Tag: liberation theology

A motley crew of cheerleaders

David HerbertLeave a comment

Sometimes one sermon leads to another. The focus here is Hebrews 11:29-12:2, very much picking up from last week’s sermon commending those who never give up and never settle for the way things are, always hoping for justice and love. Here we join the author of Hebrews in looking more closely at who these people are because they really are our cheerleaders. The gospel reading is Luke 12:49-56.

This morning I want to bring to your attention the great cloud of witnesses who surround us.
It is such an evocative image that the author of this letter to the Hebrews has brought to the church.
It is a piece of art.

(The authorship of Hebrews has been kept a mystery.
There is a strong case that the author is a woman – perhaps Priscilla, named as a church leader in Paul’s letters.
Her authorship may have been suppressed because she was a woman.
To avoid repeatedly saying “the author” I’ll be using the pronouns, she/her.
I think it’s helpful to picture the hand of the person writing this letter.
It may well be a woman’s hand.)

Last week we heard from her letter the closest the Bible comes to defining faith:
“Faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (Hebrews 11:1).

She then gave us a list of people who lived faithfully in hope and love, never settling for anything less that what God had promised.
She commends them for their faith.

She lists some by name:
Abel, the first of many victims of resentment and murder,
Enoch, the first of “the disappeared” – those who vanish without a trace,
Noah, the first of many victims of flooding and climate change, and
Abraham, the archetypal migrant, forever moving from place to place, a stranger and foreigner wherever he went, refusing to settle for the world as it was, forever following a call into a future he could not yet see.

They’re the patriarchs of faith.

But she goes on to name others, and, in today’s reading (Hebrews 11:29–12:2),
to hold up a whole host of unnamed witnesses.
These, too, are the people she commends for their faith.

The technology she has at her disposal was words, and she uses them like a camera lens – zooming in so we see them vividly.
She populates the crowd. They are not faceless.
She wants us to see them for who they are.
She has given us a series of close-ups of them.

Here they are.
They faced jeers and flogging, even chains and imprisonment.
They were put to death by stoning, they were sawn in two, they were killed by the sword.
They went about in sheepskins and goatskins,
destitute, persecuted and ill-treated,
They wandered the desert and mountains, living in caves and in holes in the ground.

These are the people commended for their faith.

Have a look at them. They won’t mind you taking their photo.
See the man in the torn sheepskin,
and the woman whose wrists still bear rope marks.
See the exile who carries home only in memory
and the young man with a limp and joy in his eyes.

Take those photos to heart. Treasure them.
None of them are ever going to make the front cover of Vogue.
They are the last people anyone would think of.

But this is the kingdom of God we are talking about,
where there is one rule
that the first shall be last, and the last first.

And this is sacred scripture,
the treasure of those who are last, lost and least in the kingdoms of this world,
whose hope is stubborn, resilient, never-say-die,
and will settle for nothing less
than the justice and mercy of God’s kingdom.

This cloud of witnesses surrounds us:
not a polished gallery of saintly portraits,
but a motley crew — scarred, weathered, unkempt, unruly.

They are our cheerleaders.
Imagine them as the author of Hebrews wants us to.
Imagine each and every one of them cheering you on.
Come on Margaret, Come on Niki.
“Don’t give up”, “Don’t get downhearted”, “Don’t beat yourself up”, “Keep hope alive”.

We look after our grandchildren two days a week.
One of them is soon to be 5, the other is 2.
The days are long and hard.
These days highlight my weaknesses, especially as we all tire towards the end of the day. 
Patience wears thin. I can feel mean, and I hate myself for feeling like that.
But there are other times when I see how good I can be and how helpful I can be to them.
I love that, and they love that.

I suspect many parents, grandparents and carers know what I’m talking about, especially in the long summer holidays.

In moments like those, moments of temptation, weakness and vulnerability we need the right voices in our heads and ears.
We need to hear these cheerleaders who’ve come through their trials.

But there are other cheerleaders too, if we can call them that,
The voices of dog whistlers and fearmongers
egging us on in a different race altogether:
the race to be anxious about everything,
to fear the stranger,
to protect our own at the expense of others,
to trade trust for suspicion and love for self-preservation.

They sound persuasive because they speak the language of fear — and fear is loud.
But it is not the language of the kingdom.

