for them. Only the third of those is a sin, and the sinful element in it is not the enjoyment. Arguably the enjoyment is the only good element in it, but I won’t press that too far. You should not commit adultery not because it is fun, but because it is harmful. At best it harms your relationship with God, because it is dishonest; at worst it harms you, your partner in crime and their spouse. And perhaps yours. Oh, and your relationship with God. It is replacing true love with false love.
The devil is the father of lies. God is truth. There must always be deceit in sin. Sin is always in some way hidden, hole-and-corner. For everyone. But especially for those of us who believe in God and supposedly live in his presence. It is impossible for us to pretend before God. So we have to pretend to ourselves too. There is not just the sin, there is the disposition-to-sin that has to come before it, the shift into unreality, the shift out of God’s presence, the shift into a place where sin is possible. The place of unreality, the place of unlove. And the place of total unreality, of total lie, of total unlove – that is hell.
I think you will already be getting the feeling that hell would not after all be that interesting place where you could anticipate chatting with Oscar Wilde and Napoleon, nor heaven that tedious place where you would have to sit po-faced on your cloud listening to Mary Whitehouse. There’s a well-known story told about a dream of heaven and hell, and even if you have heard it, it bears repeating.
"In my dream I was in hell, and there were hundreds of tables full of food. And everyone was weeping and cursing because their elbows had been straightened and they could not feed themselves. I was then taken to Heaven, and again saw a huge feast prepared.
Those in Heaven also had straightened elbows, but were full of joy, because each person fed someone else and was fed in return."
So you might say that in one thing Milton’s Satan was right: not that there can be any ruling in hell, but there most certainly could be joyful service in heaven. God does not need our service, not here and not in heaven; but there, as here, what is required of us is love. How better to show love than in service?
I note that I have developed a bit of a habit of preaching about love, in one way or another. I hope I am not becoming repetitious. But even if I am, I am in a good tradition.
Jerome says, that when John the Evangelist was an old man in Ephesus, he had to be carried to the church in the arms of his disciples. At these meetings, he was accustomed to say no more than, "Little children, love one another!" After a time, the disciples wearied at always hearing the same words. They asked, "Master, why do you always say this?" "It is the Lord's command," was his reply. "And if this alone be done, it is enough!"
And that is what, please God, we will be doing for all eternity. And if you doubt the joy of it, try singing your favourite hymn as a love song, and I think you’ll know what I mean.
.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Remembrance Day Sermon
Why Remembrance Day? Why go on commemorating? Even if it is now reckoned to be a commemoration of all the wars of the 20th century - and maybe the 21st as well - why remember? Isn’t it better to forgive and forget? Forgive, certainly. But in this case, on Remembrance Day, what we must do is remember and forgive. Remember how things really were, and are.
It seems to me that Scotland - and who knows, maybe other small nations - has a particular attitude to war and conflicts.
A nation that can use ‘Flower of Scotland’ as its national anthem, even if only at sporting events, will see such things quite differently from one that uses ‘God Save The Queen’ (“O Lord our God arise, scatter her enemies And make them fall; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks”) or the Marseillaise (“May their impure blood fill our furrows”)!
There has been some discussion about Scotland’s ‘national anthem’. I believe the main candidate for replacing ‘Flower of Scotland’ is ‘Scots wha hae’, and some have even suggested ‘Flowers of the Forest’. Oh dear!
In case any of you do not know these songs, what they have in common is that they commemorate occasions when the Scots fought bravely (and in the last case hopelessly) against a stronger, more numerous, invading foe. And, after all, even that victory against “proud Edward” was hardly definitive. You could add the ‘Skye Boat Song’ to the collection, and the appalling ‘Braveheart’.
Scotland, then, can hold herself absolved when remembering wars, can’t she?
Well, no, I think not. Charles Edward - underdog though he was - led an invading army, whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, and Scots have always made up a large part - a disproportionately large part for the size of the country - of the great British army.
So, on Remembrance Day, we have to interrogate ourselves with the rest. Our fighting has not all been in self-defence. We have not always been outnumbered. We are not immune to the self-delusion that another small nation - Israel - seems to have fallen into.
In Habakkuk’s day, for much of Biblical times and in that war which - had President Wilson been right - should never have happened, Israel, the children of Israel, the Jewish nation, were indeed the small, oppressed, invaded and persecuted ones. The victims, the ones who could never act but only react against the aggression of others.
