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I am delighted to be here at St Mary’s to share in this covenant service on this very significant day. On Friday Colin and I were present at the Memorial Service of Rev Martin Caldwell. During his time in the Barnet circuit the relationship he shared with his Anglican colleagues did much to bring our two churches closer together. Bishop Chris and I are firmly committed to doing what we can to do to implement the Anglican Methodist covenant. In case you haven’t noticed it yet, we really enjoy working closely together and are good friends. And as for Richard and Colin, well you know them better than me, but I remember that as friends they were present together at the signing of the covenant at Westminster Central Hall in November 2003.

Chris and I, Colin and Richard would not be here today if we did not share a common faith and desire to fulfil Christ’s prayer for unity amongst Christian people. I’m sure there are many friendships between the parishioners at St Mary’s and the Methodists at Brookside and that you are delighted that we are taking the step today of formally recognising the ministries of Colin and Richard and confirming the authorisations they have been given to minister to and serve each other’s churches and congregations. Chris and I would want to say that this comes with our warmest blessing.

Covenants are all about relationships, the relationship between people and the relationship between God and people. In the Old testament God made a covenant with Abraham. Abraham was told that he would have children and that his descendants would inherit the land of Canaan. Abraham and his descendants would enjoy a very special relationship with God, for the people of Israel were to be God’s chosen people. God also makes a covenant with Moses in fulfilment of the covenant he made with Abraham. God called the people of Israel to be a holy nation; they were chosen to bear witness to his steadfast love by finding delight in the law - the law being the Ten Commandments given to Moses on Mount Sinai by God.

Over the years the people of Israel broke the law and so in our reading from Jeremiah we have the promise of a new covenant, a covenant not written on tablets of stone but on the hearts of God’s people. ‘I will be their God, and they shall be my people.’ This covenant was fulfilled in Jesus, in his work, life, death and resurrection. In him all people may be set free from sin and its power, and united in love and obedience.

In the gospel reading from John, the passage where Jesus calls himself ‘the true vine’ we read of the need to be abide in him so that we may be fruitful. We abide in Jesus’ love by obeying his commandments.

So today we meet as God’s people to renew this covenant made with the people of Israel and renewed in Christ.

Since the time of John Wesley, Methodists have renewed their covenant with God annually at the beginning of the year. John Wesley was attracted to the devotional life of Puritanism of which a prominent feature was the custom of personal covenanting with God. He transformed this personal covenanting into a corporate renewal of dedication. The covenant prayer is a tremendous prayer of commitment; a prayer which appears in many anthologies and can be used by Christians in their private devotions especially at times of recommitment. In the days of Wesley this was a two part activity. Wesley produced a set of directions for renewing our covenant with God which believers were required to go through the night before they made the covenant. I suppose today we would call it a time of reflection or self-examination before a special act of commitment such as confirmation or ordination.

In our service today, the prayers of confession we will share before we say the covenant prayer gives us the opportunity to do this.

However, the covenant service is not just an opportunity for us each to renew our personal commitment with God, it is something we do together - it is a corporate action. Writing about this in 1961 Horton Davies remarks ‘it is difficult to exaggerate the impressiveness of a vast congregation of sincere persons renewing their vows to God in the presence of all his people’. Today and last Sunday thousands of people in Great Britain and in Methodist churches throughout the world have and are sharing in this special service. I’m sure that in many places these services will increasingly be shared ecumenically which I’m sure would have gladdened John Wesley’s heart.

The covenant service is not just a service whereby we renew our commitment to God in a devotional way; it is also a commitment to follow God’s commandments. It is not just designed to make us feel good, but something which commits us to action. Jesus calls to love God and love our neighbour. And as the book of James reminds us we show our faith by our actions.

It will be impressive today as together we stand and say the words of the covenant prayer together. What will be more impressive is if we spend the next year living the covenant, following the commandments in our church life, our social life, in our work and leisure in all our relationships with family, friends, colleagues and strangers, and being willing to accept whatever is God’s will for us. The response to the tragedy affecting thousands of people in southern Asia has been tremendous. The response to Band Aid twenty years ago was wonderful as is the continuing response to trying to reduce the suffering in the Darfur region of Sudan. But how long will we remember those who are suffering today?

