Capis unum captus ab uno

“Jesus Christ, whom having not seen ye love; in whom, though now ye see him not, yet believing, ye rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory.”

I have known people of whom this is transparently true. My father had, shall we say, an ambivalent attitude towards the Church. He did not like being limited, being constrained, being dictated to (oh yes, I’m his daughter!). He would have found life very much easier had he been without religion. He tried. He tried hard. He didn’t set foot in a church for twenty years. He called himself an atheist, while writing passionate poetry to, and about, Christ and his apostles. He was finally forced back into the Church when, as he said, “they tried to take the beauty away”; and he fought with his characteristic mix of ferocity and gentleness for the rest of his life for the return of that beauty.
Well, not everyone has the same opinion about the effects of the Second Vatican Council and the new rite of the Roman Mass. A reasonable comparison for us might be the difference between the Book of Common Prayer and the Alternative Service Book. The latter is more easily “understanded of the people”, undoubtedly; more accessible, maybe; but, I think, less beautiful. And for many people like my father, people who are captivated by the beauty of Christ, totally unsatisfying. One of the last things he said to me was “I would have really liked to be an atheist. But…I love Christ too much”.

St Bruno, the founder of the Carthusian order, was another person like that. His epitaph, which suits him down to the ground, is almost untranslatable. For the Latinists among you (I am sure there are some) it is: Sic Pater o Bruno, capis Unum captus ab Uno. The nearest I can (clumsily) get to it is: “At last, O Father Bruno, you possess the One by whom you were possessed”.
St Paul too. He was totally possessed by Christ, possessed in both senses. He was entirely Christ’s own, which does not mean all his faults and weaknesses were wiped out, as he knew only too well. But in the other sense too: I doubt if he ever thought of anything else but bringing people to Christ, because he knew that that was the only thing that mattered. He was captivated; he was – there is really no other way of putting it – in love. And it was love at first sight, life-changing and permanent. Love unto death.

How about you? Now I am not trying to make you feel guilty, in the old-fashioned way – “If you REALLY loved God, if you REALLY had faith, if you REALLY prayed…” We’ve all been damaged to some extent by that one. But the feeling of these things is a gift, and to some extent either you have it or you have not, rather as you are either musical or you are not. I’m just wondering. What is it that keeps you coming to church, or that brought you in here today?
I suggest that, unless it is sheer habit, you too are motivated by the love of God, even if you are not as acutely aware of it as St Bruno or St Paul – or my father.
I think I see some of you muttering, “Well, convince me. Convince me that I love God.”

We need to look for a moment at what the word “love” means. People who have come through difficult times in a marriage, to find that the bond is stronger than ever, or parents who have continued to love a child who has fallen into bad company, perhaps into addiction or crime, have in my opinion, a good notion of what love is. Love is the thing that is still there when you no longer feel love. Love is the thing that keeps you trusting when your reason tells you there is nothing left and you might just as well cut your losses and run. Love of God, for most of us, is what keeps us defining ourselves as Christians and keeps us coming to church when it is patently obvious that there is no God. I think it is what keeps those Christian writers who appear no longer to believe anything that is recognisably Christian indefatigably continuing to define themselves as Christians. They would prefer to be atheists…but they love Christ too much. Love, real love, is the thing that you don’t feel, and yet you act upon.
It’s a bit like courage, really. Acting bravely when you are not afraid is not courage. Courage is, in the hackneyed but useful phrase, feeling the fear and doing it anyway.
We are told that “there is no room for fear in love. We love because God loved us first.” Being what we are, even that can make us feel guilty and doubtful. Do I really love God if I am still afraid – of so many things, including my meeting with him after my death? Yes, you do. It is only perfect love that casts out all fear, and I don’t know anyone who has got there. All fear is cast out when we love as we are loved, and that will not happen until we know as we are known. To misquote, we love now as in a mirror, dimly; but then face to face.
Yes, of course, sometimes we do feel love of God, or fervour, and we do, to our own surprise, sometimes find ourselves praying spontaneously, or really meaning it when we say we are Christians. But, as I said, these things are gifts. They are not, for most of us, the normal state, and they are not the bread and butter of our life with God. God is spirit, and for flesh to love spirit - which is what is happening when we feel these things – it requires a special dispensation, a small miracle, if you like. Miracles do happen – oh yes, they do – but they are not the basis of everyday life for most of us. Loving in spirit and in truth is the real thing, the everyday thing, which for most of us will simply keep us coming to church, attempting to keep the commandments, and being, as far as we can, good and faithful servants. Some of us - we don’t know who until it happens - will one day realise, perhaps with incredulity, that when we are called to make a stand, perhaps even give our life, for God, we are ready for it. Reluctant maybe, terrified perhaps, but our love, whatever that unfelt thing is, carries us through.
There’s a splendid prayer in the prayer corner over there, written – or prayed – by Harry Williams. It may shock some of you and I’m sorry if it does, because in my opinion it is a nearly perfect expression of selfless love of God. He sits before God, completely honest, completely human, completely transparent and guileless, and completely loving, and prays thus:
O God, I am hellishly angry; I think so and so is a swine; I am tortured by worry about this or that; I am pretty certain that I have missed my chances in life; this or that has left me feeling terribly depressed. But nonetheless, here I am like this, feeling both bloody and bloody minded, and I am going to stay here for ten minutes. You are unlikely to give me anything, I know that. But I am going to stay here for ten minutes nonetheless.

If you really want to exercise and prove your love of God, go and do likewise. And may the joy unspeakable and full of glory of which St Peter speaks be yours now and always.