I am becoming more and more convinced of the importance of contemplative prayer. This may not surprise you. “Of course,” you might be thinking, “he’d like contemplative prayer,” It’s true, I am a hopeless introvert and I do savour long periods of quiet. But these dispositions qualify me neither as a saint nor a contemplative. Because contemplation is not just about — it’s not even primarily about — sitting in quiet. Contemplative prayer is not just a form of prayer where we practice silence instead of speech. Instead, contemplation is a way of praying that listens before speaking. The true contemplative, then, is one who understands prayer as the opportunity to listen — to listen for a word that has already been spoken. In prayer, [it has been said]…[we] speak to a God who has long since revealed Himself to [us] in a Word which is so stupendous and all-embracing that it can never be “past tense”; this Word resounds through all times as a present reality. *** From a Christian perspective, prayer never begins with the pray-er. Even if we occasionally approach prayer hastily with a list of requests or demands for God. Even if our heart is so full of compassion for someone that we cannot help but speak their name to God. Even when we’re so angry or disappointed that we cry out in sorrow or lament. We are never the ones initiating the dialogue of prayer. “The better we learn to pray,” one theologian puts it, “the more deeply we find that all of our stammering is only [ever] an answer to God’s [prior] speaking to us.” …all of our stammering is only [ever] an answer to God’s [prior] speaking to us.” Contemplative prayer seeks always to remember this. Contemplation is not simply a refusal to speak. It is prayer that begins in openness. It begins by listening. *** As you may be aware we host what we call a “contemplative” service each Wednesday evening at 8:00 PM. It is true that during that time Devin or Esther or Rachel provide extended periods of silence. They also create beautiful soundscapes of chant and song / of scripture and spoken prayer. This service cannot guarantee that contemplation takes place. But the evocativeness of the candlelit space; the glory of its minor tones; and the periods of intentional silence can each call us to listen before we speak. What this service attempts to do is to hold open an intentional space for contemplative listening. Silence, candles, and minor keys merely invite us out of the busyness, the nosiness, the endless distractions of life into a space where we might at last remember to listen and thereby remember who we are. And that’s the true meaning of contemplation — it is an entering into the remembrance of who we are as much as it is the realization of who God is. Not by speaking first, but by listening to the Word that has always already been spoken by God. *** Think of Gospel story we read last week. It was the story of Jesus’ visit to Mary and Martha and the contrast in their respective dispositions toward Jesus. If you don’t remember what was said of Mary, let me remind you: Mary “sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying.” Mary’s listening contrasted with her sister Martha’s busyness and wordiness? Martha, the Gospel tells us, “was distracted by her many tasks” “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things;” says Jesus, “there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” This “better part,” I want to suggest, is contemplative listening. In fact, it is the same “better part” that Jesus is teaching his disciples in this week’s Gospel. *** But today’s Gospel reading — which has everything to do with prayer — doesn’t actually appear to be about listening at all. It seems to be much more about speaking. “Lord, teach us to pray,” is the request that is put to Jesus. And his response? — “he said to them, “When you pray, say: Father…” 
He doesn’t instruct them to keep silent. He instructs them to speak. He instructs them to say “Father,” he instructs them to say many other words as well — words that most of us know very well. Words that we will all say before we receive communion today. But to say “father” in the context of prayer is not to say a word like any other. It is, as one philosopher has said of the word, “God,” it is “an extraordinary semantic event.” It is not a word like any other; when spoken in prayer, it is a transformative event. Something happens when we pray “Father.” *** I believe that in teaching his disciples to say “father,” Jesus is not just teaching them a particular way to start a prayer — like saying “Dear God” or “Blessed be you” or “O Gracious God.” I believe he is teaching them something about prayer itself. I think that, despite all the words that Jesus instructs his disciples to speak when they pray, that he is actually teaching them something about contemplative listening. That’s because I think that contemplation is not a particular kind of prayer, but the very manner in which all prayer becomes true prayer. And what is true prayer, but any prayer that begins in listening. Listening for and listening to the prior word that has been spoken by God. *** When Jesus instructs his disciples to begin their prayer by saying “Father,” he is not just teaching them to pray like him. He is teaching them to pray as him. When we prayer “father” we are not praying like Jesus we are praying as Jesus. I am not saying that we cease to be ourselves when we pray “father,” but we do cease to pray as ourselves. When we pray “father,” as Jesus did, we are placing ourselves in Jesus, which means we are making way for the Spirit of Jesus to speak in us. This is what St Paul says in Romans chapter 8: When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is [the Spirit of God] bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God. When we say “father,” as Jesus did, our needs, our desires, our agendas, and expectations are silenced so that the Spirit is able to speak — in “groans too deep for words, as Paul says. We occupy the place of Jesus (the Son) in relation to God (the Father). To pray, in other words, is not to say certain words in a certain way, but, as Rowan Williams has said, “to let Jesus’ prayer happen in you.” To be contemplative, [he says elsewhere], as [Jesus] is contemplative is to be open to all the fullness that the Father wishes to pour into our hearts. With our minds made still and ready to receive, with our self generated fantasies about God and ourselves reduced to silence, we are at last at the point where we may begin to grow. 
