Light rather than certainty

 Midnight Mass 2024: Isaiah 52:7-10, Hebrews 1:1-4 and John 1: 1-14

The power of God. The ambition of men.

The pope is dead. The throne is vacant.

What happens behind these walls will change everything.

Poster - film ladder

Taglines for the film “Conclave”. Based on a novel by Robert Harris, it's been praised for its cinematography and stellar cast - led by Ralph Fiennes, Stanley Tucci and Isabella Rossellini. 

It’s a suspenseful, glossy thriller; dark and claustrophobic. 

The themes are familiar: ambition, temptation, conspiracies and corruption; but also humility, courage, growing self-awareness; moments of repentance and forgiveness. 

It names the impact of grief, the nature of friendship, and the longing for hope. 

In his address, Cardinal Lawrence speaks from the heart saying: There is one sin which I have come to fear above all others… certainty. If there was only certainty, and no doubt, there would be no mystery. And therefore, no need for faith.

Sin is what separates us for each other and God. The pursuit of certainty can drive us to conspiracies and erode our capacity to trust or understand others.  It’s elusive,  brittle and divisive. An enemy of unity and of tolerance, as Cardinal Lawrence puts it. 

Certainties are shaken by the sorrow of death, the joys of friendship and commitment to a better future. Doubt, mystery and faith are our companions in these things. 

Birth also shakes and undoes certainty. The wonder of first breath; the dignity, vulnerability and possibility of a life unfolding in unknown ways. 

The birth we mark this holy night is a mystery calling forth faith - tenderness and hope. A mystery of love which exceeds our imagination; the eternal one, who holds our lives, dwells with us.

The writer of the letter to the Hebrews reminds us of how God spoke through prophets, calling us to do justice, seek mercy and walk humbly with our God. 

We don’t need a conclave to reveal either how our motivations or ambitions fall short of that; or how precious is our humanity, how tender our grief, how restless our longing for hope.

In response, God chooses to reveal Godself by dwelling with us: the glory of the creator’s very being, the sustainer of all things, comes to us in wordless infancy.

This child grows into adulthood - healing, consoling, teaching, debating, feeding, welcoming. He overcomes the old certainties of our misdirected hearts by bearing the weight of that sin and strife in his own body. 

The power of God - in vulnerability.

The ambition of men - undone.

There is a death, yes; but in him life is restored.

What happens in him - in the world, not behind closed doors - changes everything. 

The Word that was with God and was God became flesh: lived among us.

The Word brings life and light. Light that enlightens, that shines in the darkness.

Darkness did not, has not, will not overcome it. 

Light. Not certainty. Light. 

Light breaks down certainties and awakens possibilities.

At the end of “Conclave” windows open and light breaks in, dispelling claustrophobia. There is air, breath and laughter. Light.

We cannot retreat from the world in its beauty and brokenness, but we can seek the light - by refusing despair, resignation and indifference. 

Light  opens us to the mystery of the other - resisting suspicion, division and suffering; not allowing hate to creep into our hearts. 

Dare we let light shape our imaginations - affirming what is good, binding up broken hearts, persevering in love for the sake of a renewed world 

In dark times of tragedy or sorrow, we can turn to the light. We can hunger and thirst for righteousness, seeking what is just, beautiful, good, true - even joyful.

This week, in one of the world’s darkest places, the Jerusalem Patriarch said to Christians in Gaza: ‘you have become the light of our church in the entire world’. 

He spoke of joy in being present with them; of love and solidarity; of the need to protect their hearts - in light and love and life - in order to be ready to rebuild.

In the darkness we might ask ‘where is the light?’. John reminds us that Jesus is our light and life, our hope and joy.

In the darkness of this night, this world, we receive him. Emmanuel.  God with us. 

We receive him in the candles we light, the crib we bless, the forgiveness breathed on us; we receive him in the peace we share, the bread we break, the wine we pour out and in being with each other.

We receive him in being blessed to be a blessing of light to others: to be messengers of the good news of joy and comfort, healing and renewal. 

