20th June, 2021

​My dear friends,

As I am sure you know, the ‘Saint John’ after whom we are named is St John the Baptist, the cousin of Jesus Christ, who Baptised the Lord in the river Jordan, which began his three years of public ministry leading up to his crucifixion and resurrection which we read about in the New Testament.

​            It is a bit of a fluke that we in the Venerable Order of St John are named after this particular saint. The original members of the Order of St John were some Benedictine monks in Jerusalem who, led by Blessed Gerard, pledged themselves to look after the sick. They used a small chapel in Jerusalem dedicated to St John the Baptist for their services, and, as the evolved into a separate religious order, they adopted the name of the saint to whom their chapel was dedicated, Saint John.

            Next Thursday, 24th June, is the feast of the Birth of St John the Baptist. Only the birthdays of Jesus Christ, the Blessed Virgin Mary and St John the Baptist are commemorated in the Church’s services – an indication of their significance in Christianity. All other saints are remembered on the days of their deaths – their heavenly birthdays.

            Usually in the Order of St John we celebrate our patron saint on the Saturday nearest his feast day with a special meeting at the Mansion House in London, followed by a march through the City of London and a big service at St Paul’s Cathedral. Because of Covid-19, this has had to be cancelled again this year, though we hope to be able to hold our usual celebrations in 2022.

            I propose, therefore, to celebrate a special, simple service of Holy Communion for the feast of the Birth of St John the Baptist at St Katharine’s Church, Little Bardfield, Essex, CM7 4TZ, on Thursday 24th June 2021 at 10.30am. Curiously, St Katharine’s Church is almost a thousand years old, which means it was being built around the same time that the Order of St John started to evolve in Jerusalem.

            If you are free, it would give me great pleasure to welcome you to our service on 24th June. Don’t worry if you have never been to a service of Holy Communion before: it is very simple and I will guide you through. You will have to wear a face mask in church. If you have any special requests for prayers to be used in the service, please give me a ring on 01371 810267, or e-mail me on Robert@webform.co.uk  There is a nice tea room in Great Bardfield and I thought we might manage a cup of coffee there afterwards: a small celebration of St John the Baptist, our patron saint.
With my continued prayers and all good wishes,

​                                             The Rev. Dr  ROBERT BEAKEN, County Chaplain
TRINITY 3 – 20th JUNE 2021.
 
Gospel: St Mark, chapter 4, verses 35-41
I have only ever once thought that I might be about to die, and at the time it was a little disconcerting. Over thirty years ago, I returned after ordination in the Church of England to visit my friends at the Venerable English College, the Catholic seminary in Rome where I had been an ecumenical exchange student. Whilst there, I suffered a nasty accident. I got up in the night, slipped on a rug on the marble floor of my bedroom, fell backwards, and hit my head on the corner of an Edwardian desk with a great crack, knocking myself out in the process. When I came to, I had somehow managed to crawl back onto the bed. I put my hand up, to find a hole in the back of my head, and blood spurting out with every heartbeat. When I put the light on, the bed looked like something out of an abattoir.  As I say, it was somewhat disconcerting.
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            I set off, in search of help, only to find the place almost deserted – no one from St John Ambulance around when you want one! In the end, I knocked on someone’s door. There was a muffled “Eeerh?” “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you,” I said – very polite, you’ll notice, even in the middle of an emergency – “Only I’ve got a hole in the back of my head and I think I’ve lost a lot of blood.” The light went on. It was the Pope’s chamberlain, Monsignor Brian Chestle, who struggled into a Chinese dressing gown with a dragon on the back. “You look as if you’ve been coshed by a burglar,” he said – he had a thing about burglars – and, leaving me dripping blood all over his carpet, he went off on a fruitless search after non-existent thieves.

            In truth, for a short while that night I thought that my number might be up. You’ll understand, therefore, that I have more than a degree of sympathy with Jesus’ disciples in the boat crossing the Sea of Galilee, who thought that their numbers might be up. Jesus, worn out by preaching and healing, went to sleep on a cushion in the stern of the boat. Somewhere in the middle of their voyage, a terrible storm suddenly blew up. The disciples began to fear that they would all drown – they were only in a little wooden fishing boat. Remember, too, that in the ancient Mediterranean world, storms were especially disliked, because they were thought to symbolize chaos, which was what everyone dreaded the most.