I mentioned to someone the earthquake in Bam, in Iran on Boxing Day 2003, they could not remember it.

Sadly there are so many tragedies occurring in our world, which we become aware of through the media. But when the item no longer makes news headlines, do we remember these situations in our prayers and in our giving? I hope that you will remember the words of our covenant service, not just today, or this week. I invite you to take your copy of this service home with you and keep it with your bible and prayer books and reflect on the words we have said throughout the year. For as Jeremiah tells us, in the new covenant God promises to be our God, his generous love to us is unconditional, and not dependent on our deserving. Our joyful response, also in love, springs from a thankful recognition of God’s grace as we promise to be his people.

May God help us by his Holy Spirit to fulfil the promises we make today. Amen.

24th March 2005: Maundy Thursday

Liturgy of the Last Supper - The Revd Colin Smith

The violence we preach is not the violence of the sword, the violence of hatred. It is the violence of love,

of brotherhood, the violence that wills to beat weapons into sickles for work.

The person who said that was murdered exactly twenty-five years ago tonight and I’m grateful to Richard to drawing my attention to this very special anniversary. At 6pm on 24^th March 1980, Oscar Romero, Roman Catholic Archbishop of San Salvador, began to say mass in the chapel of the cancer hospital where he lived, but at the end of his homily a shot rang out and he died instantly. His murderers were never arrested, and at the outdoor funeral, attended by over 250,000 people, the explosion of a bomb and the firing of shots claimed the lives of another forty people died in the ensuing stampede. Romero became a symbol and inspiration for all who were engaged in the struggle for justice in Latin America.

Romero had been a very conservative Christian. He was troubled by the changes introduced by the Second Vatican Council. He wasn’t happy when the Latin American bishops decided that the church should play a greater part, alongside the poor, in securing a more just society. When he was appointed at auxiliary bishop in 1970 his appointment was welcomed by traditionalists, and his consecration attended by the right wing president of El Salvador and leaders in the armed forces. His eventual appointment as archbishop in 1977 was hailed by the press as a great victory for conservatism in the church and in society.

But then the situation in El Salvador deteriorated rapidly. Those who opposed the corrupt, authoritarian regime were savagely attacked. There was a popular uprising which led to a civil war in which 75,000 died. Some of these were priests and nuns – one of them a close friend of the Archbishop who was murdered alongside an old man and a teenage boy. This was a turning point in Romero’s life and in the life of the Catholic church in El Salvador. Romero knew that he had either to be with the poor or against them. An explanation from the authorities was demanded, those responsible were excommunicated, and, apart from an open air mass attended by 100,000 people, church services on the following Sunday were cancelled. Unsurprisingly the authorities struck back. There was a slogan, “Be a patriot – kill a priest”. The situation became desperate but the Archbishop said:

We don’t want peace at any price. Peace is not the product of terror or fear. Peace is not the silence of cemeteries, the silent result of violent repression. On the contrary, the only order and the only peace God wants is one based on truth and justice.

For three years Romero exercised a brave ministry on behalf of the poor and oppressed. He became the arch-enemy of the government and was often threatened with death. Tonight we remember this remarkable man, his life and his death. And what an appropriate anniversary to remember on this Maundy Thursday evening as we remember so much more.

We remember the heroic journey of Jesus to his cross. The ministry he practised on his way there with the poor, downtrodden and the oppressed. His suffering at the hands of the authorities. His horrible public death which we will meditate on tomorrow. We remember the Last Supper and how he sat down with his friends for that meal and shared the bread and the wine. We give thanks for his institution of that which the Christian church has passed down through the ages – the Mass, the Lord’s Supper, the Holy Communion, the Eucharist, the Breaking of Bread. Archbishop Romero was gunned down as he presided at the meal that Jesus instituted at that Last Supper. We tonight in this ancient church will do what countless generations have done in this place for over 900 years, eat the bread that is the body of Christ, drink the wine that is his blood, and be thankful.

