Dispelling the Disney myth

This evening our first Lent Talk at Guildford Cathedral about fear and courage: it provoked in me a question about the difference between the Disney myth and the assurance of the Gospel.  At the start of Lent, it might seem odd to return to Christmas-tide. However, in doing so we are taken to the heart of the incarnation - God with us disrupting human attempts to seize power; assuring us that our hope is rooted in faithful love; enabling us to let go of the myth that we just need to discover inner resources to contront of vulnerability.  It is more complicated than that; but also more simple.

It helps us to dispel the 'Disney myth'.

In December, I commented that in less than 9 months Frozen had gone from being just another Disney movie to potentially the best settling DVD of the decade.  In remaking Hans Christian Anderson's fable for the snow queen, Disney didn't create an obvious villain. Instead they focused on the relationship between two siblings, Elsa and Anna.   There are emotional outbursts which reveal our capacity to injure others. In Elsa's case, it's her ability to turn all around her to snow and ice.  Jealousy, misunderstanding, confusion and shame are woven into the plot - as are the consequences of living in fear.

Elsa's ballad  Let it go was sung at school assemblies and work parties up and down the country last Christmas.  It is an explosive song of self-determination.  The howling wind echoes the swirling storm inside Elsa; she vows to let the storm rage on.  Rather than concealing her feelings she tests the limits of her power; she proclaims that she is free.  Letting go is a reckless rush of self-empowerment as  Elsa sings about her soul spiralling in frozen fractals and her  thoughts crystallising like an icy blast. She vows: I'm never going back, the past is the past.

She is the Queen of a kingdom of isolation. Separation is seen as a means of self-protection or liberation. In reality, the consequences compound fear.  Elsa's letting go unleashes an eternal winter for the kingdom she's left behind; the cost of her freedom is a lifetime of self-imposed exile.

Frozen breaks down the stereotypes of love at first sight; or the dashing hero saving the day.  Instead Anna demonstrates the determination to seek reconciliation. It is an admirable expression of sisterly affection and commitment.  There is a happy ending. As a result of an act of true love, the castle gates of Elsa's kingdom are flung open.  She learns that love is the key to controlling her powers.

Writing in The New Statesman, Rowan reflects that Disneyfied fairy tales become a drama of the individual psyche with supernatural special effects... offering salvation through the discovery of unsuspected inner resources (we can all be what we most want to be). Frozen changes nothing.  We can sing Let it go as often as we like; but our inner resources are not enough.

We live in a murky, brutal and complex world.  Yes, there are profound moments of joy, delight, self-giving and generosity; yes, our news headlines are shot through with glimpses of justice, compassion and reconciliation.  It is also the world where girls are abducted in Nigeria, where Al Qaida attack schools in Pakistan, where human trafficking is still a reality.  It is a world in which power and fear corrupt and destroy.    It is into such a world as this that the Christ-child is born.

In Matthew's  Gospel we read about  the horror of Herod's fury when he learnt of the birth of a child who would be king; it reminds us of the way in which insecurity and power can envelop our lives.  The whole of Jerusalem was caught up in the implications of an infant's threat to stability.  Herod snatched away his people's future in the destruction of children.  Like Rachel, parent wept with heart breaking and gut wrenching agony.  The catastrophic consequences of desire to cling to power is repeated in the lives of men and women in our own generation.

Rachel 

Chris Gollon 2013 

The Christmas proclamation that God so loved the world that he sent us his Son is the most hopeful and most disruptive sign of reconciliation that there is. Hopeful because there is no where where God is not; our humanity is glorified.  Disruptive because divine vulnerability shifts the balance of power in a fearful and war-torn world.  In December we sang sing carols for days on end; then we tidied away the crib and dismantled the tree.  But the birth of the Christ-child is just the beginning. As we begin our journey through Lent we reflect on a perfect love which casts out fear. In the wilderness we see God drawing us back not through might but in weakness; not by satisfying physical desires, but our deepest spiritual longings; not by impressing us by being alongside us.   His rule is not kingdom of isolation or Disneyfication; it is a kingdom of justice and equity which challenges the human tendency to control or oppress.

