One has to be so careful. A fortnight ago, I mentioned, during the course of my sermon, a novel I had been reading. Last Sunday, a member of the congregation told me that, following the sermon, she had read the book in question, only to find it a most depressing experience. Well, I did say that it was 'the portrayal of a broken and disturbed mind.' Perhaps I should have issued a warning that it wasn't exactly a jolly read. One has to be so careful.
This morning, I hope I might be on safer ground if I mention a book that I am sure some, perhaps even many, of you will have read and enjoyed: Evelyn Waugh's novel Scoop, first published in 1938. It is a satire of the ethics and manners of Fleet Street in which newspaper magnate, Lord Copper, proprietor of the Daily Beast, is persuaded to send the novelist John Boot to cover the (fictional) war in Ishmaelia. However,this being essentially a comic novel, William Boot, writer of nature notes, is dispatched by mistake.
Before his departure for the front, Boot - the wrong Boot - visits a London store to kit himself out for his journey. By the time he leaves the emporium, our hero has acquired an over-furnished tent, three months' rations, a collapsible canoe, a jointed flagstaff and Union Jack, a hand-pump and sterilizing plant, an astrolabe, six suits of tropical linen and a sou'-wester, a camp operating table and set of surgical instruments, a portable humidor, guaranteed to preserve cigars in condition in the Red Sea, and a Christmas hamper complete with Santa Claus costume and a tripod mistletoe stand, and a cane for whacking snakes.
How far this seems from what the twelve disciples are permitted to take with them on their journey: no gold, nor silver, nor copper... no bag... nor two tunics, nor sandals, not ever a staff, which might, if nothing else, have come in handy for whacking snakes.
However, this morning's reading from Matthew's gospel is an appropriate one for us to consider, not just when it appears in the lectionary - one Sunday in every three years - but daily. In the passage we have just heard, each one of a group of people is called by name; is given something; and is are sent out to make use of what they have been given.
Specifically, these particular twelve are sent out to preach... saying, 'The kingdom of heaven is at hand.' More than that, they are sent out to 'heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse lepers, cast out demons.' Who were these twelve, these disciples closest to Jesus?
They were fishermen, tax collectors, and the like. They were not trained preachers, never mind exorcists, or highly-educated physicians. They were ordinary people, mostly involved in rather ordinary occupations; until, that is, they came into contact with this most extraordinary of teachers. And then their lives changed forever, as the life of the world changed for ever. For after the birth of Jesus - the Son of God - and his death and his resurrection, nothing could ever be the same again.
The twelve - and the millions who have followed and follow still in their footsteps - were sent out by none other than the Son of God - the King of kings, the Lord of lords. And yet, what example did he give? He entered the holy city of Jerusalem, not riding in a magnificent chariot attended by uniformed guards and richly-attired courtiers, but on a donkey attended by the rather motley crew of his followers. And then, at that last meal with his friends, before his arrest and trial and execution, he rose from the table, girded himself with a towel and washed their feet.
He turned the world and the expectations of the world upside down. Or did he? Perhaps what he really did was, not turn the world upside down, but rather the right way up. This is the Lord who does not lord it over others; this is the king who rules through the way of service, the king whose throne is a cross.
The mere fact that we are gathered together in this church, this Sunday morning means that we are privileged. We have received much. And with privilege comes responsibility; as we have received, so must we give. This is no mere abstract notion; quite literally, the world depends upon us. The future of humankind and of the very planet depends upon us.
Matthew records Jesus commissioning twelve particular people to particular tasks at a particular moment in time. It will not have escaped your attention that while limiting the kit they were to take with them, he also forbade them from going among the Gentiles or entering any Samaritan town. At that moment, they were being sent to a particular group, the lost sheep of the house of Israel. This was not always to be the case. Think of the apostle Paul, commissioned to those very categories forbidden to the Twelve.
The Bible is a book full of journeys; it is full of stories of people being sent out. Think of Abraham, called to leave everything and strike out into the unknown. Think of Moses called to lead the children of Israel out of Egypt, into the unknown. Think of Paul, astonishingly diverted from a journey to Damascus, who was called to travel all over the Middle East and as far as Rome.
The characters who populate the pages of the Bible stories must seem restless, never still, always on the move. Restless, maybe; but pointless, never. Think of this morning's first reading. The Lord tells his people out in the wilderness of Sinai that if you obey my voice and keep my covenant, you shall be my possession... you shall be to me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. There was a real and serious purpose to what the Israelites were called to do.
Jesus, too, was always on the move. This is how today's gospel reading begins: Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues and preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing every disease and every infirmity. There was a real and serious purpose to what Jesus was called to do.
We, too, are on the move, treading the pilgrim way, engaged in the journey of a lifetime. And we shouldn't be surprised if we suddenly find ourselves called down another road entirely. It happened to William Boot; it happened to the fisherman for whom our town and university is named; it happened to Paul, the persecutor of the Church; it could happen to you.
And you might just discover that you are capable of healing the sick and casting out demons, for these things that afflict our brothers and sisters of every race and creed and culture come in many different forms: the demons of loneliness or perceived failure; the diseases of poverty, intolerance or conflict. We are all sent out on a journey, to use the skills and talents we have, as well as such knowledge as we have gained on the way.
The words of Dismissal at the end of this morning's service will tell us to Go forth in peace. The comparable words in our modern language rite, the 1982 liturgy, have an active addition to them: Go in peace, it says, to love and serve the Lord. Whatever happens here doesn't end here; it begins here, every Sunday, every day. What happens here equips us for the journey, with word and sacrament. So, go out from here on your journey, and make a difference to the lives of God's children; go and preach the kingdom of heaven by what you do with your lives.
Sermon by: Jonathan Mason