We remember the foot washing and how Jesus served his friends and demonstrated his love by washing their feet, a task which few of us would leap to take on. He set a standard that night of service for others, of love and care for others. Archbishop Romero late in his life finally recognised the needs of the poor and marginalised, and finally lost his life because of that. We remember the loneliness of Jesus in the garden, his friends asleep or betraying him. He was isolated and alone at the most terrifying moment of his life. Most of Romero’s Episcopal colleagues opposed his stand for justice and the poor. He must have felt very isolated on many occasions.

We remember so much tonight. We remember the last hours of Jesus, we remember Archbishop Romero on this special anniversary of his martyrdom, and we remember the pain and suffering of the world today. Those of us who worshipped in this church on Sunday evening saw many powerful images of the pain of the word today. The image many have remarked upon was that of three men being hung high by the Taliban in Afghanistan. The pain of the world hangs heavily on us this night.

But….in a few minutes we will receive the bread and the wine that is the body and blood of Christ. We may have many different understandings of what will happen at that point but that doesn’t matter. It is Christ’s gift of himself to us: a gift given with unconditional love, a gift which transforms the gloom of this night and a gift which transforms us. And tomorrow, on the face of it, the gloom will increase, as we meditate on a man being executed on a wooden cross. I don’t think I am giving the game away to say that the gloom will soon be gone, as life overcomes death, as light overcomes darkness, as hope overcomes despair, as love overcomes all things.

Oscar Romero said these words:

Let us not tire of preaching love; it is the force that will overcome the world. Let us not tire of preaching love. Though we see that waves of violence succeed in drowning the fire of Christian love, love must win out; it is the only thing that can.

Information on the life of Oscar Romero taken from Rebels and Reformers: Christian Renewal in the Twentieth Century by Trevor Beeson (SCM 1999)

10th April 2005: Easter 3

Global Week of Action on Trade Justice - The Revd Richard Watson

The story of the Road to Emmaus in Luke 24 is probably, for me, the ultimate Easter story, and provides the image for the whole of Christian experience, and the model for our discipleship as followers in the Way. The course we use to prepare both adults and young people for baptism and confirmation is simply called ‘The Emmaus Course’ because it has the sense of being engaged on a journey – a journey of faith and discovery which we take not on our own but in the company of others, and most importantly, a journey on which Christ walks beside us – revealing to us his truth as we travel on.

Our job as Christian disciples is simply to keep on walking, keep on growing, and learning to recognise Christ in our midst – sometimes in the unlikeliest of places, and perhaps more difficult – the most unlikely of people.

Hearing again the story of how the two disciples walked all that way with the risen Jesus without recognising him – it seems a bit damning: suggests that they are joint winners in the dumb disciples competition.

· But then again that seems to be part of the resurrection enigma. Mary Magdelene didn’t recognise Jesus in the garden on Easter morning, and now these two disciples fail to see who it is who walks alongside them – a fact even more surprising when we are told that they may actually have been cousins of Jesus and his brothers. They weren’t members of ‘the Twelve’, but neither were they fringe members who might be forgiven the mistake.

· And yet it was not until the end of the road, as they sat and broke bread together, that they recognised Jesus – and in that instant he was gone.

· For me, that’s the other reason why this stiry is so magnificent, so meaningful: not only does it give an image of Christ walking with us, but it reminds us that we can be most aware of that mysterious presence as we come together and as we break bread. The disciples recognised him in the breaking of bread. And so do we.

I could wax lyrical (or waffle on, depending on which terminology you prefer!) for weeks on end about the road to Emmaus, but today affords me a particular discipline. How do we hear that story in the context of this particular act of worship? What does the road to Emmaus say to us at the beginning of the Global Week of Action for Trade Justice?

· Well before I try to answer that question, I’d better give you some info on the Global Week of Action in the first place.

· In November 2003, over 100 trade activists from 50 countries took part in a historic gathering - the International Trade Campaign Conference, in Delhi, India - from which they issued the global call to a Week of Action, with the aim of challenging the free trade myth.