Like Scotland? Maybe. But this sense of victimhood, this sense of powerlessness, and the belief that attack is the best method of defence, has stayed with Israel to this day, to the extent that it cannot see that it has in turn become the aggressor and the oppressor.
And worst of all, there is the belief - maybe largely rhetorical now, but expressed nonetheless - that Israel has a right to do all this because she is fighting for land given her in perpetuity by God.
But of course the Palestinians also believe that they themselves, as the attacked and oppressed, have God on their side.
And in the Second World War, the Allies thought God was on their side. So did the Axis. So does the United States now. And so, with absolute conviction, does Osama bin Laden.
They are all wrong, but potentially they are all right: they are all children of God. Habakkuk came very close to understanding what so few of us who believe in God understand: if God is Adonai Sabaoth, the Lord of Hosts, those hosts are not human armies. God does not take part in human warfare, or, at least, not as a combatant. In human warfare God is, if not a conscientious objector, a member of the Ambulance Corps.
It seems at first in today’s reading as if Habakkuk cannot solve the conundrum that we all battle with: “How long shall I cry for help and thou wilt not save?” “Is he to keep on mercilessly slaying nations for ever?” But, like Job, he refuses either to despair or to fabricate an answer out of his own head. Like the author of the Book of Job he acknowledges God’s infinite power by recalling his past acts (as it happens, Habakkuk was probably wrong about God’s part in these events, but that isn’t the point) and expresses absolute faith for the future, even if there is, in fact, no visible salvation of the sort he was hoping for.
God’s greatness, God’s love, is not to be gauged by our good fortune in this life, as if he belonged to some people and not to others, as if he were the creator of some and not others.
God is not with us when we kill. Maybe he can tolerate a just war, if there is such a thing, or pure defence of self or others. I don’t know about that. But I do know that striving for peace and reconciliation always means God is “on our side” (or, better, we are on God’s side) - which does not mean that we will necessarily have success, humanly speaking. In this world we have tribulation, but he has overcome the world.
We are not different. Not because we are a small nation. Not because Christians are somehow specially God’s people and are free to dispose of those who are not. Or if we are specially God’s people, our great calling and duty is to work for the unity he prayed for, and which he will never force us into.
And Scotland’s national anthem? There really is no contest, especially in the present state of the world. If you do not know Hamish Henderson’s ‘Freedom Come-All-Ye’ I suggest you find a copy. But for the moment I will just quote you the verse that is central both in position and in significance. This is why we remember the past. Lest we forget what we have done, what we have all done, Israel, Assyria, Scotland, Germany, America, Iraq - all of us. We have marched to war, we have destroyed lives and families, we have all been caught up in the whirl of combat and propaganda and have claimed we were only obeying orders.
The instinct - yes - is to try to forget about it, but that is the last thing we should do. We must remember, remember we have all done it, and build on that remembrance a determination that it shall never happen again. Remember, but not remember and despair; remember and forgive; remember and hope.
Nae mair will our bonnie callants
Merch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw
Nor wee wains frae pitheid an clachan
Mourn the ships sailin doun the Broomielaw
Broken faimlies in lands we've hairriet
Will curse 'Scotlan the Brave' nae mair, nae mair
Black an white ane-til-ither mairriet
Mak the vile barracks o thair maisters bare.
It seems to me that Scotland - and who knows, maybe other small nations - has a particular attitude to war and conflicts.
A nation that can use ‘Flower of Scotland’ as its national anthem, even if only at sporting events, will see such things quite differently from one that uses ‘God Save The Queen’ (“O Lord our God arise, scatter her enemies And make them fall; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks”) or the Marseillaise (“May their impure blood fill our furrows”)!
There has been some discussion about Scotland’s ‘national anthem’. I believe the main candidate for replacing ‘Flower of Scotland’ is ‘Scots wha hae’, and some have even suggested ‘Flowers of the Forest’. Oh dear!
In case any of you do not know these songs, what they have in common is that they commemorate occasions when the Scots fought bravely (and in the last case hopelessly) against a stronger, more numerous, invading foe. And, after all, even that victory against “proud Edward” was hardly definitive. You could add the ‘Skye Boat Song’ to the collection, and the appalling ‘Braveheart’.
Scotland, then, can hold herself absolved when remembering wars, can’t she?
Well, no, I think not. Charles Edward - underdog though he was - led an invading army, whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, and Scots have always made up a large part - a disproportionately large part for the size of the country - of the great British army.
So, on Remembrance Day, we have to interrogate ourselves with the rest. Our fighting has not all been in self-defence. We have not always been outnumbered. We are not immune to the self-delusion that another small nation - Israel - seems to have fallen into.