*** I am becoming more and more convinced of the importance of contemplative prayer. Because contemplation is not just a way of praying, but the means by which all prayer can become true prayer. True prayer does not begin with our own needs and desires, or our self-generated fantasies about God and ourselves. True prayer begins in listening. Listening for that divine word that has already been spoken. When prayer begins in listening, we give the Spirit the opportunity to speak on our behalf; we give ourselves the opportunity to be transformed by occupying the place of Jesus; And in the face of the insanity of our world: its erratic financial systems, its insatiable advertising culture, its chaotic and unexamined emotional eruptions, what a witness contemplation could be. Amen. +++

Don’t be fooled. Things really are as bad as they seem. In fact, they are probably worse. No amount of whitewashing or greenwashing, or doublespeak or propaganda or cliche or trite consolation can any longer conceal the awful truth that confronts us. The disruption is irreversible. The rupture is irreparable. There is no going back to the way things were. There is little comfort in these words. But, I hope it will become apparent, that if you listen very, very closely, you may still hear a whisper of hope. +++ Consider SCENE 1 You have heard that human civilization is having a significant and adverse effect on the eco-systems of our planet. This is true, but things are actually much, much worse than that. In fact human impact upon the planet, specifically since the industrial revolution, has been so significant and so irreparable that scientists have had to identify a totally new geological epoch. We have moved from the era of the Holocene to the era of the Anthropocene. In case you are not familiar with geological time periods, let me explain. The Holocene began about 12,000 years ago, when the planet warmed enough to accommodate a variety of life forms. This led to the emergence of many different species — including the human species. The Anthropocene, on the other hand, began less than 100 years ago. Its defining characteristic is the indelible mark of human civilization upon the planet. This is no small thing. “In order to officially mark the beginning of a new geological epoch, changes must be apparent in the atmosphere, in the water cycle, in plants and animals, and in rocks.” And the human species has done it. We have inaugurated a new era of the earth’s history, where humans have become the force that is shaping the planet. “We shape everything,” writes Jed Purdy, “from the upper atmosphere to the deep seas, there is no more nature that stands apart from human beings. There is no place or living thing that we haven’t changed. Our mark is on the cycle of weather and seasons, the global map of bioregions, and the DNA that organizes matter into life.” It’s important to note that we have arrived here, in part, because of the way that we have interpreted God’s call to care for creation in the book of Genesis. For a long time humanity has misinterpreted itself as a master over creation as opposed to a responsible member of God’s good creation. We have for a long time, aided by bad interpretations of scripture, convinced ourselves that it is all about us — that creation was ours to tame, to reshape, and to control. And so, in an uncomfortably ironic way, the Anthropocene is a fulfilment of those bad interpretations. From now on, the world that we inhabit will also be the world that we have made. In a way that would have once seemed unimaginable, humankind has indeed become a master over creation. …May God help us. +++ So you see, the disruption is irreversible. The rupture is irreparable. There is no going back to the way things were. But, is there a whisper of hope to be heard here? Perhaps. Perhaps it can be heard in the other potential of humankind. Other than the power that inaugurated the anthropocene. Not the greedy and rapacious humanity that accepts destruction as a necessary byproduct of progress. But the humanity that has shown itself capable of the profoundest creativity and the deepest compassion. The humanity ready to take up God’s call to responsible stewardship and loving companionship. The humanity that seeks to be not the master over creation, but a member of God’s good creation. +++ Shift to SCENE 2 You have heard — and you’ve no doubt noticed — that people are not coming to church the way they used to — especially the young people. It seems that the church is not reaching the next generation. If things don’t change, the church as we’ve known it may not have much of a future. But it’s actually worse than that. It is all but certain that the church as we have known it does not have a future. One in four Canadians now claim to have “no religious affiliation.” It is strange to imagine, but the next generation of the church will probably look back on these days in much the same way that many of us look back on the last generation of this church. “Remember,” they will say, “when the pews were packed and the Sunday school was teaming with children.” The disruption is irreversible. The rupture is irreparable. There is no going back to the way things were. Does this mean there is no hope? Certainly not. Just because the church as we have known it does not have a future, does not mean that there is no future for God’s church. It is God’s church after all — isn’t it? And if you’re here today, I suspect that is because you believe that God’s imagination and transformative capacity exceeds our own. Our’s is a God who’s business it is to constantly transform human hopes and human failures into the beauty of a new creation. +++ And finally, SCENE 3 The words of the ancient prophet from our text today are not words of comfort or encouragement. They are words that disturb and disrupt: See, today I appoint you [God says of Jeremiah] over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant. Jeremiah’s role as a prophet was not to assure God’s people that everything was going to be alright. His role was to bring them face to face with their unhappy reality. Not only were things bad, Jeremiah was saying, not only were God’s people facing the invasion of an incredibly powerful foreign empire, — but they were going to loose the fight. They were going to face exile and political destruction; not only should they not to count on God to get them out of this predicament — but God himself was behind it. The disruption was irreversible. The rupture was irreparable. There was no going back to the way things were. There was to be no future for Israel as the people of God had known it. But that is not the same thing as saying that there was no future for the people of God. This is the message of the book of Jeremiah: that there is a future for the people of God. But it is a future that bears little resemblance to the reality that existed before. But in order for this message to sink in, it had to be experienced in the concrete realities of loss and destruction. There are six verbs that are used to describe Jeremiah’s prophetic ministry in today’s reading. The bad far outweigh the good. There are four verbs of destruction (pluck up, pull down, destroy, and overthrow). Beyond the verbs of destruction there is a whisper of hope, but you must listen very carefully in order to hear it. After the destruction there will be — building and planting. As opposed to the large and dramatic verbs of destruction, the verbs of hope represent small and simple acts of faithfulness — in the wake of tremendous loss. 