The hope and joy of wise men contrasted with Herod's fear and rage.  Their gifts reveal who this child is: our king and our God; the suffering servant who lays down his life for love of the world.  Their journey continues along another road; they're witnesses to peace in vulnerability, power in weakness. Joseph too must take his family along another road.

They must flee and seek protection.

Herod searches and destroys; he is infuriated and kills.

There is wailing and lamentation.

We feel silenced and helpless; we lament and cry out.

The Gospel is not a fairy tale  but the way in which God addresses the world. God reaches out to us - to all who suffer - in vulnerability. God continues to reach out to mothers crying out, to communities whose future is disrupted by the loss of children.  God reaches out in Jesus Christ to bear the weight of pain and violence on the cross; God reaches out in the resurrection to demonstrate that human wrath does not extinguish the love of God.  God reaches out in the power of the Spirit to call us to live in the light of that hope.

The world transforming reality of the Gospel is a glimmer of resistance and hope; but it living in the light of that is demanding and costly.  It cannot be done by relying on our own inner resources. We live in a world where human beings go to destructive lengths to retain power; yet rather than being powerless, our vulnerable acts of compassion are powerful.

Trusting in Jesus, God with us, is not an escape from world; nor is it an attempt to conquer it in our own strength.  Rather, in him we seek the transformation of all that is.  The promise and challenge of that is held in our Eucharist. Here God continues to give himself to us in the ordinary stuff of bread and wine; a sign of abundance and hope in a broken and fragile world.  Here we find assurance forgiveness, faithful love and renewed hope of peace.

The Gospel makes manifest the power of love in birth and death and in risen life; in a human family, in a complex world, in the midst of agony and grief.  Such love shifts our horizons away from control, manipulation, acquisitiveness and old grievances.  The change of heart wrought by God's reconciling love disrupts our tribalism and longing to control  It demands that we look beyond ourselves to a hope that is beyond us.

Love in a speechless dependency of an infant is the ultimate manifestation of strength in weakness. God with us changes our reality and our perspective in the power of the Spirit.   We are to pray that our lives will frustrate the evil designs of others; that we might be agents of hope and reconciliation.  Hope that is rooted in a love that liberates us.

Paul reminds the Corinthians of the power of God's love to take what appears to be foolish and weak to shame the strong.   His words apply also to us - we aren't wise, perfect or influential.  In the course of our lives, there is much that lies beyond our control.   Yet, in Christ we are children of God.  We are assured that we are loved. That is a gift of freedom.  Knowing that we can do nothing of ourselves, but through the power of God in us.  We can lay aside our desires for recognition or self-assertion; we have a new dignity and renewed purpose.

Frozen gives us a fantasy of self-fulfilment and tidy endings. Jesus transforms our reality; in him we find forgiveness and peace.  In him human standards of wisdom, power, status and inheritance are negated.  The Word of God comes and dwells with us; he took the form of a servant.  Jesus doesn't merely show us love, actually.  He doesn't merely validate our human expressions of love.  Rather he demonstrates redemptive love, actually.  Only he can forgive us, recall us, draw us into abundant life; he enables us to be agents of reconciliation.



© 2015 Julie Gittoes

What do you want to be?

For me, the film Boyhood was one of the cinematic highlights of 2014. It was nominated in six catagories at this year's Academy Awards but Richard Linklater's extraordinary movie only won one Oscar (Patricia Arquette for best supporting actress).  However, in recognition of a compelling film, here is my response based on the sermon I preached in August, based on Jeremiah 15:15-21 and Acts 18:1-16.

In the film Boyhood, a teacher says: What do you want to be, Mason? What do you want to do?

Those questions of identity, purpose and calling are not so much at the heart of the film, rather they provide the pulse.  Filmed over 12 years, the Boyhood captures a series of moments as life unfolds:  the present vanishes, turning into nostalgia,  heart ache or renewed purpose; the future never is.  Rather than seizing the moment; the moments seem to seize him, as one Mason's college friends puts it.