In Habakkuk’s day, for much of Biblical times and in that war which - had President Wilson been right - should never have happened, Israel, the children of Israel, the Jewish nation, were indeed the small, oppressed, invaded and persecuted ones. The victims, the ones who could never act but only react against the aggression of others.
Like Scotland? Maybe. But this sense of victimhood, this sense of powerlessness, and the belief that attack is the best method of defence, has stayed with Israel to this day, to the extent that it cannot see that it has in turn become the aggressor and the oppressor.
And worst of all, there is the belief - maybe largely rhetorical now, but expressed nonetheless - that Israel has a right to do all this because she is fighting for land given her in perpetuity by God.
But of course the Palestinians also believe that they themselves, as the attacked and oppressed, have God on their side.
And in the Second World War, the Allies thought God was on their side. So did the Axis. So does the United States now. And so, with absolute conviction, does Osama bin Laden.
They are all wrong, but potentially they are all right: they are all children of God. Habakkuk came very close to understanding what so few of us who believe in God understand: if God is Adonai Sabaoth, the Lord of Hosts, those hosts are not human armies. God does not take part in human warfare, or, at least, not as a combatant. In human warfare God is, if not a conscientious objector, a member of the Ambulance Corps.
It seems at first in today’s reading as if Habakkuk cannot solve the conundrum that we all battle with: “How long shall I cry for help and thou wilt not save?” “Is he to keep on mercilessly slaying nations for ever?” But, like Job, he refuses either to despair or to fabricate an answer out of his own head. Like the author of the Book of Job he acknowledges God’s infinite power by recalling his past acts (as it happens, Habakkuk was probably wrong about God’s part in these events, but that isn’t the point) and expresses absolute faith for the future, even if there is, in fact, no visible salvation of the sort he was hoping for.
God’s greatness, God’s love, is not to be gauged by our good fortune in this life, as if he belonged to some people and not to others, as if he were the creator of some and not others.
God is not with us when we kill. Maybe he can tolerate a just war, if there is such a thing, or pure defence of self or others. I don’t know about that. But I do know that striving for peace and reconciliation always means God is “on our side” (or, better, we are on God’s side) - which does not mean that we will necessarily have success, humanly speaking. In this world we have tribulation, but he has overcome the world.
We are not different. Not because we are a small nation. Not because Christians are somehow specially God’s people and are free to dispose of those who are not. Or if we are specially God’s people, our great calling and duty is to work for the unity he prayed for, and which he will never force us into.
And Scotland’s national anthem? There really is no contest, especially in the present state of the world. If you do not know Hamish Henderson’s ‘Freedom Come-All-Ye’ I suggest you find a copy. But for the moment I will just quote you the verse that is central both in position and in significance. This is why we remember the past. Lest we forget what we have done, what we have all done, Israel, Assyria, Scotland, Germany, America, Iraq - all of us. We have marched to war, we have destroyed lives and families, we have all been caught up in the whirl of combat and propaganda and have claimed we were only obeying orders.
The instinct - yes - is to try to forget about it, but that is the last thing we should do. We must remember, remember we have all done it, and build on that remembrance a determination that it shall never happen again. Remember, but not remember and despair; remember and forgive; remember and hope.
Nae mair will our bonnie callants
Merch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw
Nor wee wains frae pitheid an clachan
Mourn the ships sailin doun the Broomielaw
Broken faimlies in lands we've hairriet
Will curse 'Scotlan the Brave' nae mair, nae mair
Black an white ane-til-ither mairriet
Mak the vile barracks o thair maisters bare.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Today's sermon
Jesu! spare those souls which are so dear to Thee;
Who in prison, calm and patient, wait for Thee;
Hasten. Lord, their hour, and bid them come to Thee;
To that glorious home, where they shall ever gaze on Thee.
Let's get one thing straight at the outset: this Feast - and it is a Feast - is not about death. For once I thoroughly approve of a new name for an old feast: All Souls, while poetically excellent, was in fact misleading. The "Commemoration of all the Faithful Departed" is what this feast is. The Faithful Departed. These are fledgling saints or, if you like, chrysalis saints. They are not in any doubt, as we are, of their final destination; nothing is going to prevent them from becoming butterflies. They are not people to weep over; we'd do better to weep over our own sins and our own uncertainty of going to the glorious home where they are bound. They are better off - in the true sense happier - than we are. If there are still tears on their cheeks which the Lord has not yet wiped away, they are not the tears of our worldly sadness which is unto death, but the godly tears which are unto life, and which we so rarely shed, to our own great disadvantage. They are the sort of tears which I imagine could even be shed in heaven.