            The disciples awoke Jesus, who rebuked the wind and sea, saying “Peace, be still!” and all was calm. Jesus then rebuked the disciples, asking them why they were afraid, and what had become of their faith? Then, presumably, he went back to sleep for the rest of the journey.

            Now, you and I cannot calm the wind and storm with a word, but Jesus did. This is an indication of his divinity: that he is indeed the incarnate Son of God. The disciples began discussing what had happened amongst themselves. “Who is this,” they said, “that even the wind and the sea obey him?” It was another piece of the jigsaw, leading them to recognise who Jesus truly was.

            This little tale is rather challenging, because if we accept that Jesus is the Son of God, then, what Jesus says and does matters. We have to listen to the Son of God and let him into our lives.
There are plenty of people who don’t want to accept the divinity of Jesus Christ. They will accept Jesus as an interesting teacher, or a gifted healer – but that is all. Personally, I find such an approach intellectually unsatisfying. I tend to agree with C.S. Lewis who said that Jesus was either who he said he was, or he was a mad – in C.S. Lewis’s memorable phrase, like the man who asserts that he is a fried egg – because no normal man would say the things that Jesus said, let alone do what he did. So, this story of Jesus stilling the storm challenges us. In the Lord’s words to Simon Peter, “Who do men say the Son of man is? Who do you say I am?”  

            Archbishop Lang – we haven’t heard from him for a while, so I thought it was time to fit in a quote – used to say that this story of the journey across the Sea of Galilee is symbolic of our Christian pilgrimage through life. It isn’t too bad to begin with, because we can still see the side of the lake from which we have set off. In the centre, however, we are too far away to see the side of the lake behind us or in front of us. We just have to have faith that we are going in the right direction, and will reach our destination safely. Sometimes, terrible storms blow up in all our lives. The temptation is to give up, turn our backs on God, let go, and slide into the sea of unbelief and all that that brings. Instead, we must have faith, that Jesus, who is truly the incarnate Son of God, is still in charge and will look after us.

            I began this sermon with the tale of my mishap in Rome, and broke off with me bleeding all over the floor of Monsignor Chestle’s bedroom, in a state of shock, wondering if my number was up. In the end, having ascertained that I hadn’t been coshed by a burglar, the chamberlain returned with a student who had previously been an Army officer, whose nickname was ‘Horror Story Haggerty.’  Major Haggerty was the college infirmarian, and he used to console the sick with blood-curldling horror stories about even worse things he had seen in the Army. For all that, he was a gentle giant of a man, and he carefully put a big white bandage all around my head.

In the morning, pale and yucky, I struggled down to breakfast. “You’ve put your dog collar on a bit high this morning,” quipped one of the students. From then on, there was endless leg-pulling, combined with great care. Someone artistic produced a mock commemorative stone, saying that this marked the spot where Robert from England fell and cruorem effusit suam hoc in loco – shed his gore in this place. I was taken to the Blue Nuns’ Hospital, where they found nothing seriously wrong, and I was looked after back at the College until I was well enough to travel home. Major Haggerty got medicines prescribed by the doctor from the chemist, and he even washed my hair with surprising gentleness. Someone lent me a jacket. When I was a little better, someone else took me to Giolitti’s for one of their famous ice creams to cheer me up.

            Well, that is one incident, but it stands for a very deep truth. God, who is perfect love, does not send nasty things to His beloved children. Things go wrong in all our lives, without exception, either because of sin, or because that is simply the way things are. Rugs slide on marble floors. Sharp corners make holes in heads, and so forth. But, if God doesn’t will nasty things, He often turns them to good effect, which, of course, is the message of the Incarnation. When we look back, we sometimes see that when something went wrong, the experience brought the good out of people. Indeed, it is often after times of trouble or adversity we realise that we have grown as Christians. That is my prayer.

I think that Archbishop Lang was right. When the storms and winds of life assail us, either, we can give up and slide into the water, or we can hold on, trusting in God and His good purposes.
And when we see others in difficulties, we must rally round as best we can, doing the work of Christ. And who knows what that may lead to in our own lives.