Eighteenth Sunday After Trinity

Sermon preached by the Reverend Anna Matthews

 The new Jerusalem has been in the news this week. At his speech to the Conservative Party Conference, the Prime Minister borrowed the biblical image of the new Jerusalem as he set out a vision for what post-Covid Britain might look like.

 It’s a popular image to use in times of trial and struggle. The post-war settlement which gave us the NHS and welfare state was born of a vision of a New Jerusalem which sought greater equality for all. The Puritans who travelled to America on the Mayflower believed themselves to be engaged in the building of a New Jerusalem, a pure society free from the corruptions of all they disdained in England. The New Jerusalem has power precisely because of its newness: it promises, from amid the ruins of the old, new life, new hope, and a new beginning.

 The image itself, of a new Jerusalem, is deeply biblical. Divorced from the scriptures, the new Jerusalem can float free of them, becoming a shorthand for any utopian vision or ambitious plan. But if we let the image of the new Jerusalem be shaped by the scriptures which gave rise to it, we find that there is already plenty of content to that vision.

 We first encounter the new Jerusalem in the prophetic literature of the Old Testament. Not unexpectedly, it arises when the old Jerusalem, the city of David, the centre of Israel’s power and hope, is destroyed. Besieged and then overrun by the Babylonians in the year 587 BC, the fall of Jerusalem was a catastrophe that saw the temple ruined and many of the people exiled. From Babylon they dreamt of a new and restored city and a rebuilt temple.

 This is what’s in the background in today’s reading from Isaiah. Which might sound odd, because today’s reading includes a hymn of praise. And that’s because Isaiah sees the fall of Jerusalem as an event held within God’s purposes. Where others saw it as a reason to question their faith and the promises of their God, Isaiah sees Israel’s humbling, along with that of the nations, as a necessary part of God’s judgement as he brings about his purposes. All that is sinful in Jerusalem is brought low. The corruption of its leaders, the indifference and injustice of many of its citizens, is judged by God who promises a new Jerusalem. ‘On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food’ writes Isaiah, ‘and he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples… he will swallow up death for ever.’ The new Jerusalem is a vision of plenty; a feast of rich and extravagant food and drink for all people. It’s a place of harmony and happiness where the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces.

 Above all, the new Jerusalem is God’s city, and its building is God’s activity. Beyond human schemes and national ambitions, beyond both nostalgia and utopianism is the building and vision of a city that is truly the dwelling place of God. For Isaiah, faithfulness to this vision requires less in the way of architectural plans and building materials than it does trust in God’s promises and a sharing in his character.

 And this remains fundamental to the vision as it is picked up and used by other biblical authors. The most famous vision of the new Jerusalem is given to us in the book of Revelation, when John sees ‘the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God.’ Again the vision is provoked by a time of crisis, this time the fall of Jerusalem to the Romans in the year 70 AD, and the persecution of Christians by the Emperor Nero. The vision, once more, is true to God’s character and his purposes. It is there to sustain Christians in faithfulness and to shape their lives even as they lived among difficult earthly cities.

 Again in Revelation we get the image of a feast – a wedding feast, of Christ and his church, of the enjoyment of God in a city where there is no mourning nor crying nor pain anymore, of an expansive city where people from every tribe and language and nation are united in the worship of the Lamb, Jesus Christ. The promise of the new Jerusalem is both future – its full revelation is still to come – and now, as Christians are called to live as citizens of it, and participate in it through the worship of the church.

 And that vision of the new Jerusalem, gates flung wide open for all to stream through, a vision of healing and peace and reconciliation, of food in plenty for all who come, of worship and praise and fellowship – that’s a vision that inspires the church, which is called to be a foretaste of it. It’s a vision that inspires justice on earth where so many go hungry, where so many do not have others to wipe away their tears, where there is pain and fear and death.

 It’s a vision that can inspire us and challenge us and free us to live for God. But if we’re not careful it can also be a vision that can make us smug and complacent as we rejoice in God’s undemanding inclusion. Which is why the parable Jesus tells in today’s Gospel reading makes for uncomfortable reading.

 You can see in the background some of what I’ve been talking about in relation to the new Jerusalem. There’s a wedding feast. There’s the fall of the earthly Jerusalem (that’s verse 7, where ‘The king was enraged. He sent his troops, destroyed those murderers, and burned their city.’) The tables are set. The initial invited guests don’t come, even on the second invitation, because they can’t be bothered, or they’re more concerned with their own business than God’s, or because the invitation is so inconvenient and unwelcome to them that they kill the messengers (the parable is addressed to the chief priests and the Pharisees, so the interpretation is not exactly subtle). So the king orders that the invitation go out to all comers to the wedding feast of his son: a vision of the inclusive love of God and one in the eye to those who thought their place in the kingdom was guaranteed.

 ‘‘But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing a wedding robe… then the king said to the attendants, “Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”’

 And this offends our sensibilities. Surely it’s a disproportionate punishment for the small social infraction of not wearing a wedding robe to a feast you have only been invited to at the last minute. What does it say about the love of God that an ill-dressed guest can’t be tolerated in his kingdom?

 As Isaiah saw all those centuries ago, the vision of the new Jerusalem is a vision of God’s city, the place of his dwelling. It’s a vision open to all – the invitation is extended to all who will come – but response to the invitation requires some action. The content of the vision of the new Jerusalem is shaped by the God whose city it is. Just as in the parable the Pharisees and chief priests find the invitation being revoked because they have taken it for granted, so for Matthew, dealing with a church made up of the good and the bad, a simple acceptance of the invitation is not enough. The vision is one of hospitality, but it is also one of holiness. The imagery behind the wedding robe is obscure, but there are two main views about what this robe might mean.

 One is that it’s connected to baptism, and the white robe in which the newly baptised are clothed as a sign of their new life in Christ. The other is that it’s similar to the robe mentioned in the book of Revelation, which says that the fine linen in which the Church, as Christ’s bride, is clothed, is the righteous deeds of the saints.

 I think both of these hold true. The king’s invitation is open to all people, good and bad, but to accept the invitation of the gospel is to accept that it will change your life. In baptism we’re united to Christ, and living out our baptism is about bearing his image. He expects his disciples to bear fruit by living lives which point to God and make his love known in the world. The righteous deeds that the saints are clothed with are the working out of baptism, when we put on Christ.

 The new Jerusalem is not of our making, even out of our best and loftiest ambitions. It is the promised dwelling of God with his people, a vision that can and should form our societies and communities now, but which is always, first, the action of God in which he invites us to participate. We have responded to the invitation. We have come to the feast, in which the Eucharist shares. Are we now willing to let this feast shape us, to be clothed with Christ, so that at the last, we will be welcomed to sit and eat in his kingdom?