May the light of Christ kindle a hopeful flame in us - flames of hope and joy, mystery, faith and love; undoing certainty,  dispelling darkness. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes

Emergency friends

Sunday 22nd December, Advent 4: Micah 5:2-5a, Hebrews 10:5-10 

and Luke 1: 39-45

A line from Claire Keegan's novel Small things like these: Bill wondered, ‘was there any point in being alive without helping one another?’

Poster - wiki

We all need help and can offer it: perhaps relying on emergency friends!

It might be the person you pick up the phone to when you need to talk through a situation or decision, to offload or find support. The ones who make space to catch-up even when diaries are bursting; who’ll turn up on the doorstep or pick up the phone at times of joy.

It might be the people you list as emergency contacts - or who rely on us: those who have spare keys, who feed cats, can give us a lift to hospital, who wait with us as we process painful news, or who will be at your side as you celebrate.

It might be one person or a handful; a close tightly knit circle or an eclectic mix of people gathered across the years, who’ve been there in different times and seasons. Those who’re older and wiser than us; those who’re younger with different energy and views.

We never know when we might need that ‘safety-net’ of friendship. Sometimes we rely on organisations or professionals to be that ‘friend’ for us.  

For example, the Roman Catholic charity Stella Maris works with seafarers. One of their port chaplains talks about supporting Rafi - a marinor taken seriously ill and hospitalized 1000s of miles from home. He said, ‘if I wasn’t there, he would have had no one. I became like his next of kin.’

Friendship can be the difference between being lonely, frightened and overwhelmed and being supported, cared for and encouraged. 

It’s a friendship such as this which we see in play in today’s gospel: a relational safety net in the face of joy and uncertainty, questions and hope. 

Mary heads to the hill country in haste. She turns up on the doorstep of her kinswoman. Perhaps Zechariah opened the door; his wife hearing the younger woman’s voice. 

Mary passes from threshold to household and into Elizabeth’s embrace. Driven there by fear and uncertainty, joy and longing. 

We don’t know if there were words tumbling from Mary’s mouth or how much Elizabeth knew by intuition or if shared her own story. 

Within this safety net of friendship, there is trust and hope. Both women gave themselves over to loving acceptance, echoing the promises of God being fulfilled in them. The moment of recognition flows from the fruit of their wombs - the one leaping for joy at the presence of the other. 

Then the conversation shifts. It’s more than a friendship between two women - different generations but both unexpectedly pregnant; both figuring out what their partners would think, say or do; and indeed what their off-spring would think, say and do! 

It’s a moment of praise and worship; greeting and leaping and joy; blessing and song. It is the breaking in of good news. Elizabeth pronounces a blessing on Mary: it affirms her faith and trust in God; it reaches from the present into a future where God’s promises will be fulfilled. 

We hear, say or sing Mary’s response day by day at evening prayer or evensong [we will sing a version of her magnificat at the end of the service]. From the core of her being she magnifies the Lord -  declaring God’s ways. The lowly, brokenhearted, oppressed and vulnerable are raised up; the rich, powerful, proud and stubborn are brought low. 

This is a renewed world, the stuff of the unfolding hope of a different future. Mary is sometimes depicted in icons as the undoer of knots - knots of injustice, sorrow, exploitation, selfishness. These things are undone in Jesus, the Christ child she carries in her womb and labours into the world.

She speaks as if the status quo has already been reversed. The eternal hope becomes a present reality. We are reminded of God’s faithfulness - the constancy of divine mercy - across generations and for ever. 

This encounter - this emergency friendship - acknowledges the world’s cries and celebrates that God sees it. 

God responds to it. God surprises us with where renewal begins - not from a place of power, but on the doorsteps and in households, amongst those there for each other in emergencies (the joyful ones and the sorrowful ones). 

As we reach the final Sunday of Advent, we are reminded that we prepare to expect the unexpected. To hope for it. The prophet Micah speaks into that curious logic.  Like us, his world was one of economic and social challenges; where violence and insecurity seemed intractable. 

Headlines this week draw our gaze to the plight of women. We have heard the testimony of Gisèle Pelicot whose dignity and courage shamed her abusers, empowering others to share their stories and speak for justice. We have heard women amplify the voices of Afghan girls who on reaching 6th grade are banned from education by the Taliban, sparking protests and vigils. 