The difference between today's feast and yesterday's is only one of degree. Many saints whom we celebrate today this year will be celebrated on All Saints' Day next year; at the end of time today's feast will no longer exist, not because it is a sad day and all sorrow will be at an end, but because it is a feast of as yet unconsummated joy, and no joy will be left unconsummated when the number of the elect is finally fulfilled. The souls for whom we should weep, were it not totally pointless to do so, have no part in this commemoration. We are not obliged to believe that there is anyone in hell except the devil and his angels, and I am inclined to believe it is quite sparsely inhabited. But however many or few people are there, none of those for whom, and with whom, and to whom, we pray today, will ever be among them.
Sometimes, when you see a service - especially of a traditional type - on All Souls' Day, you'd think we were lamenting the damnation of souls, or at the very least beseeching God for their salvation. We are not. At a Requiem Mass for someone who has just died – maybe at any Requiem for a specific uncanonised person – we are right to wear black, sing the Dies Irae and to beseech God to have mercy on their soul. To me a Requiem Mass in white vestments with alleluias bursting out all over is an insult to both the justice and the mercy of God, as well as a belittling of the seriousness of our life and death – unless, of course, we are speaking of a child.
But All Souls’ Day is not a day of blackness, of dread, of doubtful beseeching. We do celebrate Requiem Masses. We used to sing the Dies Irae. We still pray for their souls. But the atmosphere should be quite different. These souls are sure of their Eternal Rest; they rest in the certain hope of resurrection; but they are not there yet. Our prayers are intended to help them along the way on which they are already walking, to end sufferings whose end is already in sight. Black vestments remind us that they are still suffering, and that their suffering is caused entirely by their own sin: their sins against God, which is the most terrible thing of all; perhaps also of the fate which they – perhaps narrowly – escaped, to which in pure justice they should have been condemned and which may still await us. And the Dies Irae? I don’t feel it was in place on All Souls’ Day as it is at an ordinary Requiem Mass and as it most certainly is in is original – and renewed – place in the Divine Office at the end of the church’s year, accompanying Jesus’ prophecies of the end of the world. But it is salutary anywhere: each one of us could sing it for ourselves, and the Faithful Departed could join with us, but they sing it in thanksgiving and in acknowledgement that they should by rights perhaps be with the goats and not with the sheep.
Because there can be no doubt that they are, definitely, with the sheep. Purgatory has nothing to do with hell, nor is it a disconnected “halfway house”; it is on the opposite side from hell of that great abyss which, as Abraham explained to Dives the Rich Man, cannot be crossed – from either side. Newman put it not only poetically but accurately when he described it as a prison. A prison is not in a land of its own; nor normally, is it in a land where inmates and outsiders alike are criminals, it is in a land where, outside the prison, people walk about free, and in an ideal world the prisoners will be rehabilitated and eventually return to freedom. And, of course, heaven, the realm of God, is the ideal world. Purgatory, if you like, is an enclave of heaven; a prison, certainly, but in the realm of God.
Hell is not a prison. There is no free world “out there”; there is nothing at all “out there”. Hell is absolute separation from anything that is not hell. I find it pretty silly to discuss whether or not there is physical pain in hell. Hell is global pain; there is nothing else, just as heaven is global joy. Is there physical pleasure in heaven? Who cares? Who could distinguish? I think Purgatory is the only place in the “hereafter” of which such questions can sensibly be asked; Purgatory is the only place in the hereafter in which there is a mixture of any kind (which is, I take it, why it makes some sort of sense to talk about length of time in Purgatory). Purgatory is the only place where sin can be found in heaven, though in its proper place; and so where pain can be found in heaven, for its proper purpose.
