Sermon for the 23rd of February - Second Sunday Before Lent

I’d like to reflect on ecclesiology—the nature of the Church. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing about safeguarding failures, bishops resigning, so I won’t go into that today. Ecclesiology is the branch of theology where we reflect on what the Church truly is— we affirm in the Creed, the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church. Each of those words need unpacking.

Because the Church, in its essence, is a contested reality. Its history is marked by division and conflict. The Church of England, in particular, has a legacy shaped by a dynamic ebb and flow between Catholic and Reformed influences. I’m often asked, is the Church of England Catholic. The answer is complicated. Yes, we are part of the one, holy Catholic Church, and we are also reformed. In The Towers of Trebizond (1956), Rose Macaulay offers a striking and witty image of the Church of England as a camel, reflecting its dual heritage of Catholic and Protestant traditions. These traditions often conflict, but they coexist in a dynamic balance.

Anglican churches express this mixed reality in different ways. On the Reformed Evangelical spectrum, they emphasize a heartfelt, personal faith, often with a suspicion of liturgy, sacraments, and rituals. What matters most is a personal commitment to Christ. At their services will be the use of contemporary music, drums, and guitars, with hands raised to God in adoration.

In contrast, the Oxford Movement reinforced the Church’s Catholic nature, celebrating an incarnational faith—one that affirms the significance of liturgy, the role of acolytes, and the rich history of music, choirs, chant, vestments, bells, and incense, participation in Corpus Christi processions.

With such rich spiritual, theological and aesthetic depth to it, Anglican catholic are prone to spiritual snobbery. 

Both traditions—Reformed and Catholic—offer important insights into the nature of faith. One key aspect of the Catholic tradition, which is to be highly valued is its corporate nature. It’s not just about individual beliefs and commitment; it’s about the collective journey of the Church.

In our reading from the Gospel of Luke today, the boat serves as a metaphor for the Church—a symbol of the community that journeys together across the rough seas of life. A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of guiding 60 children from Fox School exploring faith through symbols. They looked up at the roof of St George’s, shaped like an upside-down boat, and I explained that the main part of the church, the nave, comes from the Latin word navis, meaning ‘ship’. This ship carries us together, through calm and storm alike, on our journey to the heavenly city, represented by the heaven and stars in our sanctuary [or at St John’s, by the Heavenly Jerusalem with people of all nations and kindreds and peoples and tongues standing before the lamb].

What’s important about this metaphor is its inclusive, corporate dimension. The Church includes those with great faith and those with little. It includes those who are just starting their journey and those who are uncertain of what they believe, but sense that life has a transcendent spiritual dimension. There have been times in my life when my faith has been stretched to breaking point. If someone had asked me if I was a ‘believer’ during those times, I might have hesitated to answer. The journey of faith evolves and changes—sometimes, it grows stronger; other times, it falters. And that’s okay. The Church, as the ship of faith, holds us wherever we are on that journey.

We break this bread because we share in the body of Christ. Though we are many, we are one body because we all share in one bread.

Words we will shortly say: it expresses our oneness in Christ, with Christians throughout the centuries, and with Christians throughout the world today.

This ship, this Church, embraces all: those with tentative faith, those broken by life's challenges, those in the darkness of depression of grief, and those celebrating joyous milestones like a new birth or a marriage. This is crucial, because the Church can all too easily become obsessed with itself, retreating into a ‘holy huddle’ that becomes a shelter from the storm, a club with the priest as an amiable club steward, rather than a community immersed in the world. And that is a sorry sight.

The vocation of the Church is to serve, and for that, it must be vulnerable. One of the most poignant actions of Jesus was when he knelt and washed his disciples’ feet before the Last Supper. This act of humility and service is a powerful symbol. Washing feet, as one Archdeacon observed, is precarious—you risk being kicked in the teeth. But as we follow Christ’s pattern of death and resurrection, we are invited to reflect on what we need to die to and what we are called to come alive to.

We pray every week for God’s kingdom to come on earth as it is in heaven. In that prayer, we align ourselves with vision of a church expressed by the RC theologian, Karl Rahner, which focusing on serving others, standing up for the powerless, and pursuing justice, freedom, and dignity. These should be the true marks of the Church. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, when people thought of the Church, they immediately thought of those values – justice, compassion, inclusive welcome, freedom – rather than the divisions and infighting we often see?

I’ll leave you with a quote from the theologian and wonderful writer Henri Nouwen:

"Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter into places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish. Compassion challenges us to cry out with those in misery, to mourn with those who are lonely, to weep with those in tears. Compassion requires us to be weak with the weak, vulnerable with the vulnerable, and powerless with the powerless. Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human."

Let us go forth in this spirit of compassion, not only within our Church but also into the world, sharing the love and service Christ has shown to us.