Yet Micah hoped for a different world - and we can and should too. He looked for God’s presence in the unlikely places: in the small places, the little groups, the tiny child. This is how God’s holy one comes to us - then and now, not just in a crib but in our hearts. The word of God in a speechless infant is the source of our security, peace and strength. 

In him we are invited to see the image of God in each other. To be for each other that emergency friend. To do the small things. Courageously. Faithfully.  Small Things Like These - now released as a film - is set against the backdrop of the Magdalene laundries in Ireland. 

We see the protagonist Bill Furlong as a child and with his own children. He reflects on smallest gestures that make a difference against a tide of abuse, indifference or control.  He reflects on the daily kindnesses of Mrs Wilson - who had supported him and his mother, who in an early time might have ended up in the laundry. He reflects on the world of trouble ahead of him in seeking to save a life. 

Cillian Murphy shows us Furlong’s worry, love and courage. Keegan writes of such radical emergency friendship as he reflects,: ‘he found himself asking was there any point in being alive without helping one another? Was it possible to carry on along through all the years, the decades, through an entire life, without once being brave enough to go against what was there and yet call yourself a Christian, and face yourself in the mirror?”

We’re not called to bear the weight of this alone. The writer to the Hebrews calls this process of making whole, renewing and restoring ‘sanctification’ - and it is God’s work in us, by the power of the Holy Spirit, as we are forgiven and renewed, opening up our blessed hearts to others. 

In Jesus God’s love dwells with us; we are united with him in one body. We journey together with joy and sorrow, seeking reconciliation. In sharing our embodied selves, laughter and tears become holy. The world is broken and yet beautiful - the fullness of our embodied life together means that when no one else is there, we become each other’s next of kin. Emergency friends. Helping one another. Doing small things like these.

© Julie Gittoes 2024

We need joy as we need air

 15 December - Advent 3: Zephaniah 3:14-end, Philippians 4:4-7 and Luke 3:7-18

Today is what’s known as Gaudete Sunday:  a day when we are commanded to rejoice.

It’s why we light a rose-pink candle. It signals a joyous note amidst the purple of penitence and preparation. 

Gaudete in Domino semper: rejoice in the Lord always.

The prophet Zephaniah speaks of singing, shouting, exulting and rejoicing with all our heart and voice.

That might sound a bit bullish when we’re exhausted or fearful; when we’re grieving or just getting by; when our hearts break.

John the Baptist - Jacopo del Casentino

Maya Angelou wrote that: ‘we need joy as we need air. We need love as we need water. We need each other as we need the earth we share.’

Like Zephaniah and Paul, Angelou doesn’t write this out of comfort but from a place of struggle, protest and advocacy. 

They are all aware of the personal burdens and community challenges - and yet glimpse and cling onto something more.

Joy isn’t something that simply happens. It’s not the pursuit of things we think might make us happy, for a while.

We have to choose it. Or notice it. And keep choosing it. And noticing it. 

Without it we can’t breathe. Just as without love, we thirst. 

Even when those #TinyJoys are like whispers not shouts; like breath before the song.

For Zephaniah, joy comes when justice is restored.

Despite the prophet calling out people’s neglect of the commandments of God, and in the face of the trauma of exile,  the presence of God brings new life, a new future. 

Instead of judgement there is overwhelming mercy. 

God comes to us, is in the midst of us: with love. 

This is a cause of celebration - of singing and shouting.

In the face of hurt and fear there is breath and joy. 

In the face of fragmentation and alienation flow the waters of justice and love that renews.

Relationships change - people are gathered up and brought home, healed and stretched, given a future. 

There is justice in place of fear - life together in a different register: as Angelou puts it, ‘we need each other as we need the earth we share.’

Such shouts of joy stand in stark contrast to the words on John the Baptist’s lips: ‘you brood of vipers!’

They are words of judgement: harsh, shocking, blunt. 

He calls us to turn back to God’s love, to repent.

They are words which call forth change and action: to show in our lives the fruit of such repentance, of returning to love. We need such love as we need water. 

