The Doors
Sunday 7th August
Genesis 15.1-6
Hebrews 11.1-3, 8-16
Luke 12.32-40
When I was installed in my previous parish, I was presented with the church key. It was so big, I had to get a new handbag. Ironically, it was an incredibly simple piece of work – one of my colleagues had managed to pick the lock easily when he’d mislaid his – but it was such a status symbol of a key that my husband James’s parish, possessed of more modest security arrangements, took pity on him and bought him his own, even bigger one, which happened also to be a bottle opener. Each of our churches had a dedication to St. Peter, so keys had symbolic importance, with Peter having been given by Jesus the ‘keys to the Kingdom of Heaven’. ‘Whatever you bind on earth,’ says Jesus, ‘will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven’.
So I was rather surprised, coming here, to find that the keys to the Cathedral are completely normal-looking, albeit contained in a bunch the size of which would please Marley’s ghost. There are so many that it is tricky at first trying to work out which key unlocks which door, so luckily, I was taken round by Malina and shown how to open up the building. There’s a particular procedure to be followed for this, and one of the things which puzzled me at the time was that some doors were to be unlocked, but not opened – just left secured by bolts. What was the point of that, I thought. Either the doors are to be opened, or not.
It took me a while to realise that this unlocking of closed doors is necessary, because most people who work in the Cathedral don’t have a set of keys. But they do sometimes need to be able to open doors, whether in the unlikely event of fire, or because for example we are having a big exhibition brought in. Unlocking the doors makes it possible for other people to open them.
‘Do not be afraid’, says Jesus to his disciples, ‘for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom’. There can be no greater unlocking than that which he goes on to undertake, through his breaking free from the confines of the tomb, his unshackling from the earth-bound slavery of suffering and sin and death, his tearing down of the veil which stands between us and heaven. Do not be afraid – through this mighty act of liberation wrought by his Son, it is the Father’s good pleasure to give us the Kingdom.
I wonder how often we take that to heart. I know that I often feel too shabby to raise my eyes to its reality – that God longs to give us the kingdom, and delights in giving it to us; that it is what he has done and is doing and will do. It is extraordinary. And it is here. The doors are wide open.
This passage in Luke comes directly after Jesus’ assurance to the disciples that they are not to worry: consider the birds, he says; consider the lilies. Their flourishing is entirely beyond their control, and yet their Father takes care of them. How much more will he do so for you. For us earth-bound creatures, this is a really tough thing to comprehend: our human economy is dependent on rewards-based flourishing. We try hard, we work hard, we behave well; we’re clever, we’re well-dressed, we’re in the right place at the right time – and the world will reward us with money, friends, lovers, status, popularity. We strive to do these things, and more besides, and if we’re lucky, we reap the benefits.
The temptation to map this economy onto the Kingdom of which Jesus speaks is at times almost irresistible – and it’s so easy. You just have to change the language a bit – but not much. So depending on our personality type, we might be harbouring a selection of thoughts along the lines that to gain the Kingdom, we need to try hard, work hard, behave well, pray fervently, live correctly, go to church, be nice to people, not enjoy ourselves too much, and make sure that we’re on the right side of any moral divides going. Then, if we’re lucky, we’ll get in.
Of course, this is a caricature. But like all caricatures, it’s firmly based in the foibles of human nature. We find ourselves trapped by that particular way of thinking, and in some ways, we quite like being trapped by it: our heads, infused with dopamine, the neurotransmitter for reward, love the pleasure that’s derived from praise and status and being liked. On top of that, it’s a reassuringly familiar system, and it also gives us a pleasing sense of agency and control.
So, scratch the surface, and we might find it rather disappointing to hear Jesus saying ‘Do not keep striving [for all this]…[I]t is the nations of the world that strive after all these things’, before sounding the warning note, in this morning’s reading, about where our treasure is kept.
Jesus knows that our hearts all to quickly follow where our dopamine-rushes lead. So if we start treasuring, not only wealth or praise, but also our particular religious constructs, then we will all too quickly start to derive satisfaction from reinforcing them. And our hearts will follow our hormones, and end up in the feedback-loop of human desire.
To break this loop, the object of our striving needs to be the one thing which is ours already: the Kingdom. Give all the rest away, says Jesus. Get rid of all those things you control so tightly, and they will stop controlling you. And recognise that this isn’t like the way the world works. It’s not cause and effect, and it’s not down to you. Jesus has flung open the doors. Your job is to notice.
The trouble with being human, of course, is that we’re stuck with the way our heads work. So noticing is hard. We don’t have any keys. And from where we’re standing, the doors might have been unlocked, but they’re still bolted.
This is where faith comes in. The sort of faith that gets right down there in the midst of the tough stuff and points us to the stars. ‘Look towards heaven,’ says the Lord to the lamenting Abraham.
It is the light we find when we are pointed to the stars which enables our lamps to be lit – in other words, which allows us to live by faith. It is this light which keeps us alert, which causes us to notice, which reveals to us its presence on the other side of the doors – stealing in under the lintels, blazing round the frames, casting rays along the floor. This light, once spotted, compels us to draw back the bolts and fling open the doors.
But because this is the light of faith, we have a choice: it doesn’t force itself on us. We might choose not to notice its presence. Instead of unbolting the doors, we might decide to behave as if they’re properly locked. Locked against anything we might find uncontrolled or disturbing. Locked against people who are different from us. Locked against those we consider theologically unsound. Locked against those who shock us. Locked against the parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore. Against the problems which seem just too difficult to look at. Or rather than choosing not to notice, we might just sail on, oblivious to the light, and thereby ensure that the doors remain an effective barrier to it. Either way, with them tidily closed, we can remain in our comfort zones, hoarding our treasure.
It's a constant temptation. But we can overcome it by getting rid of the fear which keeps us captive – by not investing in the kind of treasure that has to be locked up, and by not being afraid of what is beyond the doors. Because - thanks to the grace, and the light, and the pleasure of God – it is ours already.
Amen.