It’s no sacrifice

People from the north of England have something of a reputation for ‘plain speaking’. They like to tell themselves that anyway, but this is not true: they’re just being rude. Given the easy and evident superiority of the south- better culture, better food, better weather, even better buses– you’ve no idea how better it is– you name it, it’s better at the bottom point of the compass. In the face of such towering arrog…, sorry superiority, there’s only way a flat-cap flat-vowels brain can maintain any sense of self worth, which is by being rude, whilst pretending, of course, that it’s actually a colourful native custom and you’re just being hoity toity if you get upset.

I suspect I’m being unfair to my former compatriots and just indulging in ‘pick me’ with my adopted home and maybe when northerners appear to be being rude, it’s not so much deliberate as they’re just not aware what they’re saying. In the interests of balance nor do southerners, particularly the ones with plums in their mouths. This is  a phenomenon happening at what we might call the level of cultural misunderstanding: the same word(s) can mean different things to different people at different times and in different places. It’s amazing we don’t spend all our time fighting each other, rather than just most of it.

Not knowing quite what we’re saying is not exactly a unique state of affairs.  Half the time I don’t think you realise what you’re saying. I don’t. Nobody does.

Sometimes, as with ferret-fancying frankness it’s cultural; other times we don’t actually know the meaning of what we’re saying, but we say it anyway, because we’ve got to say something otherwise people will think we’re weird: unless we’re in a lift or on the tube, in which case, the opposite pertains. Words are our main social lubricant, they stop civility’s gears grinding, and what matters is that we say rather than what we say: the smaller the talk, the smoother the conversation. But not always.

Sometimes we don’t know what we’re saying because we’re covering up our ignorance or putting on a front: yes, go along here, right at the t-junction, second exit at the roundabout turn left onto the A 2024 then it’s just past the carpet warehouse. More locally, oh, it’s 15th century and Walter Raleigh’s head is buried wrapped in Francis Drake’s cloak just next to Jeff Beck’s favourite plectrum.

And sometimes we don’t realise what we’re saying because we’re so used to saying it we’ve long since stopped noticing.  We say it so often, repeatedly repeated; if we had to stop and think we’d be able to explain it but when do we have time to do that? We’re not lying or covering up just not paying attention: the words retain their power but rarely register. ‘Love  you’ at the end of a phone call. ‘Im good’ when somebody asks ‘how are you?’ And virtually everything we say in church. That’s ‘we’ as in me and you, not ‘me’. 

Week after week, Sunday after Sunday we don’t notice when we say some extraordinary things. We’ve moved on from ‘nice sermon’ now. Hymns for example. Most Sundays we more or less tunefully belt out, chirrup or mumble a varied selection of psalmody: lots of different ones through the year, and never your favourite, I know. We sing them, but we’ve no idea what we’re singing. Next time you have a spare moment—which will not be for at least an hour— next time you’re at a loose end,  pick up a green book and have a look at the words. Try not to think ‘what’?

Anyway, getting to the point, eventually, finally and still in church but not singing, on the examining table today is what’s known in the trade as the ‘zoo’ prayer. You may not know it by that name, but know it you do. We say it through most of the year right after the post communion prayer. We’re not saying it today, which was rather a lack of foresight on my part, but I’m pretty sure if I started you’d quickly join in, regulars at least;

Almighty God,

we thank you for feeding us

with the body and blood of your Son Jesus Christ.

Through him we offer you our souls and bodies

to be a living sacrifice.

Send us out in the power of your Spirit

to live and work to your praise and glory.

I’m pretty sure you know it so well you could recite it while juggling or driving or tying your shoelaces. Or fast asleep, though you had your nap during the sermon. ‘Almighty God we thank you for feeding…’ It just rattles off the tongue. And still…do you realise what you’re saying? I don’t think you do. I don’t.

However, it’s not all about you so we’re going to quickly dive into the Candlemas gospel; it is connected and don’t worry we will return to everybody’s favourite subject soon.

So, in brief: Mary and Joseph bring the infant Jesus to the Temple as required by Jewish law, with a brace of birds as an offering. In the Temple they meet Simeon and Anna who tell them how special the holy child is. That’s the two sentence version. There’s a lot going on there, but what I thought we’d think about today is the two little birds, or rather, what they are: a sacrifice. They’ll be killed and burned, because that’s what happened to animals sacrificed in the Temple.

So, it’s moved on from the days where God asked Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, his son and heir; but centuries later you’re still bringing what’s (assumed to be) your most important thing – your first born son- to offer to God and switching him at the last minute for a pair of doves. I’m sure we’d all agree this makes for a much less traumatic experience,  for all the non-feathered participants. But you’re still bringing the baby along while the birds get the chop: it’s a reminder that your first fruits belong to God even though, in this instance, he’s going to make do with pigeon pie. 

Thirty three years after our Gospel scene, however, the full sacrifice was made, a self-sacrifice, on the Cross; not because God demanded it, not to fulfil the law, not to appease an angry deity, but on behalf of all humanity, so that sins might be forgiven and death defeated. Thus ended the system of ritual sacrifice: two birds for this, half a heifer for that, and so on. Not because God, like some bridge-dwelling ogre of Nordic fairy tales had finally got a sacrifice big enough to satisfy him, but because, through Jesus, he is now dealing with us direct. No need for the butchery; no need for a victim to lose its life: imitating the self-giving of the Son, we can now offer ourselves as a living sacrifice.

So much Anglican liturgy: the prayers we pray, the things we say, comes from scripture. Sometimes our services are almost as if William Burroughs has got hold of a Bible.

I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, 

St Paul said when writing to the church in Rome

by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.

Which brings us back to our prayer

Through him we offer you our souls and bodies

to be a living sacrifice.

We’re so used to saying it, it just trips of our tongues and straight out of our minds. Let’s pause and pay attention and understand the power of what we’re saying.

What does being a living sacrifice mean? It means loving God, loving your neighbour; doing to others as you would have them do to you. In our grab-all-you-can, might-is-right, me me me world that means sacrifice, sometimes considerable sacrifice. It means standing by and with the weak, the neglected, the despised and excluded. It means not always filling ourselves if others are empty.  It means spending time in worship and prayer, time you could have spent indulging yourself. It sounds easy. It isn’t. It’s a sacrifice.

Does God demand, need, want sacrifices?

No

Do we need to be living sacrifices in order to have everything that was won for us on the Cross?

No.

Should we then live our lives as living sacrifices? 

Yes, if we want to be Jesus’ disciples. I hope you do.

Through him we offer you our souls and bodies

to be a living sacrifice.

That prayer will soon come back again into our services.

Saying it, we are promising serious things, we are offering our selves to God.  You might be tempted to stop saying it now we’ve put what we’re saying under the spotlight, we are, after all, promising things we don’t know we can achieve. But don’t stop saying it. Praying is aspirational, like naming: we pray as what we might become rather than as what we are.  

Sacrifice is a scary word. Disciple isn’t. But it’s the same thing.  And you know what? You’re already living it, and look, you’re ok. You’re just so used to living it you’ve long since stopped noticing.