Boyhood subverts the whole notion of a coming of age movie. There's no one moment when the protagonist gets it; or when you're assured of the conclusion.  The genius of Linklater's film is that in paying absolute attention to the particular he lifts the veil on the bigger picture.  We journey alongside Mason, taking in the curiosity of his six year old self to and the open countenance of the college student he becomes.

Along the way there's the first best-friend, first camera, first beer, first love, first break-up, first Bible, first suit, first car.  Are watching Mason grow into and beyond adolescence or are we looking back on ourselves? The things from childhood continue to resonate within us; the things of adulthood continue to challenge us. Time passes.  Maturity is not so much an absence of confusion; but perhaps a greater resilience; a greater capacity to forgive and love; to act with wisdom and determination.

Linklater doesn't gloss over mistakes, character flaws or disappointments; he surprises us with glimpses of transformation and love. To be human is to love intensely, deeply, lightly; although we keep thinking there will be more, this is life: seized by moments; becoming who we are; letting go of life in the hope of resurrection.

Our scriptures provide us with assurance in the midst of the minutiae of our lives: wherever we find ourselves on that particular trajectory, we are held within the unfathomable mystery of God'd love.  Our readings are particular moments, taken from the hundreds and thousands of stories about human beings figuring out what God wants them to do, and who they're called to be; they are particular moments of God's self-communication to us, about what we are created for and how we are called to live.

Within the perspective of God's will and purpose for us, and all creation, the disappointments and changes, are reshaped. God's gifts of love and freedom, forgiveness and re-creation, mean that all that we are and all that we have is transformed, and becomes transformative. We are called to share in that divine economy, moment by moment, until God draws all things to himself.

Becoming who we are called to be means no less particular when we are held in this epic, indeed cosmic, narrative of God's purposes. Rather, every moment and gesture and word becomes full of infinite potential and worth.  Every breath affords an opportunity for compassion or self-control; forgiveness or hospitality.  That doesn't mean that life is devoid of frustrations and anguish; but it does mean we have a different perspective.

Jeremiah's intense personal dialogue with God is a case in point.  He is pleading with God. He wants to see some sense of vindication in the face of insults and threats, which he endures for the sake of God.  How can God be indifferent to his situation?

Boyhood is full of Mason's delight in photography, seeing the world creatively and attending to the detail of the mundane and beautiful.  Jeremiah's suffering makes him call to mind his initial joy and delight at being called to speak of God's justice and compassion to God's people.  Being nourished by God's words became a joy and the delight of my heart; he rejoices in his calling.

Mason had to face up to the reality that innate ability and passion weren't enough to fulfil his dream; he had to work hard and face criticism.  Jeremiah balked at the cost of his calling.  The people did not delight in the commandments of God as he did: compassion and mercy were at odds with the intentions of the merrymakers.  He finds himself socially isolated.  His inner life is troubled. He complains that his pain is unceasing; it is like an incurable wound, refusing to be healed.  And just as the teenage Mason rails against his parents and the advice of his teacher, Jeremiah blames God: human insults lead him to think that God is unfaithful like a deceitful brook or waters that fail.

God's words of assurance are not cheap comfort.  He doesn't meet Jeremiah's disillusionment by offering him an easy way out, or by allowing him to give up.  Instead he brings him back to focus on his original calling.  He tells him to continue to be a prophet; to continue to utter what is precious. Rather than speaking popular and worthless words, he must keep speaking the challenging words of God's expectations of justice.  If he keeps holding before God's people the vision of who they are called to be, they will turn to him.  The wicked and ruthless will not prevail. God says:   I am with you to save and deliver you. 

I am with you are the words that Paul hears when he too is need of assurance in Corinth.  The picture presented to us in Acts is one of stability and turbulence.  Paul has been called to witness to the good news of Christ Jesus in the commercial and cosmopolitan city of Corinth.  There he finds security with Aquila and Priscilla.  He has financial independence and a workshop located in the heart of the social marketplace;  he has colleagues who, because of their trade contacts, open up new networks for proclaiming the Gospel; his proximity to the synagogue gives him the opportunity for testimony and debate.