The future of God’s people then, would seem not to lie in the mass reconstruction of the Kingdom of Israel or the majesty of the church. Our future does not lie in our former glory, but in small acts of faithful presence. Jeremiah offers us an opportunity to reflect on our situation and to offer a small word of hope. It is a good word for us… …for us as a species who needs to learn to walk lightly and to live more compassionately amidst God’s creation; …and for us as a church who needs to learn to embrace our smallness as a call to live more simply and faithfully right where we are. So, let’s build and plant together here in Parkdale. build relationships with our neighbours build community and community organizations that encourage the wellbeing of our neighbourhood — perhaps that involves joining me in creating access to healthy affordable food perhaps it involves literally planting and harvesting with Dorothy and Esther in the our community garden perhaps it involves joining Claudette, or Vilma and Sylvia in their ministry to the sick. perhaps it involves simply walking around, and praying for, this neighbourhood. There is no going back to the way things were. But that doesn’t have to be bad news. Instead of seeking to return to our former glory, let’s humbly build and plant in this time and in this place, as we look toward that unknown, but hopeful, future that God is calling us to. Amen.

There is something slightly disconcerting about being compared to a lump of clay. Wouldn’t you agree? Something immobilizing and disempowering. But, as biblical people, we should be used to it by now. I mean, it’s there from the very beginning, …”then the Lord God formed man from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living being.” God fashions the first human creature out of the dust in Genesis chapter 2. Now, this says something about God, clearly — that God is the sovereign creator who has both the desire to create and the power to create… as he wishes. But it also says something about the creature. It says that human beings are earthy, dust-born creatures, made of the same stuff as the rest of creation: Impermanent, even pliable. Humanity is formed in to the image of God, certainly, but only out of the dust, the earth, the clay. There is a unassailable solidarity that exists between humanity and the rest of creation. A fellowship of changeableness, of transience and mortality. a fellowship of which we are reminded each year as we enter into the season of Lent and are marked with ash. “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” +++ Job is perhaps the most eloquent spokesperson of claylike humanity. Your hands fashioned and made me; [Job says of God in a moment of exacerbation] and now you turn and destroy me. Remember that you fashioned me like clay; now will you turn me to dust again? [Job 10:9] Throughout the book of Job images of earth, dust, clay, and ash become the hallmarks of transience and impermanence; the sign of humanness in the face of an inscrutable divine justice and an unquestionably sovereign God. In the prophet Isaiah the image of the potter and the clay is everywhere in the second half of the book. In each case the sovereignty of God (the potter) is emphasized over God’s creation (the clay): Woe to you who strive with your Maker, earthen vessels with the potter! Does the clay say to the one who fashions it, “What are you making”? [Isaiah 45] And St Paul echoes the same sentiment in the book of Romans: But who indeed are you, a human being, to argue with God? Will what is moulded say to the one who moulds it, “Why have you made me like this?” Has the potter no right over the clay, to make out of the same lump one object for special use and another for ordinary use? [Romans 9] There is something disempowering about being compared to a lump of clay. About being reminded that we are earth, dust, and ash created by one infinitely sturdier and more powerful. +++ And yet, better clay than stone. If clay tends to signify a transient and mouldable creatureliness in the biblical imagination, then how much worse to become petrified like a stone? That image of stubbornness and intransigence — or worse, the impossibility of conversion. 