· That myth, perpetuated by the rich and powerful states says that free trade and privatisation is the only answer to global poverty. Governments and key decision-makers across the world have swallowed this myth, and so poor countries everywhere are being forced to open their markets to foreign companies and cheap, often subsidised imports; forced to stop helping vulnerable producers and to privatise essential services. The results are devastating.. The organisations involved – Christian Aid included – aim to challenge and influence the agendas of the G8, IMF, WTO, World Bank and governments of North and South. And tell them that we reject their trade policies which harm the poor. The myth needs to be exploded once and for all

· The message is clear: NO to the rich and powerful imposing unjust trade agreements, indiscriminate liberalisation and privatisation on the poor – and YES to everyone's right to food, a livelihood, water, health and education, the world over.

The Trade Justice campaign is about opening people’s eyes to see the state the world is in, and to see what can and should be done about it.

And the road to Emmaus reminds us that following Jesus is also about having our eyes opened. The call to be Christian is the call to be clear-sighted. Hearing Luke 24 today, in the midst of a liturgy which takes Trade Justice as a theme makes clear the extent to which our eyes need to be open – and constantly be opened.

· As they journey along the road, the disciples begin to see more clearly on two levels. The first is the level of scripture, and the second is the level of their experience of the world. Before he is recognised by them, Jesus conducts a kind of mobile bible study. He explains to the scriptures and helps them understand. And then as he breaks the bread, just as he has broken open the scriptures, they experience the second level of recognising Christ’s present in the world – in the ‘then and there’ and the ‘here and now’!

· Throughout Christian history there’s been a tendency to go for one or the other: put all your eggs in the ‘scripture’ basket and miss what Christ is doing in the world today, or focus so much on concentrate so much of the activity of the Spirit in the world today that we forget our roots in faith and get cut off from the gospel.

· So when we pray (or sing) ‘open our eyes, Lord’ then it has to have meaning on both levels. Open our eyes to your truth in scripture AND open our eyes to recognise your Word, your Son, in one another and in the harsh realities of our world.

· Open our ears, Lord, and help us to listen. Open our eyes, Lord, we want to see Jesus. Amen.

12th February 2006: 3rd Sunday Before Lent

Martin Horton

Leprosy in the time of Jesus was not just a dreaded health problem.It was a dreaded social disease. The affliction was not only fearsome in itself, it was also considered to be a curse from God. The consequences were far more deadly than just being physical. Besides having to look forward to years of suffering, disfigurement, and an early death, lepers were ostracised by Jewish law. They had to wear tattered clothes and let their hair go uncombed and uncut. When meeting any ‘sound’ person, they had to cover their mouth with a hand and shout out a warning of their own ‘unclean’ condition. Anyone suspected of having contracted leprosy was to be taken before a priest for examination.

Lepers were not only considered physically loathsome, because so few went into remission or were cured, they were all considered particularly hardened and persistent sinners. As well as a miracle, repentance and a total conversion of heart had to precede any cure. In other words, in the unlikely event that a person was cured and they experienced a remission of the disease, they still had to submit to a ritual cleansing and purging of sin before they would be re-admitted to society.

Our Gospel reading this morning, said that Jesus was "moved with pity" when he saw the leper who approached him. However, there are many translators, as well as other ancient manuscripts, that indicate Jesus was ‘angry’, even ‘indignant’ when he was confronted by the man. I think it is possible to accept that Jesus really was, in fact, angry on a number of grounds. He was certainly angry at the circumstances in which such a person had been forced to live. It is hard for us to imagine the psychological state of such people. They would suddenly become pariahs, because the religious mentality of the time said that only terrible sinners would be afflicted with such a disease, and such sinners were beyond God’s embrace.

Jesus must have been revolted by the whole notion. But he acts, characteristically, in a way that subverts that prevailing mentality. Rather than being disgusted and even terrified at the request of the leper for assistance, he does not hesitate. Indeed, he even stresses his determination to do what no one else would have believed possible. He pronounces, not only a physical cure for the man when he touches him, but a spiritual cure as well. For in touching the man, Jesus is breaking the moral and religious taboos about lepers, and is openly, publicly, welcoming the man back into the human community. And when he orders the man to go and show himself to the priest, it is unlikely that Jesus is doing this in order to observe the proper ritual that was required for such persons. It is more likely that Jesus is openly challenging the religious authorities, to see that God’s healing grace is available to anyone who asks.

