Sermon preached at St Mary’s, Primrose Hill by the Reverend Robert Atwell
10 June 2007

1 Kings 17.17-24; Galatians 1.11-24; Luke 7.11-17

In 1944 the 8th Army was at the vanguard of the ‘great push’ up through Italy. Having taken Rome, by October the Allies had reached Tuscany and a group of British soldiers advanced upon the town of Sansepolchro where a division of the German army had established its headquarters. The troops were ordered to bomb the town and to flush out the Germans. In the event, however, the captain in charge of the attack refused to obey the order. The name of this little town rang a bell in the back of his mind and he remembered as a schoolboy reading Aldous Huxley’s claim that Sansepolchro contained the greatest picture in the world.

It is always difficult to evaluate such grandiose claims, but what we do know is that the bombardment was postponed for 24hrs in the hope that the Germans would retreat under the cover of darkness – which indeed they did – and as a result the picture was saved for posterity. It is of the Resurrection of Christ and it is a frescoe painted in the mid-15th century by Piero della Francesca on the back wall of the council chamber in his town hall.

Personally, after two weeks of tramping round Tuscany on holiday avoiding thunderstorms and seeing countless Baroque churches with weeping Madonnas and baleful crucifixions scenes, with either Mary and John standing imploringly at the foot of the cross, or else angels dancing in attendance around the dying Christ and catching his blood in bowls, it was both a relief and a bit of a shock to be confronted by this extraordinary painting last week.

A muscular Christ steps onto the edge of his tomb, banner in hand, as if it were the rampart of a conquered city. At his feet lie the soldiers fast asleep, posted by Pontius Pilate at the request of the High Priest in theory to guard the tomb of the dead Jesus. In the painting these slumbering soldiers, lethargic and weak represent tired, bored humanity. Meanwhile Piero’s Christ cuts a strong masculine figure, immensely powerful as he rises from the grave and strides into life.

Even if you don’t know the painting – and I’m sorry only coming back from holiday yesterday I haven’t had time to photocopy it for you all to see what I’m talking about – you may at least remember some years ago a modern artist depicting the French footballer Eric Cantona in the identical pose. It made a bit of a splash at the time, and pious Christians and art historians alike were deeply offended.

In this morning’s gospel we hear of the raising of the widow of Nain’s son. The story is unique to St Luke. The compassion of Christ is one of Luke’s great themes, and in this miracle Luke brings out the compassion of Jesus for this poor woman who has lost her only son. The loss of a child is always devastating. You never expect your children to predecease you. Worst of all in a world without old age pensions or social security, and where women had no legal rights except as a wife or a mother, she was acutely vulnerable.

We find a similar story in our OT lesson from the First Book of Kings, where Elijah has compassion for the widow from Zarephath in her grief at the death of her son apparently through sunstroke. At incredible risk to herself, this woman had given the prophet shelter from the wrath of Queen Jezebel whose spies were everywhere, hunting for Elijah, because of his outspoken criticism of her tyrannical rule. Elijah gives the child the kiss of life and begs God to restore its life.

Both these events speak of a God who brings life out of death and who makes all things new.

In our western Christian tradition it is predominantly the suffering of Christ which colours our religious imagination. Our churches and picture galleries are full of pictures either of the baby Jesus lying helplessly in a manger, or of a dead Christ hanging on the cross. In both cases it is the vulnerability of Jesus which is portrayed. If Jesus is portrayed in his public ministry at all it is usually the meek and mild Jesus that looks out at us. But the truth is, Jesus didn’t go around being limp.

A more balanced Christian faith reflects not just on the vulnerability of Jesus, on Christ the victim, but on Christ the victor – the transforming power of Christ in his resurrection. And that’s why this painting by Piero in this obscure Tuscan town, with a Christ who looks directly at you and yet mysteriously beyond you with his all-knowing eyes, is so arresting. Christ is both powerful and serene. He looks into our heart and knows us as we are, and most importantly, sees us as we can become.

‘Young man, I say to you, arise,’ says Jesus in this morning’s gospel, as his hand rests on the bier. He says the same thing to each of us. Don’t just lie there feeling sorry for yourself. Get up. You have a life to live and I am here to empower you to live it to the full. Life is too short. There is no time to waste. God summons you to life.

And this is no selfish vocation. Contrary to the philosophies of self-help books in Waterstones it’s not all about me and my quest for personal fulfilment and blow the rest of you. We are called to be agents of God’s transformation in his world. Piero represents his belief in the way the resurrection changes things by the way the landscape in his painting changes from left to right. On one side of the resurrected Christ all the trees are bare and leafless. It is winter and dead. But on the other side, the trees are in leaf and blossom. Spring has come. A new era has dawned with Christ’s rising.

God moves us from death to life. He refuses to leave us in weakness. Today, in the words of Psalm 95, if you hear his voice, harden not your heart. God summons us to life. Let us arise with Christ and follow him to glory.

Robert Atwell