The Gift of Anglicanism in a Complex World
A Sermon for the 7th Sunday of Pentecost.
A sower goes out to sow—and does so with enthusiasm!
Seed is scattered on good soil, where it produce a magnificent crop. But the sower has more seed to spare, and does not stop there! Seed is thrown among thorns. And yet there is more, so it is tossed over rocky ground. There is even enough to spill across pathways to be picked up by birds or a travellers boot - and be carried far, far away!
It is an absurd and memorable story, yet almost immediately we assume the challenge is to identify which soil we are. Am I good soil? Am I receptive enough? Is my faith deep enough? Am I producing enough? More dangerously, we sometimes assess the soil of others. That person is too resistant. That generation is not interested. That community is too secular.
Admittedly, that inclination is encouraged by the second half of today’s passage, where the soils are associated with different responses to the word. Many scholars believe this was a later insert of early Church authors attempting to explain why the Christian movement took root in some places but not others. It stays with us today because assessment, comparison and self-doubt are already second nature to us - and before long, a parable about God’s generosity becomes a test of our spiritual adequacy.
Personally, I don’t think any of us need another reason to wonder whether we are good enough. At some point, most of us have known the rocky ground of broken relationships. Some of us have known the thorns of poverty, illness, anxiety, loneliness and grief. Many of us have been exhausted from holding together households, finances and work.
In some seasons, faithfulness looks like getting out of bed. Sometimes it means finding the courage to show up in a difficult place. Most often it means deciding to try again tomorrow. Amongst all this, if the gospel becomes another voice asking why we have not performed better at our lives, it ceases to be good news.
Thankfully, this is not a story about soil performance. It is about a sower who is neither obsessed with the condition of the fields nor stingy with the seed, but scatters the stuff of life in every direction with extraordinary generosity.
According to the parable, there is no place beyond the generosity of the sower, and according to the gospel, there is no place in this world—or in your life—where you are not loved.
The extravagant love of God lies at the heart of Christian faith. And while it is not our task to explain that or, what becomes of it as modern-day People of the Way I think we do bear some responsibility for remembering how much of that goodness we have received.
Each time we gather, the Church reaches into the seed bag:
We tell our origin stories because they reveal a covenant God who remains persistently faithful to imperfect people.
We practise mutual accountability by confessing our sins together, and hear forgiveness declared—not reluctantly, but compassionately, and persistently.
We witness the wounds of the world into our prayers, that no precious life may ever be forgotten, that no suffering may ever be in vain.
We exchange the peace, setting aside squabbles that we may approach God’s table as equal participants in grace:
Where the world divides people by status, the table gathers us as one body.
Where the world trains us to live transactionally, the Great Thanksgiving teaches gratitude for this fragile life.
Where the world tells us to protect what is ours, the broken bread reveals that real life is found in what we share.
And always, always, always we are sent out blessed - with the confidence of God that we are also a blessing to the world.
That’s a lot of work for one service to do, but week after week, these gifts are scattered into our lives.
We do not always know where they will take root or when we may need them - perhaps a prayer learned in childhood may become the language we lean on at a hospital bedside; confession may teach us that challenging truths can be confessed without becoming completely debilitated and paralysed by shame; the peace may convince us that a community must have reconciliation at its foundation if it is to flourish in respect and mutuality…. There are countless ways this good seed may grow - and that is the point!
Holy Communion plants the gospel in imagination, voice and body. Its patterns become something like spiritual muscle memory for us. Long before we develop mature theological language, liturgy forms us in the pattern of Christian life.
This is a defining feature of Anglicanism: lex orandi, lex credendi—the way we pray shapes what we believe, and what we believe shapes how we live. A common prayer to shape our common life - its one of the most precious things we inherit as Anglicans. But an inheritance can be a complicated thing.
Today we heard the story of Jacob and Esau. Esau returns from the field famished after work. Jacob has food, but rather than simply feeding his brother, he exploits his vulnerability: “Sell me your birthright.” There is something disturbing about turning another person’s hunger into an opportunity for advantage. Yet the story raises another unsettling question for us: what use is an inheritance when it cannot satisfy the urgency of the present moment?
