Luke 12.22-31

THE LIFE OF FAITH

A Sermon preached at St. Mary's Church, North Mymms on 28 September 1997.

Readings for the day: Hebrews 11.1-3, 8-16 and Luke 12.22-31

"What is faith?" asks the author of the letter to the Hebrews, which was our epistle reading for today. The author goes on to answer the question by saying: "Faith gives substance to our hopes, and makes us certain of realities we cannot see". (Hebrews 11.1).

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As many of you know, when my late wife Mary was first diagnosed as having terminal cancer last year, she decided to keep a journal. The purpose was not just to record her personal response to the illness, but rather to leave a permanent record for any grandchildren she might one day have, so that they would know what a "mad" person she was, to use her own words.

I am currently in the process of editing that journal and I must admit that it is not the word "mad" that automatically springs to mind, but rather the word "faith", unless people who live by faith are considered to be also mad! This was the word that Peter Ramsden used at Mary's funeral in June to describe his reactions to a private reading of her journal. It was also the word our Magazine Editor used when she described Mary as a "woman of faith and courage".

I hope you will not mind if I choose to dwell upon this quality of Mary's life since the theme for this Sunday is the life of faith.

Although the author of our epistle goes through a long list of great Christian heroes and heroines who displayed the life of faith in their lives - people such as Abraham, Sarah, and others which have been omitted from our set reading including Abel, Enoch, Noah, Moses, Rahab, Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel and the prophets - I'm afraid such people always seem a little unreal to me since they lived so many years ago.

Whilst I would not wish to elevate Mary to such a distinguished company, for there are many others more deserving, I do believe that her life gives us a glimpse of the life of faith much nearer to home.

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Mary's early years of life were dominated by fear, loneliness and the absence of love.

Her mother died shortly after she was born and one of the scars she bore for many years in her childhood was the hurt caused by an insensitive remark by a neighbour who accused her of killing her mother.

She spent the first three years in a Roman Catholic orphanage in Liverpool since her invalid father and her sister were unable to care for her. Eventually she went to live with them but was extremely lonely particularly since her sister was at work all day. At the end of the war, her four brothers and a sister, whom she did not know existed, returned to the house having been evacuated to Herefordshire. The bond that had developed between them whilst they were away meant that Mary was now even more lonely than before.

Eventually her father remarried and she acquired a further step brother and sister. She lived in a crowded three bedroomed ground floor flat in the centre of Liverpool where the girls slept four to a bed while the other two rooms were occupied by her parents and her brothers.

Money was in short supply since her father was too ill to work and he refused to allow his children to be recipients of any form of charity. Mary describes in her journal how they had porridge with salt for breakfast, two rounds of bread with treacle for lunch and blind scouse (that is stew without meat) for dinner. In the early evenings, the children would go down to the market stalls in Great Homer Street and pick up any fruit and vegetables which had been discarded on the ground.

Her father had been a Regimental Sergeant Major in the First World War, and as a consequence, exercised strict discipline within the house, with each child having their allocated duties in maintaining the home. She says that "he scared the living daylights out of me" and again, "I cannot remember being taught anything except not to get in the way". Again, she writes: "I was always afraid - afraid I would be told off if I spoke, or if I didn't speak, or if I moved, or I didn't move". She also said she can never remember ever having had a bedtime story read to her. Her stepmother would also hit her for no reason whatsoever and on one occasion her father threw a block of wood at her which caused her head to bleed, but she was too scared to wipe the blood away. It was not until she was eleven years old that her father first tried to show any sign of affection towards her - but alas it was too late.

Due to the war, Mary did not start her formal education until she was nine years old. Mary writes: "From day one, one of the teachers there hated me. So here we are, not only did I have fear at home, but another fear was added in the name of this teacher. There was one occasion when she obviously got fed up telling me not to write 'N's' upside down and I was given 10 strokes of the cane. I hid my hands at home from fear of them finding out I had to have the cane". Again she writes: "I just went to school and came home - either place was an area of dread".

Whilst at school she was once asked to read some letters on a chart, to which she replied: "What chart?" This proved that Mary needed glasses but her parents maintained that she was merely showing off and since she had such big eyes, she could easily see. It sadly took a further two years before they could be persuaded of her need for spectacles and Mary was able to see leaves on a tree for the first time.

Her step mother died when she was twelve and her father when she was thirteen. She remarks that "I was genuinely sad, but relieved. I was never going to be afraid of him again .”

How then did she survive such a background? After all, there were no counsellors in those days! She writes: "The one person I turned to, and didn't have a clue who he was, was God. I would pray, asking him not to let Aunt Lizzie hit me - and she did. There were many times when he appeared to take no notice, but I still prayed to him".

Elsewhere she writes: "I remember coming out of school once when it was raining and there were mothers waiting with raincoats and umbrellas, and I wished I had a mother who could be waiting for me, someone who loved me enough to be waiting with a raincoat and to take me home. It would have been nice to talk to someone when I got home. So I would talk to God, Our Lady, and St. Anthony, anyone who I thought would listen".

This then was the background of fear, loneliness and the absence of love in which Mary's faith in God was formed and enabled her to smile with inner happiness right to the very end.

And at the end, that faith was as strong as ever despite the pain of her physical suffering.

Let me read just one more quotation from her journal dated Wednesday 7 August 1996. "We went to the Slipper Chapel at Walsingham. It was lovely - lots of people around, happy, chatting, and lively. I realized the more I took on board the more stressed I'd be and the more pain I would suffer. It was a vicious circle. I felt very calm, relaxed and happy - I knew I would be alright - O.K., not cured - but I would be alright. Again I handed myself to him above to sort it out". And she concludes: "Just that visit to Walsingham made a big difference, no great miracle, no great lights, just a reassurance that everything will be alright. Now that has got to be good".

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Forgive me using Mary's personal experience to illustrate the life of faith but, as I said earlier, for me it speaks more clearly than the citing of a list of great heroes and heroines of the faith, as does the author of our Epistle for today.

And what of our Gospel reading? We are encouraged not to be over anxious about the material things of life. If God provides for the birds, how much more will he look after us, the crown of his creation. As a child Mary had little and always relied upon God to provide what was essential to life. That is not to say she did not appreciate the comfort of a home, the opportunity to have a good wardrobe, or the enjoyment of food and wine. But such things did not matter.

She died four months ago, happy, contented, with her eyes firmly focused upon heaven; assured of the love of God from which she knew absolutely nothing could ever separate her.

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"What is faith? Faith gives substance to our hopes and makes us certain of realities we cannot see", says the author of the Letter to the Hebrews.

Hope then looks forward. It is not wishful thinking but rather a looking forward with utter certainty. Hope does not seek to take refuge in the "perhaps" or the "may be” but is founded upon a conviction. A conviction that God exists and that he loves you and me and will take care of us no matter what may befall us in this life, if only we will learn to trust him.

Such a fact cannot be proved in this life. It demands a leap of faith, but to those who make that leap, a rich reward awaits them.

I am reminded of something Archbishop William Temple used to say. He believed it was wrong to say: "Prove to me that God exists then I will pray to him". He used to say that it is only as you commit yourself to God in prayer, that you begin to prove to your satisfaction the reality of his existence".

This is what all the heroes of our faith have done. This is what Mary did in her own small way. It remains to be seen whether any future grandchildren will consider she was "mad" or whether she was indeed a "woman of faith".