Spiritual writers often say (or said, in the days when it wasn’t just oddballs like me who believe in Purgatory) that we should do and accept everything within our power to avoid Purgatory, and stress that however terrible our sufferings on this earth, they would be worth it to be spared Purgatory which is, they say, far more terrible than anything we could endure here. I can only partially agree. I think that Purgatory consists of two things: the indescribable suffering of seeing sin – one’s own sin – as it is in reality before God; and the indescribable joy of the absolute certainty of God’s love for, and ultimate acceptance of, oneself personally; that is, of one’s own eternal salvation. We cannot now understand how the second-greatest pain in the universe and the second-greatest joy in the universe can co-exist, but we may be quite certain that they can, and do. In a sermon Newman said “Sometimes before thy saints thou hast brought the image of a single sin, as it appears in the light of thy countenance…and they told that the sight did all but kill them; nay, would have killed them, had it not been instantly withdrawn”. Those of us who are not saints find this incredible, but the suffering of Purgatory is that we are able to contemplate this horror and yet remain alive and conscious. It is clear that the certainty of God’s love and our salvation do not lessen these sufferings – if anything, they are increased by the clear vision of his goodness. But should we wish to avoid them? If the pain is not lessened by the joy, so the joy is not lessened by the pain. The joy of Purgatory is more intense than anything we can experience here – and the paradox continues (indeed, Purgatory is one great paradox, like the Trinity or the Person of Jesus Christ, which is why it is so likely and so believable); as the joy intensifies the pain, so the pain intensifies the joy, because we know that by it we are consciously cooperating with God’s loving work in freeing us from sin. Once we see clearly what sin is it will be for all of us in Purgatory, as it was for some exceptional saints on earth, sheer joy to suffer for its expiation and our cleansing.
Arguably, then, we could desire Purgatory for the joy as much as we fear it for the pain, but I think there is something else. St Augustine was very fond of repeating that God has ordered all things by measure, number and weight. In other words, he seems to like parallels, balances, things that are appropriate, fitting, seemly. Sin and death came through a man, a woman and a tree, so redemption came through Jesus, Mary and the Cross. That is how God works, and it is profoundly satisfying to us, who are made in his image and likeness. Like him we feel the need, as Kierkegaard put it, “to make a knot in the thread”, not to leave any loose ends. Which is why, I suggest, we should not even want to avoid Purgatory. in Purgatory we are tying up the loose ends: as by death God trampled down death, so by experiencing sin as it really is, we are trampling down sin. Should we be satisfied with, should we even desire anything less?
Who in prison, calm and patient, wait for Thee;
Hasten. Lord, their hour, and bid them come to Thee;
To that glorious home, where they shall ever gaze on Thee.
Let's get one thing straight at the outset: this Feast - and it is a Feast - is not about death. For once I thoroughly approve of a new name for an old feast: All Souls, while poetically excellent, was in fact misleading. The "Commemoration of all the Faithful Departed" is what this feast is. The Faithful Departed. These are fledgling saints or, if you like, chrysalis saints. They are not in any doubt, as we are, of their final destination; nothing is going to prevent them from becoming butterflies. They are not people to weep over; we'd do better to weep over our own sins and our own uncertainty of going to the glorious home where they are bound. They are better off - in the true sense happier - than we are. If there are still tears on their cheeks which the Lord has not yet wiped away, they are not the tears of our worldly sadness which is unto death, but the godly tears which are unto life, and which we so rarely shed, to our own great disadvantage. They are the sort of tears which I imagine could even be shed in heaven.
The difference between today's feast and yesterday's is only one of degree. Many saints whom we celebrate today this year will be celebrated on All Saints' Day next year; at the end of time today's feast will no longer exist, not because it is a sad day and all sorrow will be at an end, but because it is a feast of as yet unconsummated joy, and no joy will be left unconsummated when the number of the elect is finally fulfilled. The souls for whom we should weep, were it not totally pointless to do so, have no part in this commemoration. We are not obliged to believe that there is anyone in hell except the devil and his angels, and I am inclined to believe it is quite sparsely inhabited. But however many or few people are there, none of those for whom, and with whom, and to whom, we pray today, will ever be among them.
Sometimes, when you see a service - especially of a traditional type - on All Souls' Day, you'd think we were lamenting the damnation of souls, or at the very least beseeching God for their salvation. We are not. At a Requiem Mass for someone who has just died – maybe at any Requiem for a specific uncanonised person – we are right to wear black, sing the Dies Irae and to beseech God to have mercy on their soul. To me a Requiem Mass in white vestments with alleluias bursting out all over is an insult to both the justice and the mercy of God, as well as a belittling of the seriousness of our life and death – unless, of course, we are speaking of a child.