When Silas and Timothy arrive, they find Paul bearing witness to the life changing, and world changing, reality that Jesus is the Messiah. This message of hope is met with opposition and challenge.  He doesn't persuade the whole community; Paul acknowledges that individual hearers take responsibility for their own response.  However, among those who hear and believe and who are baptised are Titius Justus and his entire household.

At this moment of wholehearted response in the midst of rejection, Paul receives assurance.  Like Jeremiah he is told not to be afraid; he is encouraged to continue to speak; he is reminded that in the complex, bustling city of Corinth God is at work. It is his world; his people. There is no territory outside of the love of the living God.

Yes, there will be future disturbance and the threat of expulsion as Paul is attacked and accused. Yet there is also the gift of time; of moments unfolding one after the other; opportunities for dialogue and deepening relationships.

Here on Stag Hill, dialogue and relationship are central to our witness; like Paul we find ourselves in vibrant town with opportunities for creative engagement; we have a presence and we are called to speak. Our public lectures are one part of that.    In our own contexts we are called in the power of the Spirit, to bear witness to the generous and transforming  love of God made manifest in Jesus Christ.

Our lives, as they unfold, are shaped by God: who we are called to be and what we want to do flow from his love of us.  We don't do this in our own strength; for when, in the words of the psalmist, we languish comfortless in the face of judgement, the steadfast love and faithfulness of God gives us life.  Our hope is in God's word: calling us, challenging us, encouraging us and, in Christ, being with us.

There will be things that make us wonder; things that we don't understand.  There will be moments when the joy of God's love floods our hearts and minds; when we delight in the work, relationships and service entrusted to us.  There will be other times when we want to break free; seeking the apparent liberty of following our selfish impulses, or when we feel disillusioned and fearful in the face of inhumanity. In all this we need to be seized moment by moment by the love of God.

Neil Young's album Psychedelic captures something of our human capacity to reminisce and wonder; to dream and seek understanding.  In Driftin' Back, as in Boyhood, there's the enigmatic pulse of our childlike wonder and delight weaving moments together; opening up space in our adulthood for the eternal to break in; a sense of timelessness in time.  Paul and Jeremiah witnessed to the faithfulness of God's word, an overarching epic within which our lives are held and reshaped; within which nothing is lost.  Perhaps Young puts into words what they, and we, know but struggle to articulate: In the face of failure, where there is love, there is always hope. 

What do you want to do?

Utter what is precious. 

I am with you says the Lord. 

Repent and believe; pray and vote

A Sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral on the First Sunday of Lent

Texts: 1 Peter 3:18-end and Mark 1: 9-15

Hurrah for hypocrisy! 

So writes Giles Fraser in his  column in The Guardian. He continues: it's a large club, but few people admit to membership. He doesn't see how it is possible to be a Christian and not be a hypocrite. Why? Because, to follow Jesus Christ is to be committed to a moral and spiritual vision for the transformation of the world; and guess what? We don't live up to it. But that isn't a cause for either despondency or complacency.

It's a challenge to confront the reality of our human condition.  In Christ we know forgiveness and are called to repent and believe. That truth gives us the impetus to strive to live up to the demands of God's Kingdom; praying that the Spirit will equip and inspire us.

Lent is a time to be honest about our failures; but it not a time to give up because there's a gap between aspiration and reality.  For as Giles reminds us, the only way to get rid of that gap is to get rid of the aspiration. And that way real darkness lies.

On Ash Wednesday, we confronted the frailty of our mortal nature, our human propensity to make mistakes; we received afresh the assurance of forgiveness of our sin and the invitation to turn to Christ and remain faithful to our calling.  Prayer draws us back to God as our first love; disciplines of fasting make us consider how we direct our desires; acts of kindness deepen our engagement with others as we live out of God's abundance.

Lent calls us to renew our moral vision.  We consider afresh our relationships and what it means to be the body of Christ in this place, dedicated to the fruitful activity of the Spirit. Our waiting on God will also give us the courage to engage in the political life of our nation in the run up to the General Election.

