The image of our Christian life in this text is a race at the public Games, but there is a play on words. The Greek for ‘witnesses’ is marturvn, that is, also ‘martyrs’, who by their death are witnesses to the gospel. Thus these are saints, not merely spectators but former participants in that struggle which is the Christian life. The letter to the Hebrews was written, nobody knows by whom, probably in the eighties of the first century, after the Neronian persecution and the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. The community to whom the letter was addressed, possibly the Christians in Rome, are stated in the letter to have undergone persecution [Hebrews 10. 32-34]. They knew all about martyrs, and we can imagine that, as for those taking part in sports, so for these Christians, awareness of the achievements of their predecessors was both a challenge to emulation and a warning of the standards to be met.
The Church of England is generally ambiguous in its approach to the Saints, and, typically, loses out both ways. We are too well bred to ignore them, so we offer them such little courtesies as proper liturgical colours and collects. But we prefer not to make a fuss about them for fear of losing a sense of proportion. The consequence is that our sense of continuity in the church’s life is dim and the idea of the cloud of witnesses little more than a familiar text. We have also lost the bracing sense of challenge, of courage and endurance which they expressed.. I do not know whether we can restore it, but this evening I can remind you.
We need a clearer memory of the Saints, not, I think, as some would say, to intercede for us in heaven, as if God was so limited that he had no time to pay attention to us himself, but as examples and inspirations for us to serve him better. Though I have implied that we should cultivate the memory of every one in the Calendar, you will be glad to hear that I do not propose to do so tonight. Three may serve as examples, and, to show that sanctity is not merely a closeted and personal virtue, I have chosen these for the political significance of what they did.
First, Philip, like most of the early leaders quite a shadowy figure, but briefly illumined in the book of Acts, as the leader, with Stephen, of the first seven deacons. I choose him because, before the conversion of Paul, he is recorded as preaching the Gospel, possibly for the first time, outside the magic circle of the Jews, and affirming thereby that Christianity must not be confined by religious or racial prejudice. You can read about him in Acts chapter 8. He began by converting Samaritans, who were unacceptable to Jews, and even baptized Simon Magus, a notorious pagan wonder-worker. He then converted an Ethiopian eunuch, a black person whom we would probably now describe as Sudanese and who, however well disposed towards Judaism, was excluded by Jewish law from being a worshipper in the Temple because of his disability. [Deut 23:1] Philip talked to him of Jesus and baptized him. It seems to me that nowadays, when the political atmosphere is one of racial suspicion and religious antagonism, Philip is a saint we should remember with particular admiration.
In second place, I want to recall S Thomas of Canterbury. No-one who saw Derek Spottiswoode star in this church in T S Eliot’s Murder in the Cathedral twelve or more years ago will forget that Thomas was opposed to doing the right thing for the wrong reason, a temptation for politicians down the ages. That production, so admirably adapted to the ecclesiastical setting in which it was performed, and so remarkable for its large female chorus, exquisitely dressed by Joan Barton and marshalled by Pat Gardner, offered us other lessons of varied kinds, not least about the crises of twelfth-century politics, with messages for our own day.
My third choice, though more recent, is equally of political interest. The Calendar invites us to remember Archbishop William Temple this week, on 6 November. He was born in 1881 and died in 1944. In my youth he was admired by many for his fearless promotion of Christian principles in public life, so enthusiastic that Winston Churchill’s Private Secretary recorded that his ‘demise caused the P.M. no sorrow. In fact he was quite ribald about it.’ [John Colville, The Fringes of Power, 1985] He was successively Bishop of Manchester, Archbishop of York, and Archbishop of Canterbury, He emphasized that ‘The primary principle of Christian ethics and Christian politics must be respect for every person simply as a person. . . The person is primary, not the society; the State existed for the citizen, not the citizen for the State.’ [from Christianity and Social Order, 1942] I also remember him for his Readings in St John’s Gospel, which are rich devotional meditations, though blind to critical scholarship. He was, in short, the kind of Christian who annoys politicians, and that, I think, may be enough for me to recommend him to your attention.
Over the past two thousand years God has nurtured many saints, of many kinds, some wrestling with the world, some with their conscience, some treading the world stage and commanding a great public in their lifetime, some who have left no mark on history. But they all put God first; they all had a right sense of proportion because they looked at life in the light of eternity. We should pray, not necessarily to be saints, but to follow their example, as far as God gives us the capacity.
Amen A C G