Is our society so very different than that of ancient Israel? Is this only a story from ‘far away and long ago?’ Or is it a story about today as well? A story about who is touchable - and who is un-touchable. A story about who is part of the community, of the accepted, and who is not. A story about how we judge others. How we treat others.

Who can really live a normal life in the community if he or she is known to be HIV positive, or has been accused of child abuse? Who can really walk about as one of us in this age of the war against terror, if they come from the wrong ethnic group - if they wear the wrong clothes - or have the wrong skin colour?

Jesus' love, exhibited in today's miracle, offers us something different from the usual way we are treated and judged. We are accepted, not because our skin is perfect or our spirit is unblemished, but because He has entered our world, and knows our needs - and our weakness. We are accepted because he knows us as God's children, as his brothers and sisters, no matter what facade, what exterior, is present, no matter what sin, what fear, what interior blemish has come to exist. And He reaches out to touch us. He reaches out to make us whole. To restore us to the relationships that we should have with God - and with ourselves, with our neighbours, with our community.

The point is we are forgiven – every last one of us. God’s love is there, waiting for us, at all times in our life. It doesn’t matter how bad we are, how many mistakes we’ve made, how horrendously we have fouled up our lives, or the mess we have made of our relationships. The forgiveness is there. We don’t have to persuade God to forgive us. We don’t have to go through some elaborate ritual or religious exercise. The healing which Jesus represents is pure gift. That means, it’s not earned, not merited, not won by petition, sacrifice or a good life. According to Jesus, what we need most is available just as quickly, as easily, as devastatingly, as Jesus decisive response to a leper: "Okay, you’re clean!"

Let me tell you a story, from Anthony de Mello’s book, ‘The Song of the Bird.’ When the bishop’s ship stopped at a remote island for a day, he was determined to use the time as profitably as possible. He strolled along the seashore and came across three fishermen mending their nets. In pidgin English they explained to him, that centuries before they had been Christianised by missionaries. "We, Christians!" they said, proudly pointing to themselves. The bishop was impressed. Did they know the Lord’s Prayer? They had never heard of it. The bishop was shocked. How could these men claim to be Christians, when they did not know something as elementary as the Lord’s Prayer? "What do you say, then, when you pray?" the bishop asked. "We lift eyes to heaven and pray: ‘We are three, you are three, have mercy on us.’"

The bishop was appalled at the primitive nature of their prayer. So he spent the whole day teaching them the Lord’s Prayer. The fishermen were poor learners, but they gave it all they had and before the bishop sailed away the next day he had the satisfaction of hearing them go through the whole formula without fault.

Months later the bishop’s ship passed by those islands again, and the bishop recalled with pleasure, the fact that on that distant island were three fishermen who were now able to pray correctly, thanks to his efforts. While he was lost in thought, he looked up and noticed a spot of light in the east. The light kept approaching, and, as the bishop gazed in wonder, he saw three figures walking on the water towards the boat. The captain stopped the boat and all the sailors leaned over the rails to see this amazing sight. When they were within speaking distance, the bishop recognized the three fishermen. "Bishop!" they exclaimed, "we hear your boat go past island, and we come hurry to meet you." "What is it you want?" asked the bishop in awe. "Bishop," they said, "we so sorry. We forget lovely prayer. We say: ‘Our Father in heaven, holy be your name, your kingdom come’ . . . then we forget. Please tell us whole prayer again." The bishop felt humbled. "Go back to your homes, my good men," he said, "and each time you pray, say, ‘We are three, you are three, have mercy on us.’"

What, if we sensed, as children of God, that there is between us and the Source of all goodness a link that can never be broken, bonded to a love that is unbreakable? Would it not produce in us a lightness, an ability to walk over the waves of whatever danger or fear that confronted us, just like the three fishermen. When we realize this communion that is ours for the asking, our prayer will no longer be some words we have memorised, but be the natural overflowing of knowing who we are in the heart of God.