On occasion, an audacious vision will lead to charges of hypocrisy; when the gap between our aspirations and our lived reality is acknowledged. And yet, we do not lose heart because our hope is rooted in the ultimate reality of God, and his power to save and transform.  Just as Jesus Christ knew our human weakness, so in him are we caught up in sharing the outworking of God's Kingdom.

Unlike the other Gospels, Mark plunges straight into Jesus' adult life - we move rapidly from baptism, temptation and the beginning of his public ministry within a dozen verses.  Mark distils and intensifies the good news of God with us; as we hear it afresh perhaps we are surprised, amazed or challenged. The story arouses our curiosity and demands our attention.  Today we are like those hearing it for the first time.

Will we take the risk of being addressed by Jesus afresh? He is one who identifies with us as we stand on the muddy banks of life's river, knowing the fragility of our human nature and depth of our longing for love and acceptance. He is the Father's beloved Son; the one who abides with God from the beginning.  And now as heavens are torn apart, the Spirit also descends; pointing us forward to the moment when a temple curtain will be rent asunder, as sin and death are defeated; pointing us forward to a time when that Spirit will be poured out on all flesh.

Will we take the risk of being drawn into this changed reality?  Mark declares that this Jesus is good news. This means more than a bit of pleasing information - it's a radical and important public announcement. As Rowan Williams puts it: This is - we are being warned - a deeply serious story, a world-changing story, whose ramifications extend well beyond the villages of Palestine. And if these events do indeed change the world - change the regime - then the central figure is someone who has the authority and the capacity to change anything and everything in the world.

Will we take the risk to be drawn into this story and to encounter Jesus Christ?  He will reveal our hypocrisy and forgive us; he will enlarge our vision and change us.  The one who proclaims the good news is the one who spent 40 days in the wilderness.  Jesus confronts the reality that tempts and overwhelms us; he goes to the heart of our inner turmoil, all that draws us away from God. His endurance is the source of our hope.

Jesus leaves the wilderness and begins his public ministry, declaring that the time has been fulfilled. God's Kingdom has come near - we glimpse it and we are to participate in it.  Repent says Jesus. Acknowledge the gap between reality and our longings, between our failures and our moral vision. Acknowledge that Jesus bridges that gap.  Acknowledge that the Spirit turns our hearts back to God. Repent. Change. Believe. Live.

That is the point of this good news: placing our trust in God means entering into the gift of abundant life. To echo the words of the marriage service, this is not something we enter into lightly or selfishly, but reverently and responsibly. As members of the body of Christ we are drawn into a relationship with God which is, to use biblical language, covenantal.

It is that language that makes sense of our reading from 1 Peter: it describes the way in which God reaches out to us.  Christ is the righteous one who brings us to God.  He overcomes sin and death; he also brings new life in the Spirit. God's love reaches down to the very depths of humanity - it touches the hurts and vulnerabilities that make us defensive; it heals the resentments and losses that embitter us; it waits patiently with us as we confess our hypocrisy.

Jesus Christ suffers, dies and rose again; he now reigns in heaven. In baptism, we belong to him. We are restored penitents; hypocrites who've been renewed.  As we gather to share in the living bread from heaven, we pray that our faith will be nourished, our hope increased and our love strengthened. We pray that our desires will be re-directed from selfish pursuits towards the service of a vision that is morally dense.  We pray that we will abide in and live by God's word.

That has a practical outworking for each of us - not just in our private lives, but in our public engagement as people of faith. Our Bishops have issued a pastoral letter reminding us of our obligation to engage constructively with the political process.  Christians share responsibility with all citizens to participate in the democratic structures of our nation. We have to be part of the conversation in the run up to the General Election - the good news of Jesus Christ means that citizenship is a spiritual concern; theological concepts such as justice and compassion shape our pursuit of the common good. The pastoral letter is about our vision for a better world; it recovers the concept of virtue within communities, not atomised individuals; it articulates the contradictions of a society which celebrates equality yet denigrates the most vulnerable.

Our Bishops'  plea is that we are defended against the temptations to apathy, cynicism and blame, and instead seek - because we are disciples of Jesus Christ who long for a more humane society - a better politics for a better nation.