Hope is the language of the kingdom.
Mercy is the language of the kingdom.
Love is the language of the kingdom.

The gospel ends with Jesus asking a question, more or less wondering to himself,
“How is it that you do not know how to interpret this present time?” (Luke 12:56)

It may be that we have got it wrong, that we are seeing things the wrong way,
through the wrong eyes.
The author of Hebrews has given us a different picture,
a picture of the last and least who lived for hope, mercy and love.
They’re the eyes through which we need to see the present time,
the mean time that we are called to live through with faith.

They’re the cheerleaders who love us,
who want us to run well the race that is set before us,
who cry out “Don’t give up! Keep hope alive!”

Don’t give in to those who put themselves first.
Don’t give in to those who want to lose you and confuse you.
Don’t give in to those for whom you matter least.

They are the ones who have come last, been least, and got lost,
who were beaten, broken and jeered,
but who persevered, running their race,
and are commended for their faith.
They never gave up, and they don’t want us to either.
They want us to keep running forward
till mercy, justice and love become the rule of the day.
Theirs are the cheers we need to hear.

What Have We Settled For?

David Herbert1 Comment

The scriptures we read this Sunday are not the comfortable writings of a comfortable people. They are the testimony of the beaten, the displaced, the silenced, and the overlooked. Abel, Enoch, Noah, Abraham — each bears the marks of suffering and hope. They lived by faith in what they could not yet see, refusing to settle for the way things were. This is a sermon about refusing to accept the world as it is. The readings for the day (8th Sunday after Trinity, Proper 14C) were Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16 and Luke 12:32-40.

This is not about “pie in the sky when you die.” It is about a kingdom promised by Jesus to his “little flock” — a kingdom of justice and mercy breaking into the here and now. The question is: have we settled for something less?

What Have We Settled For?

Faith, the kingdom of God, and refusing to accept the world as it is.

“Faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.”

That’s how our reading from Hebrews begins — with what is perhaps the nearest the Bible comes to a definition of faith.
And it’s not about having everything figured out, or clinging to beliefs with gritted teeth.
It’s about confidence in what we hope for — trust in a promise we can’t yet see, but which shapes our steps today.

The kingdom of God is Jesus’ promise to his “little flock” in our gospel reading: “Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.”
It is a kingdom for the poor.
A kingdom for those ready for service.
A kingdom for those who refuse to settle for the way things are.
It’s a kingdom for those who keep watch for what is not yet seen, but has already been promised.

Amongst them, ones like Abraham —
ones like those who refuse to settle for the way things are —
it is amongst them that Jesus promised to come with his kingdom rule where the first comes last and the last first.
For here, amongst the faithful,
the poor, the beaten, the stranger,
Jesus becomes their servant.

This is one of the texts we have been given this morning to bring to life.
This is the text we have been given by the church which has treasured this and so many other texts of scripture for the sake of blessing and encouragement.

How are we going to bring this scripture to life?

The appointed reading from Hebrews today skips over some verses.
We don’t actually hear the parts about Abel, Enoch, and Noah,
the writer’s first three examples of faith before Abraham appears.
And yet those missing verses matter, because they set the tone.

Abel — the first murder victim in scripture,
killed by his own brother Cain.
Jealousy, resentment, and violence snuff out his life.
In Abel we see the first in a long line of victims,
the first of the murdered, whose blood cries out to God.
In our own day, Abel stands with every innocent life taken by violence —
the child caught in crossfire,
the protester beaten in the street,
the woman killed in her home.
In the world’s eyes, the murdered are the last,
powerless, silenced, gone.
In the kingdom of God, they are heard, remembered, and brought first into God’s justice.

Enoch — about whom we know almost nothing, except this:
“he walked faithfully with God” and
“he could not be found.”
That’s all we’re told.
In Enoch we see the first of the “disappeared”,
those who are taken away,
who vanish without a trace because the powers that be do not want them around.
In our own day, Enoch stands with the journalist who never came home,
the political prisoner taken in the night,
the asylum seeker lost in the system.
The disappeared are the last, erased from the record.
In the kingdom of God, they are remembered by name,
and God himself will bring them into the light.