And that is the only prayer any of us will ever need to pray.

Saturday 28th October, 2006 - All Souls' Memorial Service

The Revd Richard Watson

We’ve come here today to remember those we love who have died; to pray for them (as we prayed for them at their funeral services) and also to pray for ourselves – for the healing and wholeness God brings to all of creation.

I’d like to focus our thoughts briefly on the act of remembering. Memory is a hugely important part of being human – its one of the things that places us above the other animals in the way we are able to recollect and contemplate. We can train dogs, rats, squirrels (you name it) to do all sorts of things, but it never equals our human ability to remember.

So as we gather today to remember those who have died, we are doing something which is profoundly human. And in a way, I’d like to think that in so doing we make ourselves more human.

Remembering is important in the Church as well. Not just because in a couple of weeks it will be Remembrance Sunday, or that the theme of remembering the departed runs through the whole month of November, but because remembering is at the heart of Christian worship.

All worship – in the smallest of parish churches or the grandest of cathedrals – is a remembrance of what God has done and is doing in the lives of his people, and responding to that love with gratitude and praise. But especially, and above all else, we remember with bread and wine, the broken and risen body of Jesus. We re-member Jesus. And to re-member him is to realise his presence with us.

So as well as being a natural, human instinct, remembering has a deeply spiritual quality – again making a distinction between us and other creatures. To remember is to reconnect – and that is possible because in Jesus death is conquered. Through his death and resurrection, eternity is blown wide open.

Those who we will remember by name today are all different and unique. Many will have died in the last year or two – others may have died 5, 10, 20 years ago or more. In the simple act of remembering (and of course that’s not confined to this service, but it something which goes on every single day) – but in that act of remembering we are able to reconnect with those whose lives have shaped our own. With those whose love and example and human-ness has been God’s gift to us in years past.

Of course our remembering goes on day by day – and even when its not prominent in our minds it whirring away in the background – but our remembering today is shaped by faith and hope. The faith and hope to which this church has witnessed for over 925 years – the hope expressed in our second reading that death is a journey on which we travel in the company of Christ himself (symbolised by the large Easter candle at the front)

In a short while, after the names have been read, you will be invited to come forward and light a candle. That simple act can symbolise many, many things, but in particular today it represents our remembering in the light of Christ

But try to think in terms, not just of leaving a candle behind today, but as you leave your candle be aware that you take away with you a little more light, a little more love, a little more of God’s healing grace.

Jesus said: Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God – believe also in me. Amen.

Sunday 29^th October, 2006: Dedication Festival

The Revd Richard Watson

Today we celebrate our Dedication Festival – that is to mark the time at the end of the 11^th century, or sometime early on in the 12^th, when the Benedictine monks of St Albans hung up their trowels, packed away their scaffold poles, washed out their pots of limewash and sent for the Abbot - who at the time would have been the great Paul de Caen who oversaw the major expansion of St Albans Abbey at the same time.

To celebrate our Dedication is to commemorate that moment in history when Abbot de Caen and his entourage came to the tiny church (that was just the size of the present nave) and performed the liturgy of consecration and dedication – in effect declaring the Church of Our Lady in East Barnet (as it would probably have been known) open for business!

Of course, we don’t know the exact date, but the lectionary and calendar of the church year allows us to celebrate either on the first or last Sunday after Trinity. So here we are, celebrating the point in history when Christians first worshipped in East Barnet – marking the beginning of organised Christian mission to those who live here.

And why do we mark it? Well yes, its an excuse to get the ‘liturgical glad rags’ out, but most importantly it is a reminder of why we are here. The building has changed, and the faces have changed. But the mission of the church remains the same.

The three readings this morning help us to get things in to perspective. The OT reading is the great story of Jacob’s dream in Genesis 28 where he sees a ladder from earth stretching up to heaven – a sort of angelic escalator which is in constant operation, with angels going up and down, back and forth. Jacob hears God speaking to him, and when he wakes declares “Surely God is in this place….This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven”

Yesterday we held our annual Memorial Service where we remembered those who have died – especially those whose funerals have taken place in the last 12 months. Talking to people afterwards one or two said the same thing that many, many people have said, and which many of you and I know to be true.