(Think of Pharaoh’s hardened heart) Whether we’re speaking of the clay that is baked into the stones that are used to construct the tower of Babel — that monument to human pride and hubris …Or the bricks the children of Israel were forced make — in that paradigmatic practice of slave labour. Certainly, when applied to God, the stubbornness of the stone is transformed into a sturdy dependability. The Psalmist uses the image of God as a rock perhaps more often than any other image. And drawing on the Psalms, The New Testament often attributes to Jesus the status of a “cornerstone.” Clay is never used as an image for God — it is reserved for mortal human beings and breakable false gods. God is never clay, but is often a rock. Because stone lasts and protects, just like Israel’s God. But in the hands of humanity, the stone becomes a bulwark against the enemies Israel does not depend on God to defend them from. It becomes the barrier that would seal off the dead from the living or it becomes the favoured instrument of capital punishment. Applied to the human heart, the stone is the impossibility of repentance and conversion and thus, the impossibility of redemption. +++ It turns out to be an illuminating contrast, then, to consider the world of ancient Greek mythology. Here we find a figure called Niobe. Niobe was a woman with a venerable heritage, her father being a king and her grandfather being a god. (In Greek mythology there is a lot of mixing between gods and mortals, so this is not such a strange thing.) She and her husband, Amphion, had 14 children together. 7 sons and 7 daughters. This was a fine accomplishment in its time, and worthy of celebration. However, Niobe, in an act that is often cited as a classical example of human pride and hubris, boasts of her many offspring. She boasts in particular to a woman named Leto. Leto was well-known as a mortal who had won the affections of Zeus, the king of the gods. She bore to Zeus twin children. These two children, Apollo and Artemis, were not like other children. Because, as the offspring of Zeus, they were very powerful gods. Enraged by the boasting of Niobe, Leto sends her children to kill the children of Niobe with bow and arrow. Artemis, the daughter, killed Niobe’s seven daughters; Apollo, the son, killed the seven sons of Niobe. If that wasn’t bad enough, Amphion, the father of the murdered children, kills himself when he discovers what has happened. Devastated and weeping, Niobe flees to a mountain, where she weeps unconsolably. On this mountain, it is said, she was turned into stone… and yet her weeping continued. Waters poured from her petrified complexion. And to this day, in modern Turkey, they say, you can still see this “weeping rock.” It is a limestone formation, which water can be seen to seep through after a rainfall. +++ In pagan myth, then, as well as in scripture, the image of the stone, as applied to humanity, signifies an impossibility of conversion. Niobe was never to find consolation; never to be rejoined into meaningful human relationship — most obviously because her family has perished; but also because her mourning was never to cease. She would never love another. She would never repent of her hubris. She would never find redemption. But that’s because there was no redemption possible here, only retribution. Only fate. Fate in Greek mythology is a kind of debt that is owed. It is the inevitable retribution that one faces for offending the gods, for an act of pride or hubris. Fate pursues relentlessly. As we see in the case of Niobe or in the well-known figure of medusa, fate hardens and casts guilt within stone. Fate is not conversion. It is the stone-like impossibility of change or repentance. It may be disconcerting to be compared to a lump of clay, but better clay than stone. Better the possibility of repentance and conversion than the rigidity of fate’s retribution. +++ So clay-like human existence, it would seem, has a couple of different possible interpretations. It does signify the relative passivity of clay in the hands of the potter. Does the clay say to the one who fashions it, “What are you making”? The answer to Isaiah’s rhetorical question is clearly no. And Today’s reading from Jeremiah is in agreement: Can I not do with you, O house of Israel, just as this potter has done? says the Lord. Just like the clay in the potter’s hand, so are you in my hand, O house of Israel. At one moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom, that I will pluck up and break down and destroy it… If you were paying attention a couple of weeks ago, you’ll notice the recurrence of those negative verbs of destruction reappearing here — pluck up, break down, destroy. And if you were paying attention a couple of weeks ago, you’ll also remember that, beyond these verbs of destruction there was a whisper of hope. Today that hope is cast in clay. And so, there is another possibility for dust-born creatures like ourselves. God opens the possibility for a change of heart, a turning away from pride and hubris. A conversion from violence and injustice. Listen to God’s word to Israel in light of their failures. if that nation…turns from its evil, I will change my mind about the disaster that I intended to bring on it. And at another moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom that I will build and plant it. (There they are again, those two verbs of hope — build and plant.) Here clay is not just the passive and mouldable lump, but the possibility of change and the hope of conversion. Until it is fired, clay remains pliable, infinitely re-mouldable. As creatures of clay we remain pliable, infinitely re-mouldable. We remain capable of conversion. We are all damaged people. We have all failed and injured and acted pridefully in our own interests. But we are not, therefore, fated for retribution. We are not petrified by our sins. We are capable of turning, of being reshaped into people of generosity and hope. 

There is something somewhat disconcerting about being compared to a lump of clay. But better clay than stone. Amen.