Noah — survivor of the flood that swept everything away.
He prepared for what he had not yet seen.
He built in hope while others laughed.
He came through the storm,
but he knew what it was to live in a ruined, water-washed world.
In our own day, Noah stands with the flood refugee,
the survivor of earthquake or wildfire,
the one starting over in a land that is not their own.
Survivors are often treated as last, dependent, unwanted, pitied.
In the kingdom of God, they are the first to be comforted and restored.

And Abraham — the archetypal migrant.
He left his land and his people to follow a call into a future he could not yet see.
He lived his whole life as a nomad,
moving from place to place,
pitching his tent, always a foreigner, never arriving.
He died still looking for the better country.
In our own day, Abraham stands with those who cross borders for safety or hope,
the refugee, the economic migrant, the traveller family moved on again and again.
Migrants are often treated as last: outsiders, intruders, burdens.
In the kingdom of God, they are welcomed as first,
citizens of the better country from the moment they trust God’s promise.

Those who are commended for their faith are a murder victim, one of the disappeared, a flood survivor, and a migrant.
They are commended because they settled for nothing less than what God had promised.
They refused to accept the world as it was.
They longed for a better country.
And God is not ashamed to be called their God.

And so here’s the question the text presses on us:

What have we settled for?

Have we made peace with the world as it is – the injustice, the exclusion, the false comforts?
What compromises have we made?
Have we been lulled into a sense of false security?
Have we settled for something less? Have we become people without hope?
Is there anything we hope for, or have we written it all off as “wokery”?
Have we become cynical rather than hopeful?
Tired rather than faithful?
Have we come to terms with what we see around us — and settled for that?

The faithful of Hebrews never settled for the world as it was.
They walked as strangers and foreigners, refusing to be at home in injustice.
They pitched their tents in hope.
They died still longing for the better country.
And because they longed for it, they glimpsed it, and lived as if it were already here.

That’s what Jesus promises his little flock:
“Do not be afraid… your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.”
Not the kingdom as pie-in-the-sky when we die,
but the kingdom as God’s liberating rule breaking in here and now:
justice for the last, welcome for the stranger, honour for the poor, mercy for the sinner.

The faithful, when they gather around the table, give thanks for the service of Jesus,
the servant king feeding his watchful people
and giving us a taste of the better country,
the better foundations for our lives,
ever-present to those who will settle for nothing less than the justice and mercy of the kingdom of God.

The faithful please God by walking with God.
They never stop.
They keep on walking, always looking for what they don’t yet see in terms of justice and mercy.
They never settle for anything less.

An afterthought:
What do you think faith is? Do you agree with this definition from Hebrews 11 —
“Faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see”?

That’s a very different thing from thinking of faith as a set of doctrines: “I believe this, I believe that.” That sort of faith can easily become an intellectual exercise, something for those who can get their heads around abstract ideas — which, because of educational privilege, often favours the first and the foremost, not the last and the least.

But the faith that waits for justice and mercy, and will not settle for anything less, is not about abstract ideas. It comes from the heart of who we are. It’s the faith of those who have endured, who have kept walking, who know what it means to hunger for the better country God has promised.

When prayer gets risky: what Abraham and Jesus teach us

David HerbertLeave a comment

There are lessons to be learned about how to pray in both readings appointed for the 6th Sunday after Trinity (Proper 12C). This sermon explores what it means to pray like Abraham and Jesus. The readings are Genesis 18:20-32 and Luke 11:1-13.

I want to begin, as I so often do, by saying how much I love preaching that brings the scriptures back to life. Surely that is the point of preaching — to let these ancient words breathe again, so they speak into our lives with all their surprising grace and challenge.

Today we have lessons in prayer.
One from Abraham and one from Jesus — both treasured in scripture,
both handed down through generations as pearls of love.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve become more and more aware of something about our scriptures.
They are not the comfortable writings of comfortable people.
They are the scriptures of a people who know what it’s like to be beaten,
to be hated, to be exiled and poor.

They are the treasures of those who have discovered the good news of a kingdom
so different from the kingdoms that rule over them —
kingdoms of injustice and indifference.