But All Souls’ Day is not a day of blackness, of dread, of doubtful beseeching. We do celebrate Requiem Masses. We used to sing the Dies Irae. We still pray for their souls. But the atmosphere should be quite different. These souls are sure of their Eternal Rest; they rest in the certain hope of resurrection; but they are not there yet. Our prayers are intended to help them along the way on which they are already walking, to end sufferings whose end is already in sight. Black vestments remind us that they are still suffering, and that their suffering is caused entirely by their own sin: their sins against God, which is the most terrible thing of all; perhaps also of the fate which they – perhaps narrowly – escaped, to which in pure justice they should have been condemned and which may still await us. And the Dies Irae? I don’t feel it was in place on All Souls’ Day as it is at an ordinary Requiem Mass and as it most certainly is in is original – and renewed – place in the Divine Office at the end of the church’s year, accompanying Jesus’ prophecies of the end of the world. But it is salutary anywhere: each one of us could sing it for ourselves, and the Faithful Departed could join with us, but they sing it in thanksgiving and in acknowledgement that they should by rights perhaps be with the goats and not with the sheep.
Because there can be no doubt that they are, definitely, with the sheep. Purgatory has nothing to do with hell, nor is it a disconnected “halfway house”; it is on the opposite side from hell of that great abyss which, as Abraham explained to Dives the Rich Man, cannot be crossed – from either side. Newman put it not only poetically but accurately when he described it as a prison. A prison is not in a land of its own; nor normally, is it in a land where inmates and outsiders alike are criminals, it is in a land where, outside the prison, people walk about free, and in an ideal world the prisoners will be rehabilitated and eventually return to freedom. And, of course, heaven, the realm of God, is the ideal world. Purgatory, if you like, is an enclave of heaven; a prison, certainly, but in the realm of God.
Hell is not a prison. There is no free world “out there”; there is nothing at all “out there”. Hell is absolute separation from anything that is not hell. I find it pretty silly to discuss whether or not there is physical pain in hell. Hell is global pain; there is nothing else, just as heaven is global joy. Is there physical pleasure in heaven? Who cares? Who could distinguish? I think Purgatory is the only place in the “hereafter” of which such questions can sensibly be asked; Purgatory is the only place in the hereafter in which there is a mixture of any kind (which is, I take it, why it makes some sort of sense to talk about length of time in Purgatory). Purgatory is the only place where sin can be found in heaven, though in its proper place; and so where pain can be found in heaven, for its proper purpose.
Spiritual writers often say (or said, in the days when it wasn’t just oddballs like me who believe in Purgatory) that we should do and accept everything within our power to avoid Purgatory, and stress that however terrible our sufferings on this earth, they would be worth it to be spared Purgatory which is, they say, far more terrible than anything we could endure here. I can only partially agree. I think that Purgatory consists of two things: the indescribable suffering of seeing sin – one’s own sin – as it is in reality before God; and the indescribable joy of the absolute certainty of God’s love for, and ultimate acceptance of, oneself personally; that is, of one’s own eternal salvation. We cannot now understand how the second-greatest pain in the universe and the second-greatest joy in the universe can co-exist, but we may be quite certain that they can, and do. In a sermon Newman said “Sometimes before thy saints thou hast brought the image of a single sin, as it appears in the light of thy countenance…and they told that the sight did all but kill them; nay, would have killed them, had it not been instantly withdrawn”. Those of us who are not saints find this incredible, but the suffering of Purgatory is that we are able to contemplate this horror and yet remain alive and conscious. It is clear that the certainty of God’s love and our salvation do not lessen these sufferings – if anything, they are increased by the clear vision of his goodness. But should we wish to avoid them? If the pain is not lessened by the joy, so the joy is not lessened by the pain. The joy of Purgatory is more intense than anything we can experience here – and the paradox continues (indeed, Purgatory is one great paradox, like the Trinity or the Person of Jesus Christ, which is why it is so likely and so believable); as the joy intensifies the pain, so the pain intensifies the joy, because we know that by it we are consciously cooperating with God’s loving work in freeing us from sin. Once we see clearly what sin is it will be for all of us in Purgatory, as it was for some exceptional saints on earth, sheer joy to suffer for its expiation and our cleansing.
Arguably, then, we could desire Purgatory for the joy as much as we fear it for the pain, but I think there is something else. St Augustine was very fond of repeating that God has ordered all things by measure, number and weight. In other words, he seems to like parallels, balances, things that are appropriate, fitting, seemly. Sin and death came through a man, a woman and a tree, so redemption came through Jesus, Mary and the Cross. That is how God works, and it is profoundly satisfying to us, who are made in his image and likeness. Like him we feel the need, as Kierkegaard put it, “to make a knot in the thread”, not to leave any loose ends. Which is why, I suggest, we should not even want to avoid Purgatory. in Purgatory we are tying up the loose ends: as by death God trampled down death, so by experiencing sin as it really is, we are trampling down sin. Should we be satisfied with, should we even desire anything less?
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