Esau is hungry now. A bowl of stew can be held and eaten now. An inheritance on the other hand asks for patience, imagination and trust. When immediate need overwhelms us, a deeper gift can appear worthless.
Churches know that temptation. We face urgent questions about attendance, finances, ageing congregations and how to speak of faith in a changing culture. Under pressure, it is easy to assume our inheritance is part of the problem—that people will respond only if worship becomes shorter, thinner and more like the stuff that’s getting a thousands of clicks or hits or downloads.
Certainly, tradition can become lifeless. It can be rushed, poorly explained or often it is offered without any sense of reverence. But we should not mistake those missteps for irrelevance.
Our culture is already filled with noise, speed, transaction and relentless demands on our attention or distraction with the latest shiny techie thing. People do not need the Church to offer more of the same.
What we do need are places…
where no one is trying to sell us anything;
where beauty is something to behold rather than yet another thing to consume;
where silence allows us to hear what is actually going on within us, rather than being told what to feel or think;
where human dignity always comes first - and is part of a story that continually whispers - you are unique and precious and seen and remembered. Don’t you ever forget that.
There remains in everyone a hunger to encounter and know we are connected to what is deeply sacred. If it weren’t true we wouldn’t see yoga retreats, secular pilgrimages, offline clubs and candle lit cathedral concerts doing booming business.
The liturgies of the Church offer the kind of the sanctuary the world has lost - time and place in which there are no other demands on us - we are simply free to rest in a place made sacred because so many generations before us have rested here, have laughed and cried here, have hoped and shared, and stood together - a place in which we can be thoroughly ourselves before the source of all creation and know ourselves to be unconditionally blessed - for no other reason than we are God’s children.
We are not called to compete with entertainment culture. We do not need more entertainment.
We are not called to dilute our inheritance until it demands nothing of us and offers little.
We do need places to rest.
We do need sanctuary from the incessant demands of our lives.
We do need to be reminded that we are part of something truly and incredibly special.
And so we are called to understand the gifts we have inherited - to practice with integrity and know that it is these patterns of being continually drawn together, continually affirmed, included and reconciled to each other, are worth understanding properly, and passing on.
A Prayer Book for Australia is part of that inheritance. Most of us know a few pages beginning around 119. It is actually an 850-page treasury containing different forms of the Eucharist, daily prayer, seasonal resources, and countless prayers for healing, grief, celebration, hope, relief. It is not merely a manual for clergy. It is for kitchen tables and long late nights and celebrations and moments in which we have no words. It is for times of lament and moments of exuberance. It is for welcoming, blessing and parting with dignity. It is a gift we have not yet fully lived into.
G. K. Chesterton once observed, “The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried.” The same can be said of our liturgical inheritance. Seed left permanently in the bag cannot bear fruit.
From a mission planning perspective, we cannot say we do not have enough if we are not yet drawing on what has been given. So we must ask the questions the liturgy asks of us:
How well do we communicate the radical welcome of God’s table to our neighbours?
What parts of our liturgy do we need to explore more deeply?
What might enhance the sacredness of this place for us and for our wider communities?
How might our common prayer form us to become as generous with our gifts as the sower is generous with seed?
Over coming weeks we will continue printing the liturgy - and as I mentioned last week, I want you to think of it as a resource. Reread it. Notice what it says about God, human life and the world. Examine the pattern of gathering, listening, confessing, making peace, thanksgiving, receiving and being sent. Ask yourself: What is this pattern planting in me? What kind of community is this calling us to become?
Our task is not to abandon the seed bag, but to open our tradition more fully: to understand the significance of our Holy Communion. To recognise what a gift has been entrusted to us and sow it on with courage.
The generous sower is still at work today—the Spirit continues to scatter grace across familiar ground and unexpected places alike, trusting that there is always enough seed and enough possibility for you and I, for the church, for this whole word, and for tomorrow.
May we take up the richness of our inheritance. Amen.