This Lent, let us take the risk of being drawn closer to Jesus Christ; let us risk being drawn into the world changing response to good news; let us risk getting involved by engaging in debate.. Let us risk hypocrisy because of the depth of our moral vision; and pray that the Spirit will enable us to narrow the gap between reality and our hope. As citizens of a Kingdom that has come near: repent and believe; pray and vote.

© 2015 Julie Gittoes

Do not be afraid

Ash Wednesday Sermon

South Wind Come
Catherine Clancy 2015

"Do not be afraid is" a striking statement in bold lettering facing all who come to the cathedral this Lent.

Is it an invitation, a message of consolation, an imperative or a challenge?

The artist Catherine Clancy took this phrase as the basis of her exhibition because the poet Seamus Heaney poignantly uttered those words to his wife as he died: a last gift; an offer of reassurance.  It was a phrase marking the beginning of a journey: a transition for her into the sorrow and disruption of widowhood; a transition for him from life, through death into the hope of new life.

Clancy interprets this in paintings which are steeped in prayer. Hers is a spiritual journey: facing the cries of our hearts; the dark nights of our souls; the storms that batter us physically and emotionally. Perhaps some of those paintings will resonate with our fears, our losses, our isolation and our frailty.

The prophet Joel also speaks of darkness and disruption: a trumpet sounds, the land trembles, think blackness and clouds overwhelm the land. The people gather - the newly weds and nursing babes are caught up in the pleading to God; crying out that they might be spared.

We hear words of mourning and the hope of mercy.  Thee call to repentance is announced; hearts turn in response to God's steadfast love.   The people are gathered.  A time of fasting is sanctified.  They are recalled to holiness that they may witness to God's grace and mercy.   Woven into Clancy's paintings  too is a luminous thread of mercy and renewal.  There's the movement of the wind and the breaking in of light.  Our longing for safety, clarity and peace, for renewed hope and awakened love are met in a dazzling brightness that overwhelms us as we journey along the south aisle.   The Holy Spirit is at work in all this: in stillness, in safe harbours, in the wind and the light - in the whisper or the roar of 'do not be afraid.'

We will be pondering that single phrase 'do not be afraid' during the course of our Lent lectures: thinking about faith and courage, renewed vision and love, our need for rest and longing for hope. But tonight we are confronted with a deep fear: the inescapable reality of our mortality. Whereas once society had euphemisms for the taboo of sex, now death has become 'passing', 'slipping away', 'sleeping', 'crossing over' as if it was something we could outwit; as if we were merely making a polite excite from life's party.

Tonight we cannot side step that reality: remember oh woman, oh man, oh young and old, oh newly wed and busy employee... you are dust. And to dust you shall return. This is a moment of truth and of liberation. As we hear the words said over and over again, as we feel the mark of ash being traced on our foreheads, we are reminded of our beginning and our end. Denise Inge in her book "A Tour of Bones" describes this day as an annual open invitation to get in touch with reality... to gather to be quiet, to reflect, to get into the queue with everyone else. It doesn't just make our frailty real, as she puts it the physical nature of this event - queuing, waiting letting dirt be smeared on your skin, resisting the urge to rub it off - takes the idea of humility and makes it real.

Learning humility is at the heart of responding to the call to discipleship. Confronting our mortality forces us to make decisions about how we live.  Dying well, as Denise often writes in her book, means living well.   Learning to live more lightly and more intensely; knowing when to let go and knowing what to put centre stage; knowing that where our treasure is, our heart will be also. Lent is an invitation to see our earthly reality through the lens of our ultimate hope in Christ.  Do not be afraid.

The pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer describes the sense of losing oneself as following Jesus as fixing our gaze on him as he walks before us, rather than looking at ourselves and fretting about our own goodness.  Following by responding to what we have received; turning our lives around and redirecting our desires.  Twitter and Facebook are full today of comments or announcements about what people have 'given up' for Lent.  Sometimes in can feel like a high stakes game - I'll take your coffee and chocolate and raise you meat and alcohol. One Tweeter wearily posted: I'm giving up for Lent.

