“It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.” Lamentations 3: 26
I think it might have been David Stancliffe, one time Bishop of Salisbury, Chair of the Liturgical Commission, one of the driving forces behind the renewal of our liturgy, who once said: ‘Is there something wrong with me? I've never had a bad night’s sleep in my life.’
Well, I can't make quite such a claim myself, but the good Lord has blessed me with a wonderful ability to sleep. It is, Synod, one of the few things I am consistently good at. As such I feel it would be ungrateful to the Lord to hide my light under a bushel.
I like sleeping. I'm good at sleeping. What could be nicer than curling up in bed at the end of the day, or in my case at the moment, with these very hot nights, on the roof of Bishopthorpe Palace? Ask me more about that later. But that's where my wife and I have been sleeping for the past week. And then, although Synod doesn’t offer us this opportunity, lazily sleeping in the following morning.
Knowing this facility, some people have often asked me whether I find it hard to get up early in the morning. The answer is yes. Though no harder than getting up late. Whether it's 5.30 or 10.30, for me the same gi-normous act of will is required to get me out of bed.
And I don't just like to sleep because I'm tired, though there is a particular beauty about the sleep that comes when you are physically exhausted from manual labour, or a hard day’s walking in the Picos de Europa on the Camino del Norte, or just digging the garden. But there is also sleep as ‘self forgetful, self emptying, no longer trying to achieve anything, or imagine your worth is measured by what you do’ different way of being, that is closer to the intimacy of rest that we find when we may not actually be asleep, but we are in the presence of one we love and one who dearly loves us; and one in whom we find our rest.
So Vivien, Exeter 312, I don’t know if you’re still here, but on Day One you were telling us that sometimes you fell asleep when you prayed and fell asleep in Synod. Please don't worry about that. Bishop Michael Marshall once said; “never worry if you fall asleep when you pray. God can do so much more with you when you’re asleep. You don’t get in the way so much!”
Or – and let me ask, is the House of Bishops quorate, I don’t think it is – House of Bishops, remember the advice once given to a harassed prelate by his Spiritual Director: “Bishop I suggest you sleep more.” “How will that help?” asked the Bishop. “It will limit the opportunity for you to do further damage,” replied the Spiritual Director.
So, one of my favourite verses from scripture, and it was sung to us so beautifully last night, Psalm 127 verse three: “He giveth to his beloved slumber.”
And to put this verse in its context: “Unless the Lord builds the house in vain do the builders labour." In vain do you stay up late doing your emails. In vain do you get up at the crack of dawn and jog to the gym. He gives to his beloved, slumber.
Or as today's gospel reading put it, “Come to me all you who are weary and over-burdened, and I will give you rest.” Which isn't just the gift of sleep - and with it of course the chance to dream - but intimacy with God; resting in the knowledge and the presence of the one who knows you and - amazingly - still loves you.
O General Synod, dear sisters and brothers in Christ, as this Quinquennium finally comes to a close and we can, for a short while, rest from our labours, thank you again for your commitment; your dedication; your passion; your perseverance; your sheer hard work. Over the summer, and in between all the other commitments that all of us carry, and right now, as we come to the table of the Lord and hold out our hands to receive, in this Holy Sacrament, the presence and abiding presence of Jesus, may you find rest.
Rest for your bodies.
And rest for your souls.
Blessed peace - the assurance of God's love for you and the sweet peace and tranquillity of the Lord himself - who while the storms raged around him - slept in the boat and rebuked those of us who are probably too anxious about what storms can do! And too little, trusting in the Lord.
And if you feel let down by the Church, battered by the storms of our debates, let down by the General Synod, let down by the bishops, marginalised and excluded for whatever reason, come to him whose love for you is perfect, without condition, unrestrained.
And I fear that you can go to church in the Church of England for a lifetime and no one ever tells you this stuff straight - thankfully, having been made the Archbishop of York, I've received that gift of the Spirit that, for some reason, isn’t listed in the Bible, the gift of bluntness – dear friends you are included by God - even if his church is still trying to work out what that inclusion looks like. And you, each of you, is dearly, dearly loved. Precious, not because of achievement, holiness or moral probity, but because you are the one for whom Jesus died. Like me, a sinner, saved by grace.
So, wait quietly for the lord. Look to Jesus. Rest in him.
And since this is his feast day, let me give the priest and poet John Keble the last word - from his poem Wednesday before Easter –
O Father! Not my will but thine be done;
so spake thy Son.
Be this our charm, mellowing earth’s ruder noise
of grief and joys,
that we may cling forever to thy breast
in perfect rest.
