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Sermon Preached by Professor Mark Chapman, Vice-Principal in the Edward King Chapel,
Ripon College Cuddesdon for St Francistide on the occasion of the conferral of an honorary
fellowship on Bishop Michael Perham, former chair of the Board of Governors, 6 October
2015.
Exactly twenty years ago I celebrated communion for the first time – and like a lot of people I
made a great fuss of it – as if being a priest was all about what goes on in church. It was a
profound irony that it was happening on St Francis’ Day – as the preacher reminded me very
quickly. Francis was never ordained priest; he never celebrated the eucharist; and he was
never at home in church. Being a priest, the preacher said, was about helping people
encounter that mystery of Golgotha – opening up the stark and gruesome simplicity of
Roman execution which continues to shock and shake the world. It was about pointing the
world back to that moment of recreation through the darkness of Good Friday and the light of
Easter Sunday – everything else was unnecessary adornment.
Think about what I just did. I made the sign of the cross as I began this sermon – it’s a
simple ritualised action and I didn’t think much about it. It’s just a few simple movements.
But pause and think – think about the power of the symbol; every time we do it, we trace the
arms of suffering upon our bodies; our body is marked by his body as it lies helpless on the
cross. As the epistle has it, we carry the marks of Jesus branded on our body. And we make
the sign of the cross at baptism; at the blessing; at the absolution; at the consecration; before
receiving communion. Through the simple act of tracing the cross on our bodies, that broken
body on the cross out there, that cross on Golgotha, in the past, once again becomes a cross
for us right here – it’s an oft-repeated and ritual reminder of the agony, but also ultimately of
the victory at the heart of the faith. This is what casts judgement on all the evil that this world
can throw at us. Gone, conquered, and cast out in the great act of recreation. For Paul, for
Francis, the cross wasn’t just in the past – just some distant event, but was present in their
bodies. We may not have the stigmata like Francis, but still we have the encounter with the
cross, still we have that presence – the power of the wounds and the pain, we have the power
of the wood to transform. And soon we will receive the broken body in our broken bodies.
In so much of what we do, the past and the present are drawn together through a few
simple actions. A few months ago in this chapel on Good Friday we had the elevation and
veneration of the cross, which for some people was difficult and for many was new. But it
was again a way of connecting – of drawing us into the events of Golgotha, of letting the
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wood of the cross connect with our bodies. We were drawn into the simplicity which is at the
heart of our faith; into the deep and shocking simplicity that goes beyond words.
St Francis knew what he doing when he pioneered the image of the stable; it’s another
reminder of the simplicity and humility of God. God was the one who chose to be a baby in a
cowshed; an act which also revealed the futility of power and the pomp of princes. Francis
wrote: “Behold your God, a poor and helpless child, the ox and the ass beside him. Your God
is of your flesh. He lives in your nearest neighbour, in every person, for all people are your
brothers and sisters”. Again, it’s the actions that speak louder than words. And we can see
something of that in the Pope who has named himself after Francis.
St Francis also developed the stations of the cross: another way of connecting with the
powerlessness of the God whom we follow up the hill to the place of the skull. In both cross
and crib Christ puts himself completely at the mercy of others. In the manger God’s power is
revealed in two forms of helplessness: of the baby who trusts his mother for everything; and
in the dying Christ who still trusts the world even when the world casts him out.
The cross, says St Paul, challenges the very logic of the world. But it becomes God’s
victory, God’s yes to all his promises. That is not right – it goes against reason, against
natural law. But there is no justice on the cross; only mercy and forgiveness. As Paul puts it
in 1 Corinthians: ‘God has made the wisdom of the world look foolish. … Divine folly is wiser
than human wisdom, and divine weakness stronger than human strength.’ For a time after the
death of Francis, God’s fool, in 1226 there was peace in the centre of Italy – the warring
towns stopped fighting in what was called the Great Halleluya; and people began writing
simple hymns of praise; religious art became so much simpler and less pompous. Of course it
didn’t last. But after Francis the world was never the same again.
Today we are giving thanks for St Francis but also for the ministry of Bishop Michael
who contributed so much to the development of this place during his time as chair of the
Board of Governors. It was a personal delight to be able to work with Michael and to receive
him into our community to which he contributed so much. He offered his wise support
through our many changes and developments, not least as we took the risk in building this
wonderful chapel. It was a great partnership and has become a lasting friendship. At times
over the past months the marks of the cross must have seemed all too painful. But those who
know Michael are aware of the humble simplicity of a deep faith in Christ crucified which
has sustained him through difficult times. So it’s with great joy that we can give thanks for
Michael’s ministry among us. And what was said of Francis by one of his early biographers
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seems just as true for Michael: ‘In conversation he was agreeable, ardent and penetrating, his
voice firm and sweet-toned’. So thank you Michael.
But the cross is never the end. It is out of the cross that the world was recreated: the tree
blooms into flower. The glory of the beech tree has been cut down, but there will be new life,
new vistas and new glories into the future. So today we remember the joy of the utter
simplicity of devotion to God revealed in Francis; but we also remember the pain that comes
with that devotion. And we give thanks for God’s saints yesterday and today who point us
back to the folly of the cross and lead us forward in the joy of the resurrection.
I gazed on the Rood arrayed in glory
Shining in beauty and gilded with gold,
The Cross of the Saviour beset with gems.