Talking of this place they said: “I don’t really know what it is, but there is just something so special about this church” Its more than just being old, though that makes a difference. Its more than being hallowed by centuries of prayer, although its as if that is imprinted in the stones themselves. Its something which you cant quite put your finger on, but none the less is very present.

There are a few different ideas about why the church was built on this site, but it is quite likely that this site was already identified by local people as a holy place – a liminal place – a gateway, a threshold between earth and heaven. Somehow I think Jacob would be at home here.

Having identified the liminal place, Jacob set up a pile of stones and dedicated them by pouring oil on them. And on this ancient site of worship, our ancestors piled stone upon stone and dedicated the building as the mother church of Barnet and in honour of the mother of Christ.

With Jacob, and with thousands upon thousands of local people through the ages we say today “Surely God is in this place!.... This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven!”

The second reading, from the first Letter of Peter answers directly that question of why we are here: “Come to him (Jesus), a living stone…..and like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ”

Identifying the building as ‘the church’ has got to have been one of the great red-herrings of Christendom. The first Christians met in private homes or in the synagogue (which simply means ‘house of assembly’) As the church grew it got its own houses of assembly, and even the grand title ‘basilica’ is just the word borrowed from the Roman civic system to denote a place of public assembly.

The truth is that this building serves to identify a holy place, and is the place where St Mary’s Church meets week by week. You and I, according to 1 Peter, are the living stones that make up the spiritual house that is the church of Christ in this place. In that sense when you leave your house on a Sunday or whenever, you aren’t ‘going to church’ – please do your best to never use those words ever again! It’s actually nonsense. No, you’re not going to church, you are going to be church.

Our third reading at the Eucharist is always from one of the four gospels, and as we, the church, gather in our ‘house of assembly’ the gospel is proclaimed from the middle of the congregation. Christ is present at the heart of his people.

In today’s gospel, Jesus is in the Temple at the feast of Dedication, and the attention of the people (not just his disciples) is squarely focused on him “If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly” and Jesus says to them “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me”

Our three readings spell out for us what it means to celebrate our dedication festival

We recognise this as a holy place. Here, we gather as the church, the people of God. And we are to be centred on Jesus Christ alone and our unchanging task is call others to hear his voice and to follow him.

So here we are, celebrating the point in history when Christians first worshipped in East Barnet – marking the beginning of organised Christian mission to those who live here.

May God give us courage and vision to make that as much a reality in 2006 as it was in 1080. Amen

24th December 2006 - Midnight Mass

The Revd Richard Watson

It’s in the nature of my job that people ask me questions. Sometimes I can offer an quick and simple answer: like ‘Why are there 3 purple candles and one pink one on the advent wreath?’ Well its because the third Sunday in Advent is Gaudate Sunday and the pink candle is a reminder that we get a Sunday off our fast (not that anyone’s fasting in the first place, but that’s the answer anyway!). Or ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ to which the answer is almost always 'Yes!'

If you stop and think about it, there’s an awful lot in our ordinary day to day lives that is about questions. And not surprisingly there is a lot about faith that is about questions – some of which we can grope for an answer, but other questions which stop us in our tracks. Can this be true? What does this mean? Why?

Take a moment to check which questions are prominent in your mind this evening – questions of faith and life for which you seek an answer. And let me add another question to your load – the question that this holy night embodies, the question which lies at the heart of Christmas: As the carols says: What child is this? What is the real meaning of Christmas?

As I said, it is in the nature of my job that people ask me questions. Sometimes I can offer an answer. At other times that isn’t so easy. But of all the questions I’m asked in the course of my ministry, there is one which crops up time and time again. You might think it was something to do with whether the CofE should be disestablished, or how we should understand the Bible in the light of common sense and 21^st century life, or what I think on a variety of issues. But no, the most commonly asked question is this:….. “Are you a real Vicar?!” It is sometimes a bit disconcerting, and I’d like to think that I’d been mistaken for a second-rate strip-a-gram but I’d be worried they’d ask for their money back!

