The Third Sunday of Lent, 11 March 2012, Canterbury Cathedral

'Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified'.

David is a solicitor who works in Lincoln's Inn but lives in increasingly unaffordable Fulham. He is not a Christian or a member of any congregation. But one cold morning he walks boldly into the meeting room of a local church. Seeing his smart attire the Vicar, who is getting ready to address the parish Lent group, asks him if he is in fact looking for the Westminster School of Management, which is meeting next door. "No" says David. "I saw the poster for the talk about God. I'm here for that". He accepts a cup of unspeakable coffee, sits down on one of the uncomfortable chairs, and looks around the unheated room at the eight others who are in attendance. The Vicar proceeds to give his talk on the oneness of God and the goodness of God, and invites questions. "What I want to know" says David, very courteously, "is whether God is anything more than the sum total of what people think about him. I want to know whether there is a God".

It's probably time to come clean. I was the Vicar in question. The incident I've described took place last week. And I've spent a lot of time since thinking about it. I've speculated about what David was looking for when he wandered into the group. I've speculated about what his impressions were when he left. And I've speculated about whether he'll return.

What response should a community of faith make to an inquisitive stranger? There are parallels between David of Fulham's appearance in church, and Jesus of Nazareth's appearance in the Temple of Jerusalem. His cleansing of the Temple exposes the layers of activity that smother its true purpose. Jesus overturns the tables of the money-changers and drives out the dealers in livestock. He expunges the diversions and expels the easygoing customs that have accumulated over the years. This is his Father's house and he wants it to remain his Father's. It must have been uncomfortable for the Temple authorities.

David's questions were no whip of cords, but they too were uncomfortable. Under the scrutiny of an inquisitive stranger the diversions and easygoing customs of church are suddenly of no avail. There is no shared language in which conversation can happen. There is no script in which to take refuge. There is no polite deference or cloying niceness enabling the subject to be neatly sidestepped. Jews demand signs. Greeks desire wisdom. But what about solicitors from Fulham? What does the inquisitive stranger demand or desire? Signs, or wisdom?

When Moses ascends Mount Sinai there are signs aplenty to verify the divine presence. The mountain is wrapped in smoke. It shakes violently. God has descended upon it in fire. No one who witnesses it can have any doubt that this is the work of the Holy One of Israel. It is for unmistakeable signs such as these that the Jews ask Jesus; it is to unmistakeable signs such as these that Paul refers disparagingly when he writes to the Corinthians. Remembering this, people of faith could respond to the inquisitive stranger by reaching for signs: for artistic endeavour, beneficial social change, or the countless lives transformed that all point to the truth of the Gospel. Perhaps the stranger looks for a sign in response to his questioning, a sign that would settle once and for all the matter that is troubling him.

When Moses descends from Mount Sinai he brings with him ten authoritative Commandments, spoken by the very mouth of God and inscribed on adamantine stone. They adumbrate a complete ethic for corporate and individual living. They are wisdom. It is law such as this that the Greeks desire. Remembering this, people of faith might respond to the inquisitive stranger by reaching for wisdom: for Scriptural apologetics and deftly-deployed doctrinal niceties. Perhaps the stranger is looking for wisdom, for compelling logic, for elegantly constructed answers. Perhaps he seeks arguments that will answer his questions as conclusively and inescapably as would celestial fire.

"What I want to know" said David "is whether God is anything more than the sum total of what people think about him. I want to know whether there is a God". To the ears of many of us, of course, these signs, this wisdom - Scripture, doctrine, art, personal redemption and corporate transformation - cry aloud a deafening 'Yes' to his question. Yet the inquisitive stranger, bent on clearing the animals from the Temple, will dismiss signs and wisdom as ruthlessly as Christ drives out the cattle, as easily as Paul dismisses the demands and desires of the Jews and Greeks. And then, all that is left is foolishness. The foolishness of sitting on uncomfortable chairs in an unheated room drinking unspeakable coffee. The foolishness of worshipping a God whose sign, whose wisdom, is a man condemned to death. The foolishness of taking seriously a God who reveals himself in the crucified Christ.

This foolishness is our faith, and this faith is a risk. It must be. God has risked everything in the incarnation of his Son. He invites us to risk everything by placing our trust in him. Faith is a risk, just as walking into an unheated church room on a cold March morning is a risk. When we dare let go of signs, when we dare relinquish wisdom, when we dare to allow ourselves to be foolish, when we take the risk - then, and only then will we discover that God's weakness is stronger than our strength. Amen.