I had a small taste of that kind of indifference this week — two and a half hours on the phone with the TalkTalk supposed helpdesk, after an engineer had supposedly fixed our broadband the day before.
It was one of those maddening, circular conversations where no one seems able to help and your time seems to mean nothing.
And I found myself thinking: in the empires we live under today, it’s often shareholder profits that come first — and customers, ordinary people, come last.
It’s a small thing, a First World problem, but it reminded me how easily we’re made to feel powerless, unheard, even invisible.

The kingdoms of this world haven’t changed that much.

And that’s what makes the scriptures so precious.
They are not polite reflections from the powerful. They are the prayers and stories of those who know what it’s like to be last — and who dare to believe that in God’s kingdom, the last are first.
A kingdom that lifts up the last, the least, and the lost.
A kingdom that puts the bullies and tyrants last and sends the rich away empty.

It’s against that background that we hear Abraham’s prayer and the prayer we have always said Jesus taught us.


Think of Abraham’s life.
It was no easy road.
God singled him out and called him into migration — forced him to leave everything he knew for a future he could not see.
He endured famine.
He had to make his way, as many migrants still do, with deception and lies just to survive.
His faith was tested to its limits.

And here we see him in conversation with God about Sodom —
a violent and corrupt city, a city whose sins cry out to heaven.
Abraham could have said, “Yes, Lord, wipe them out. They deserve it.” But he doesn’t.
Instead, Abraham pleads for Sodom.
He bargains with God for the sake of any righteous people who might live there.
“What if there are fifty righteous? Forty? Thirty? Twenty? Ten?”
Each time God agrees to spare the city for their sake.

Do you see what’s happening?
Abraham stands in the gap for a city most would have written off.
He prays out of love — even love for an enemy city.
This is no detached, polite prayer.
This is bold, persistent intercession.

Abraham dares to hope that God’s mercy might outweigh God’s judgment. And God listens.

This is how the beaten, hated, and poor pray:
not from a place of superiority,
but from within the mess of the world.
They pray not only for themselves
but for their neighbours, even their enemies.


And then we come to Jesus.
His life, too, was marked by difficulty.
Born into a world ruled by empire,
he knew poverty, rejection, and violence.
When his disciples ask him to teach them to pray,
he gives them words shaped by that reality:
“Father, hallowed be your name.
Your kingdom come.
Give us each day our daily bread.
Forgive us … for we ourselves forgive.
Do not bring us to the time of trial.”


This is not a safe or sentimental prayer.
It is a radical act of trust and love.
It longs for a kingdom where tyrants no longer rule,
where the hungry are fed, where debts are forgiven,
and where the trials of this world are ended.

And notice: it’s not “give me my daily bread” but “give us our daily bread.”
This is the prayer of a people —
a community that knows its dependence on God and on one another.

This is the prayer of those who, like Abraham, refuse to give up on the world.

And Jesus doesn’t just teach this prayer — he lives it.
From the cross, he prays, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.”
Even in the moment of his own suffering, Jesus intercedes for his enemies.
He shows us that to pray in the midst of trouble is to love in the midst of trouble.


So what do we learn from Abraham and Jesus?
We learn that prayer is not for the strong and self-sufficient but for those who know their need.
Prayer is not an escape from the world’s mess but an entry into it.
Prayer is where we bring the beauty and the brokenness of the world before God and ask for nothing less than its redemption.

This is the radical love at the heart of prayer:
love that prays for the beaten and the poor,
but also for the violent and corrupt.
Love that does not give up on God’s mercy, even for Sodom.
Love that says, “Your kingdom come,”
even when the kingdoms of this world seem unshakable.


So today, as we join together,
lifting our voices in the prayer Jesus taught,
let us remember:
this is not a polite religious exercise.
This is the prayer of Abraham bargaining for Sodom.
This is the prayer of Jesus calling down the kingdom of heaven.

It is the prayer of those who dare to love their enemies and pray for those who persecute them.
It is the prayer of those who believe that God’s mercy is wider than we can imagine.

It is where we have a say, particularly those who come first in the kingdom of God –
those who otherwise have too little say in anything else to do with them.

These are the pray-ers we join when we dare to pray as Jesus and Abraham have taught us.

So let us pray boldly.
Let us pray persistently.
Let us pray with hearts full of love –
for the world, for our enemies, for the kingdom that is coming.
Let us be one with those Jesus counts first –
joining the last, the least and the lost in their prayer.
Amen.