Bonhoeffer also wrote that the genuine deed of love is always a deed hidden to myself. Jesus is teaching his followers to live in that way - to pray, fast and give without recognition or acclaim.  We do this, because we are looking to Jesus himself. The one who embodies the Father's love for us, who draws us back to the Father's heart by challenging, accepting and forgiving us; by equipping us and sustaining us in the power of the Spirit as we seek to be free of the habits that tempt us.

We know within ourselves the things that pull us away from his way from our first love of God; we instead endeavour to secure our survival by what we can possess or find ourselves unable to live without. Prayer is our starting point - grounding ourselves in deep attention to God's love and purposes; fasting is not to lose a few pounds or to despise our embodiment; rather it as a joyful liberation of discovering what we can live without and the gifts that enrich our lives.  Prayer and fasting enables us to refocus amidst the storms, fears and all that threatens to overwhelm; those disciplines cultivate in us the capacity to give out of the abundance that we have.

Tonight as we are signed with the cross in ash, we are reminded not just of our mortality but of our identity in Christ. In him we are a new creation; brought out of death into life; drawn from darkness and storm clouds the dazzling brightness.  Denise Inge saw invitations to humility in the majesty of nature - reflected in Catherine's waves; she nudges us to see such invitations in the presence of others - reflected in those with whom we reflect and wait and queue tonight.  Yet she says, humility by its very nature is a tricky thing; the moment you sense it with you it is gone. Dynamic rather than static, it visits like a breeze.

Humility visits like a breeze; it visits as Spirit - brooding over us, refining us, rushing through us and drawing us on.  Do not be afraid.  Face the frailty of our human nature; in our mortality respond to an invitation to turn, to follow to set our Christ, setting our eyes on him.  Do not be afraid.  Learning to die well, learning to let go, extends our horizon so that we might live well.  Living out of God's steadfast love and mercy.

I end with a passage from Denise's book, a passage all the more poignant as these are words written as she let go of life. They are her life-enriching invitation to live without being afraid. She writes:

Are the broken parts of your deep self being healed? Get rid of the bitterness. Mend the bridges. Seek and receive forgiveness. Let yourself be loved.

Have you found a lasting hope? Anchor yourself in the eternal abiding (for me this is God). Feed yourself with something stronger than optimism. You are in a constant state of growth and transition, so let change transform you.

What are the things for which you will be remembered? Cut the crap in your life. Do things that matter. Find and exercise your gifts.

Are you on a path of true humility? Submit to a truth that is bigger than yourself. Become part of it. Let it be your story. What I have been surprised to discover, as these questions chase and wash over me, is that preparing to live and preparing to die are in the end the same thing.


© 2015 Julie Gittoes

What is this?

Reflections on Incarnation, Mary and Women from the Bible at Norwich Cathedral.

Having seen Chris Gollon's paintings at Guildford during Christmastide last year it's thrilling to discover new levels of intimacy and challenge as they go on show here during Lent, into Holy Week and Easter.  It's profoundly moving & exciting to see Canon Dr Peter Doll and others deepen this conversation. I want to say a few things about Chris's work, Julian of Norwich and what this exhibition might say as we gather here at the start of Lent.

Julian of Norwich

Chris Gollon 2013

Chris Gollon's work has a tremendous capacity to draw us into stories and moments that are unanswered & unresolved. These paintings capture sexuality & power, longing & loss, tenacity & exhaustion, tenderness & violence.  Gollon pays attention to the detail: to little things; to nameless women and those women whose stories we think we know.  His images compelling intimacy and the horror of brutality.

I'm not going to tell those stories for you:  you can face them, read about them, ponder them.  Chris invites us to pay attention with patience & endurance. In this exhibition we can't escape the cries, the faces, the physicality; the touch of hands; the bruised skin.  He refuses to yield to a false optimism: he makes us wait with Hannah, Rachel, Mary, Judith and  the women of Jerusalem. These are lives that are deeply particular yet their stories are cosmic in scale. Chris asks in the face of all these moments 'what is this?'

