Sunday 24 February 2013, 2 of Lent

Those of you who worshipped at the sung Eucharist last week had the dubious privilege of seeing me serve at the altar as thurifer, something I have done only once before in my forty-six years. Although I began serving when I was eight or nine years old Father Bernard Shackleton did not use incense regularly, and when his successor, Father Tony Pinchin did,  I nearly always managed to avoid being the person responsible for wielding  it. Nearly - I was asked once, over twenty-five years ago. For reasons I will return to I felt very uncomfortable doing  it, and I was never asked again.

I continued to evade the holy smoke at theological college . There, there were always lots of jobs to do, and lots of people to do them, and being thurifer was one that I never needed to take on. Then, of course,  I found myself ordained, and my relationship with the thurible changed for ever. As a priest it is brought to you so that you can decorously scatter incense grains on the glowing charcoal that someone else has prepared. And thus it might have continued for ever until last week when we were a server short and I put my hand up.

As with a quarter of a century ago I found the experience very uncomfortable. Why? Because there are techniques involved in being a thurifer, techniques of which I am not a master. You have to know how to switch the gas on. You have to know how long to cook the charcoal for. You have to be able to swing the thurible convincingly, navigating corners, the altar, the organ, and your fellow servers without causing any injury. You have to know when to refill the thurible. And, most importantly of all,  you have to remember to move the kneeler. It's not that any of this ought to be beyond a person who has been admitted to the degree of Master of Arts by two universities  and who used to practice at the criminal Bar. But I hadn't learned any of the techniques. I hadn't had any chance to practice them. I was surrounded by a serving team, all of whose members were proficient in all of the above. I was in front of a congregation, all of whose members expected - not unreasonably - that their Vicar would know how to perform. And I was at the head of the procession, leading the way, with no one to follow, no one to copy, and in full view of all of you. Yes,  I felt uncomfortable.

In fact I felt as I had felt when I was a very new Vicar here. Then I was not master of the techniques either. I had never chaired a PCC. I had never drafted a Mission Action Plan. I had never employed a curate, a verger or a musician. I was surrounded by people who were proficient in all those things.  I was in front of a congregation who had high and not unreasonable expectations of their Vicar. I was leading the procession with no one to follow, no no one to copy, and in full view of all of you. Then as on last Sunday, I was uncomfortable.

I did not want to be revealed as someone who was not master of the techniques. I did not want to be revealed as someone who was unsure of himself. I did not want to be revealed as who I really was. Easier to pretend to a mastery that you don't possess; easier to be glib; easier to be cheerful;  easier than admitting  that you are who you are: the you that you fear will be talked about, the you that you fear will be thought less of, the you that you fear will look foolish. Abram has no such fear. He does not bluster or pretend or avoid. "I continue childless" he tells God to his face "and the heir of my house is Eliezer of Damascus". He admits his disgrace. Abram's heirs forget his honesty, his readiness to see himself as he is. Jesus laments over their city. Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it. Its people cannot abide being told what they are. Nor can we. We are uncomfortable at being revealed for who we are. Perhaps we are uncomfortable at being who we are. Perhaps we are uncomfortable because we do not know who we are. And perhaps this discomfort is a wound we bear: the greatest, deepest, sorest wound we bear, hurting us, absorbing our energy, and disfiguring our growth.

Wounds require honesty. If they are denied or ignored they fester. If they are wrapped in layer upon layer they refuse to heal; they weep.Wounds have to be acknowledged. Wounds also require kindness. If they are scratched or salted they worsen. They have to be attended to with gentleness and patience; they have to be soothed, so that the inflammation dissipates and the flesh is slowly mended. Wounds have to be healed. One reality of the wilderness is that it offers few places to hide or to run to. In the wilderness of Lent we need to see our wounds with a little more honesty and treat them with a little more kindness; and we need to remember that others (including, perhaps, the new Vicar) are similarly wounded.  And we should never despair or become self-indulgent. It is through wounds that God's grace pours into the world; it is through wounds that we glimpse eternity. If you don't believe me take a look at the wounded figure who hangs behind me. By his wounds ours are healed; by his wounds we are healed. Amen.