Sermon Archive
More than we know
Sermon preached by Kenneth Boyd at Holy Communion on 6 July 2003
2 Samuel 5, 1-5, 9-10 ; 2 Corinthians 12, 2-10 ; Mark 6, 1-13.
Lady Magdalen Carnegie was the wife of James Graham, the great Marquis of Montrose. She is not mentioned in most histories of Scotland; and even in John Buchan's classic biography of her husband, she is referred to only very briefly. But at last she has found a champion. The distinguished Scottish author Robin Jenkins, now in his nineties, has written a historical novel with her name as its title, bringing her out of the dark shadows of 17th century Scotland, and telling its history as her story.
Lady Magdalen is a work of fiction, and since so little is known about its historical subject, one cannot tell how far she might have agreed with Jenkins' reconstruction of her deepest thoughts. In the novel, Montrose's military victories and defeats take place off stage, and we see only her perception of their terrible consequences - the infection of her barely teenage sons with militaristic notions, the death of one son and the taking of another hostage, the bodies and minds of Scottish peasants shattered in the carnage of civil war, the wanton destruction of great houses and the deconstruction of civilised life; and finally the lingering death of Lady Magdalen, in her early thirties wasted by disease, and with her husband fighting far away.
'My subject is War, and the pity of War'. Wilfred Owen's words come readily to mind when reading this novel, written as it is by an author schooled in the inter-war years of the 20th century - the century also when feminism found a voice to protest against patriarchal barbarities - against every Abram across the years, who refused to sacrifice 'the Ram of Pride', 'but slew his son - And half the seed of Europe, one by one.' It is difficult not to sympathise with the sentiment suggested by Jenkins' novel - that if men like Montrose had listened more attentively to women like Lady Magdalen, many of the bloody tragedies of their time could have been averted.
Yet that sentiment perhaps fails to do justice to Montrose. In the first half of the 17th century, the Scottish political scene was dominated by extremists and opportunists. At first Montrose supported the Covenanters' resistance to Stuart impositions on the Kirk. But all too soon the Presbyterian ministers, like some ayatollahs today, were attempting to impose a harsh theocracy of their own, supported by a motley crew of nobles, many of whom used religion just to advance their own interests. In that confused context, which rapidly degenerated into civil war in England as well as Scotland, Montrose fought for the king - Charles I and then Charles II.
Seeing his long hair and lace, one might mistake Montrose for an Episcopalian Royalist Cavalier opposing Presbyterian Parliamentary Roundheads. But that was far from the truth. Montrose held no brief for bishops, and believed that if the circumstances were right, a republic might serve as well as a monarchy. If monarchy suited a country however, it should be what we would now call a constitutional monarchy - 'a sovereign over all free subjects', as he put it. His ideal of good government thus was not unlike the one of whose foundation we heard in our Old Testament reading today, where the tribes of Israel choose their kinsman David, make a covenant with him, and anoint him as their king. Montrose would have approved. When the extremists all around him were arguing for King against Covenant, or Covenant against King, Montrose fought to hold those two ideas together.
The tragedy, of course, was that he had to fight, literally and bloodily, for a cause whose ultimate aim was that all free subjects should live together in a peaceable kingdom. And it was a double tragedy, because in the end he failed, and did not live to see his ideal realised by lesser men. But if he had not fought, if he had listened more attentively to Lady Magdalen, and refused to get involved, and stayed at home and improved his estates and enjoyed a happy family life, would he have merited greater respect? The problem about projecting our modern values back into history is that we enjoy the luxury of doing so, only as the late fruit of centuries of political and economic struggle to rise above the harsh choices of history. For those who had to make those choices, they may not have seemed like choices at all.
Today, at the beginning of a new millennium, so many of the causes our forebears fought and died for no longer seem worth arguing over. It is difficult for many of us to sympathise with them: they all seem extremist. The lessons of the twentieth century and the insights of modern psychology have taught us that if we settle for less, we may be less unhappy. Better to be well-integrated secular individuals than heroes, saints, or martyrs. Better to cultivate our own gardens and not offend the neighbours by letting our Leylandii hedges grow too tall.
Such views now seem reasonable. A well-integrated personality, living in peace and harmony with his or her family and neighbours, is surely a good ideal for everyone. But how many of us actually achieve this ideal? And even if we were to, what right would we have to enjoy it in a world where countless other people, through no fault of their own, have so little chance of achieving it? It is easy enough to point the finger at an historical individual like Montrose who, because he put his fate 'unto the touch, to win or lose it all' in warfare, fails to live up to the modern psychological ideal of a well-integrated family man. But what of the men and women today who devote all their energies to politics, or their profession, or famine relief, or simply working all hours to earn a living for their families, and then discover, too late, that they have neglected those same families, or never had time or opportunity for a family at all? And what of those who have lost members of their families in war, or natural disasters, or mindless murders, and like Rachel weeping for her children, refuse to be consoled, because they are no more?
But perhaps the fact is that all of us, in one way or another, fall short of the modern psychological ideal. We would like to be well-rounded individuals, able to be all things to all people, at home and at work and in our contribution to the peace and welfare of the world. But our opportunities, let alone our abilities to be this are all-too-limited, and in fact we are all morally frail and fractured. It is encouraging therefore to recall today's second lesson, from St Paul's letter to the Corinthians. There, Paul speaks of the thorn in his flesh, which harassed him, but also saved him from religious self-righteousness. He does not tell us, and despite centuries of speculation no-one really knows, what precisely this 'thorn' was. But whatever it was, it clearly was a constant reminder that despite all his spiritual insight, he also was only human, and fallible, like the rest of us. Yet, and this is Paul's point, in God's eyes he was good enough - 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness'.
The Christian gospel, like modern psychology, holds out the ideal of human wholeness. But it is also deeply realistic about human nature. Wholeness is not something we can achieve on our own. It is only by grace, and in community with others, that we can even begin to approach it. To speak of human wholeness, in the end, is to speak of what we scarcely know. Yet, as the Archbishop of Canterbury wrote recently, 'human beings are more than they know, and ... they are dealt with by more than they know'. Our human contradictions can be reconciled only in the peace of God, which passes human understanding.
Montrose knew that he was dealt with by more than he knew. The night before he mounted the scaffold, he knew that after death his head would be stuck on a spike on the Edinburgh Tolbooth, his body dismembered, and his limbs fixed in public places in Stirling, Glasgow, Perth and Aberdeen. And so he wrote on the window of his jail lines that some will find gruesome, but others glorious:
Let them bestow on every airth a limb,
Then open all my veins, that I may swim
To Thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake;
Then place my parboiled head upon a stake,
Scatter my ashes, strew them in the air. -
Lord! Since Thou knowest where all these atoms are,
I'm hopeful Thou'lt recover once my dust,
And confident Thou'lt raise me with the just.
Thank God that, in Scotland, those killing days are done. But across the world, in many war-torn countries, they are not; and countless men and women still have to strive agonizingly for the peaceable kingdoms or republics they long for. If we are even half-way sensitive to what those others are suffering today, it is difficult not to despair of their efforts. Yet the transcendent hope in which Montrose put his confidence, tells us not to despair, but to play whatever practical part we can, however small, in the work of the world's redemption, in political action, in healing and teaching, in acts of love and friendship, none of which are enough - except in God. For God, who created us, 'knows where all these atoms are'. 'We are more than we know, and are dealt with by more than we know.' 'My grace is sufficient for you', says the Lord, 'for my power is made perfect in weakness'.
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