The question on the lips of the crowd makes sense: what then should we do?

How are we to live? 

If we turn towards God’s love, if we repent, how then should we live?

In the face of a changing world and when love changes us, how should we act? 

From the wilderness, a voice calls us to us. It calls us home. 

Home to God. Home to ourselves. Home to the places where we live and worship and work. 

We need each other. We are to show love and joy in those familiar places. 

It is in the ordinary habits and patterns  of our lives, that God is near to us. It is in the routine and mundane that we can make a difference. 

Two coats? Give one away.

More food than we need? Share it with others.

We can be generous now. We can be compassionate now. 

We are invited to live our lives. Now. 

John goes on to offer specific advice - to tax collectors, soldiers and religious leaders.

Don’t take more than is owed in tax; don’t use force or threats to supplement wages; don’t be arrogant because of your role or position.  

Perhaps this is what repentance looks like: generosity, justice and contentment. It’s a practical expression of our faith.

The message to the crowd that we all have gifts - gifts more than what we own, but in who we are. 

There is joy and love in this: needs met by human lives. 

This is good news. This is a cause to rejoice, to shout and sing.

All that we have and all that we are is loved and capable of showing love. 

John ends with words that the Messiah will baptise with the Holy Spirit and with fire. 

It’s another stark image. An ear of corn is made up of both the kernel of wheat and the husk of chaff. What is capable of being ground into flour to make life giving bread is gathered up; the husk is inedible, it’s burnt up. 

John and Jesus are dividing human beings against each other - they are reminding us that when we come before the fiery radiance of love. Then the one who knows all the secrets of our hearts will gather us home; and gather up the rich harvests of our attempts to love. 

We are seen and known. Going through a baptism that cleanses, forgives and restores. 

Judgement is good news; it’s an act of love and source of joy. It speaks of right perception and being seen. It speaks of holding on to what is good; of letting go of defences, fears, hurts, failings. 

Joy comes from this honest place of setting aside painful truths - and allowing ourselves to be embraced by love (rather than turning away). 

It’s out of this hope that Paul writes. God is near to us - set aside worries. God is near - be gentle, to others and yourself. God is near to us - pray, give thanks. God is near - rejoice. 

Here we take the fruits of the harvest - the bread from milled grain, the wine from the crushed grape. They become for us food for the journey; drawing us into communion, community. A joyful feast, a love that meets us where we are and helps us bear fruit. 

‘We need joy as we need air. We need love as we need water. We need each other as we need the earth we share.’

© Julie Gittoes 2025

Location, location, location

 8th December, Advent 2: Malachi 3:1-4, Phhilippians 1:3-11 and Luke 3:1-6

‘Location, Location, Location’. 

Kirsty Allsopp and Phil Spencer are casting for the 25th anniversary series of Channel 4’s primetime property show. 

You know the format: a couple wants to move to a particular area - with a list of requirements (sometimes quite niche) plus a budget (often unrealistic). It’s usually a circle that’s impossible to square without some compromise. 

Image Channel 4

Location matters to human beings: proximity to friends, family or work; the places we come from or those where we make our home; the kind of lives we live or dreams we have; needs versus ideals, and compromises along the way. 

Location also carries with it ideas of convenience or value; qualities or status; the postcodes regarded as premium and those which raise an eyebrow. 

Today’s readings are all about location, location, location. 

Luke’s words convey a very specific sense of place: in a few lines he gives us a sense of the geopolitical and religious landscape of his day; he locates power in people, roles and places, 

Emperors, governors, rulers and high-priests are all named. But the word of God isn’t being heard in those places of status, influence, wealth or control. 

The hearing of God’s word is located elsewhere: in the remoteness of wilderness, on the margins rather than at the centre. 

It’s quite the juxtaposition: as if Phil and Kirsty had offered the woman looking for a modern city centre flat a remote ancient cottage. 

Wildernesses can be risky places - no safety nets or creature comforts. It’s a place where illusions are shattered, vulnerabilities exposed and priorities re-ordered. 

Perhaps the wilderness also brings a level of release or relief: away from competing demands we can perceive things more clearly; we retreat from pressures in order to return refreshed, renewed. 