Of course its about stereo-types – people expect one thing and they get something which doesn’t quite fit their expectations. But what is it that makes any of us or anything ‘real’? What is the real meaning of Christmas?

We’ll come back to that in a minute. But let me read to you an extract from a children’s story called ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’ by Margery Williams. I first heard it when I was a spotty teenager, and I’m sure some of you are familiar with it. It was first published in 1922, and is the tale of a stuffed rabbit who arrives one Christmas in a little boy’s nursery, along with a host of other toys who can speak, think, and move (of course!). It’s a pre-war version of ‘Toy Story’, I suppose!

When the Velveteen Rabbit arrives in the nursery, wrapped up in the boys stocking on Christmas Eve, the other toys make him feel very unwanted and insignificant. The mechanical toys were very superior. Even Timothy the jointed wooden Lion put on airs and graces and snubbed the Velveteen Rabbit. In fact his only friend was the Skin Horse. The Skin Horse had lived in the nursery longer than any other toy. His brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams in places. But he was wise, and knew that the nursery magic was strange and wonderful.

· “What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?” “Real isn’t how you are made” said the Skin Horse “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become REAL"

“ Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit. “Sometimes” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt” “Does it happen all at once, like being wound up?” he asked, “or bit by bit?” “It doesn’t happen all at once” said the Skin Horse “It takes a long time….Generally, by the time you are Ream, most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once youre real you cant be ugly, except to people who don’t understand" “I suppose you are Real” said the Rabbit…..”The Boy’s unclemade me real” he said “That was a great many years ago; but once you are real, you cant become unreal again. It lasts for always”

· Well, eventually the Velveteen Rabbit becomes so real that he runs off into the field with all the other real rabbits (and, no doubt goes on to star in Watership Down!) But in the story, it is the little boy’s love that makes his toys real. Without that love they have something missing. But when someone gives them their love, then the magic begins.

Now that doesn’t help me to answer the question ‘Are you are real Vicar?’, but it is about what makes me and you real people. It’s our relationships with one another, family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, that make us real people. That’s why building community is so important. That’s why working across boundaries of faith and tradition, politics and is so crucial. That’s why the gospel of Jesus is inclusive and not exclusive – as the warning sign at the gate reminds us all.

· When as individuals or as a community we cease to be aware of and concerned for the needs of those living around us, we loose our grip on Love. We loose our grip on Love’s reality, and we become less than we should be.

So what about ‘the real meaning of Christmas’? Well if we stopped people in the street they’d offer a variety of answers. They’d probably talk about ‘peace on earth’ and it being a time for generosity and celebration. That’s all good and all very well – and we’d probably say much the same too. But to stop there is typically human – failing to see beyond ourselves.

· The REAL meaning of Christmas, is that one thing the Skin Horse and the Velveteen Rabbit understood made all things REAL. The real meaning of Christmas is Love….and that Love lasts for always.

But its not just about us loving one another, important though it is (and God knows isn’t always the easiest thing to do, especially over the Christmas period!) Its not just about us loving one another – but about God loving us. The Creative Spirit, in whose rush and flow is the vibrancy of the changing seasons - enfolds us in Love. The Creator who formed the universe and breathes into us life – enflames us with Love. The God who comes to us in the vulnerability and weakness of the child in the manger - shares that Love in the simplicity and ordinariness of our daily lives.

· “What is REAL? asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender….The Skin Horse replied: “When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become REAL.”

· When a child loves you…..this ancient place of prayer carries that testimony through the ages and to us this night. We are beloved of God. Loved by the Christ-child. And that Love enlivens us and makes us real. If you will permit me the sentimentality, I’ll end with the words of Christina Rossetti.

Love came down at Christmas,
love all lovely, love divine;
love was born at Christmas:
star and angels gave the sign.

Worship we the Godhead,
love incarnate, love divine;
worship we our Jesus,
but wherewith the sacred sign?

Love shall be our token;
love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
love for plea and gift and sign.

In God’s grace and mercy may we know that love tonight in all its power and simplicity. Amen.