In today’s passage, it's in the wilderness that the word of God comes. In the messy and sometimes harsh realities of the world as it is, a message of hope and healing is heard. 

The wilderness is a place of watching and waiting upon God, yes. It is also a place where God calls us to a new place, to be relocated. 

It’s John’s role to locate us. To draw us into an inward movement. His words about repentance - metanoia, turning around. He brings us to the heart of things - and to find there forgiveness, grace and mercy.

He helps us to see the whole landscape: of ourselves and our world. He helps us to see the points of disconnection or estrangement, of selfishness or carelessness. The fractiousness of what we call in shorthand ‘sin’ which undoes creativity and goodness.

John, like the other prophets before him, speaks in such a way that lives can be turned around - realigned with God’s purposes. 

Luke locates him alongside Tiberius, Pilate, Herod - and his voice from the edge contrasts with their dominance and greed. He calls for resources to be diverted - for justice to be enacted. 

Quoting Isaiah, he gives us visual images for what that looks like: valleys, filled; mountains, lowered; crooked, straightened; rough, smoothed. It is a re-imagined world where inequality and oppression are levelled out. 

In this wild place, where John speaks, we can reimagine the landscape; a landscape where all flesh shall see the salvation of God. Advent is in many ways a spiritual ‘location’ where we can hear the word of God in new ways - when we are redirected towards God; where we might be discomforted in order to find comfort. 

The contrasting allegiances Luke sets up invites us to consider what norms we might need to let go of or turn away from: in our lives, in community and online, we encounter persistent cries to consume and accumulate; culture wars which lead to judgmentalism and division; dehumanising indifference towards others or a selfishness that cuts us off from them.

If we’re honest in our self-reflection, we might find some of those cultural or ethical norms creeping into our own hearts too. It might be that instinctive reaction to or avoidance of people not like us; the irritations or misunderstandings that niggle away at us. 

But thankfully that is not the end point of our human condition. We have the opportunity, moment by moment, week by week, to redirect our hearts and minds towards God. To find there the promise of renewal and refreshment - a grace that strengthens us, a mercy that is balm to our wounds and the forgiveness of what is past. 

As we turn, as our lives are recalibrated, we find our hearts opening up to the one who is the source of life and love, the one who makes us whole. We celebrate this hope in baptism - dying and rising with Christ.

The words of the prophet Malachi point us towards God’s love: the imagery he uses of a refiner’s fire or fuller’s soap suggests that renewal comes through testing and cleansing, bringing to light what is precious, what was always there.  

He reminds us that the coming of Jesus, the prince of peace, is good and joyful news. He also reminds us that his coming in love does not leave us unchanged. We are renewed and restored - moving us towards joyful praise and also a faithful obedience as we walk in God’s ways of love. 

Paul gets all this. As he writes out of his own challenging circumstances, his feelings are intense; his gratitude towards others great. 

In his prayer, he piles on adjectives to speak of a love that abounds, overflows, increases more and more. This abundance of love is God’s work brought to completion in human lives. It is a love that holds others in their heart - that seeks after knowledge and understanding, that is courageous and wise. 

It is a love that enables glimpses of Christ-like-ness in us. A love that is located in us. A love that we need to tend and nurture. Here as we break bread, as we are assured of being forgiven, renewed, recalled and blessed, may we share Paul’s joyful and thankful prayer - for each other and for those saints unknown to us. 

© Julie Gittoes 2024

Shock of hope

 1st December Advent Sunday 2024: Jeremiah 33:14-16,

1 Thessalonians 3:9-13 Luke 21:25-36

‘Nous y sommes’, here we are, said President Macron as he posted a video clip of Notre Dame. He also addressed over a thousand specialist artisans who’d worked on the restored cathedral. He said: ‘the shock of the reopening will be as great as that of the fire, but it will be a shock of hope.’

Interior of Notre Dame: image US News 

We long for a shock of hope. Jesus’ words might resonate with the newsreels: the earth in distress, heavens shaking, waters raging and people fainting in fear. 

Nous y sommes, here we are.  Jesus doesn’t invite us to look away from the disruption, pain or confusion, but to be present in it, even to seek the nearness of God in the midst of it; to find within reality the shock of hope. 

Jesus’ words convey urgency, the references sound cryptic and the scope is cosmic. He calls his hearers to attention by using startling images and rhetorical devices. In the face of chaos and uncertainty, we are to be alert, to be ready and to look.

Advent begins in the dark, it acknowledges where things fall apart - and yet draws us into life and restores hope. The promise of justice and mercy will not pass away.   There is redemption and it is near.

For all the dramatic images, we’re invited to embrace Jesus now, to encounter his love today. We are to find encouragement in this as we seek to be faithful to God in the present, in our local.

His arrival is and will be a word of hope to us. Here we are: invited into a way of living that holds some kind of common ground in the face of uncertainty. 

We are invited to dwell in the truth and that takes courage. We see the world as it is - to be honest about the pain, questions and fears. This might lead us to lament rather than cheap cheer; it might motivate us to seek after justice rather than escapism; it might move us to compassion rather than indifference. Truth seeks change, renewal; it dares to hope. 

We are invited to wait and to long for what is not yet here. We sit in darkness, longing for light. As we wait, we notice what we really want to be different; desires to see an end to loneliness and hunger.

 In the dark, things break open and grow; seeds and bulbs long buried in soil root and push new life to the surface. Perhaps we too are being remade, our longings reshaped; being obedient to God’s ways of life and love;  as we long for what is possible. 

Honest waiting is an invitation to pay attention. It is to notice the details, to see where life might be bursting forth in bud and leaf. As seasons shift, what do we glimpse in our own hearts - what is giving energy, or joy; what do we let go of? 

As we go about our lives, our work, what do we notice in our households or communities? The voices we need to hear or the needs we can meet; the opportunity to be present with another.

Nous y somme. Here we are.

Waiting. Paying attention. Honestly. Dare we imagine?

Dare we hold our longings and sorrows together with the compassion of a God who comes to us in Christ; the one who brings the shock of hope?

The one who was born in a small town on the edge of an empire long passed as brought us a sure hope, here and now. In him is justice, healing, mercy - a profound hope in the face of all that is tense and uncertain. 

It is his judgement that grounds our hope. 

The prophet Jeremiah writes of hope and consolation. He is unafraid to remind us of the consequences of failing to love God and neighbour, and reminds us that an alternative future is possible. 

Jeremiah invites us to judge those systems or patterns of life that deny justice or extinguish the possibility of compassion. A hopeful future is built on noticing what is out of kilter, critiquing it and seeking to bring change. 

We do this placing our trust in the one who is our righteousness: the Lord who was, who is and is to come. Jesus is the one who brings justice and healing - who calls us to seek a kinder, fairer, more compassionate and just society. 

The letter to the Thessalonians reminds us that such hope is rooted in the pursuit of peace, joy and love; for those qualities to be made known within the reality of human lives in community. 

In a time of waiting, Paul sees the Christian community in that place as a source of joy as well as hope. Even in the face of affliction, they had sought to live in peace, prompting each other to acts of goodness. 

As he prays for them, Paul asks that love might increase and abound in them.  Love is the source of our hope, the well-spring of joy and the grounds of peace. It is the greatest gift - the character of God reflected in human lives. 

To echo another letter, such love is patient, generous and kind. Love is not stubborn, selfish or rude. Love hopes all things.  Love is the shock of hope - loving each other, being able to accept we are loved. It is a shock of hope - loving the world in its pain and confusion, its contradictions and beauty. 

Nous y sommes. Here we are. 

Advent is a rich season: it reminds us to look with honesty at the world, and invites us to wait with courage and imagination, with patience and longing. When hearts are fearful and the earth is distressed - Jesus reminds us of the shock of hope. 

A hope not simply in a restored cathedral, but in the building up of a body committed to courageous love. To be present in the world as it is because it is precisely here that God dwells with us. To see the depth and the darkness and notice what is growing, slowly. To yearn for it and to imagine it - something beautiful, something that heals the world, is waiting to be born. 

© Julie Gittoes 2024