Julian of Norwich asks that same question: what is this?  As David Tregunna has already said, her painting is especially apt for this show.  She's a scholar and a theologian, writing in English; she's an anonymous woman who's named after a place. In the face of her own illness (and possible death), she had a vision of light and love.  It is a vision of the divine.  In the face of the complexity of humanity, our frailty and mortality her attention is drawn to a tiny object in the palm of her hand. She asks 'what is this?'. What sense to I make of this? What meaning to I find in this?

As she gazes on what in tradition is regarded as a hazelnut, she begins to contemplate the mystery of God - of the transcendent, the other, the beyond breaking into our brokenness.  She realised that all that is made is loved and sustained by the love of God.  The arch of that love takes us from delight creation, through the disruption of what we call sin or the fall, to the glimmer of consolation in God with us as infant and adult.

As we gather on the cusp of Lent our attention shifts from nativity to calvary; from birth to death.
As we make that move, Chris draws invites us to pay attention to an apple. As David has said, this is the first time the 'Madonna of the Apple has been shown.  An apple in the hand of Eve: a symbol of temptation, misdirected desires, our human propensity to mess things up. An apple in the hand of Mary: a sign of redemption, self-giving love, God propensity to forgive and restore.

Madonna of the Apple

Chris Gollon 2012

Julian captures that arch of meaning - of a love that will not let us go; and the assurance that all shall be well.  Chris invites us to inhabit that story afresh - allowing space to ask questions about loss and renewal, grief and gift; questions which are more spacious than answers.

Tonight and over the coming weeks,  we are drawn into the intimacy of seeing these face - paying attention to them; letting these paintings see us; waiting with them.  And perhaps, we catch light in Hannah's wordless prayer; in Julian's serious attention; in Mary Magdalene's refusal to walk away; in Lucy's fearlessness; in a mother cradling a son in infancy and in death.

Perhaps moments such as these are less like endings, but new beginnings. Perhaps our stories will be woven into them.  Perhaps we will catch a glimmer of  hope and renewal that we come know, with baited breath, like a breaking dawn, as resurrection.

Thank you Chris for opening up this horizon that takes the story of incarnation and these women beyond words.

© 2015 Julie Gittoes

To fall in love... do this

Amidst the red roses, heart-shaped chocolates and pink fizz, perhaps Valentine's Day is a moment to step back and reflect on a God who loves us.  This text was originally praught as a sermon at an ecunenical service in Pryford last month. It invites us to stand alongide the Samaritan woman at the well in John 4.  There she is really seen - deeply loved - in all her vulnerability. Her love life is not uncomplicated; nor does it give her dignity and purpose.  However, we leave her energised, enquiring and passionate to share something of the love she has glimpsed in Jesus at the well.

The intimacy of being seen - transformed by love

An article appeared in the New York Times last week entitled: 'To fall in love with anyone, do this'.  It was based on a psychological study conducted by Arthur Aron 20 years ago. He used 36  questions to create an atmosphere of vulnerability and reciprocal self-disclosure; the responses made fostered the development of a close relationship between strangers - it's like the accelerated intimacy of adolescent sleep overs. The final task was for the pair to stare into each other's eyes for four minutes. Mandy Len Catron, the lecturer who tries this with a friend, describes the thrill, terror and wonder of not just seeing someone; but of seeing someone really see her.

As we ponder the narrative of John's Gospel this evening, we too are plunged into the depths of what it is to be seen by God.  There are questions and responses; moments of vulnerability and disclosure; misunderstanding and the wonder of being seen.  God doesn't reach out to us in Christ in order to fall in love with us, but because he loves us.   This is love entering our trembling hearts. This deeply intimate extended moment between Jesus and the woman from Samaria is something which has an impact on a cosmic scale. It is love divine, all loves excelling. And yet, the reality of that is worked out in our lives; in the life of the pilgrim people of God. In our diversity, fragility, untidiness and engagement something of God's Kingdom breaks in.

John's Gospel is full of depth and intensity: the story we hear is of restoration and hope as a nameless woman is restored to dignity.  It reveals the patient and attentive engagement with difference.  It is a story that calls us more deeply into God's love in worship; and which draws us more deeply into the life of the world.  The power of the Spirit causes a well of life to bubble up in us, giving us the capacity and grace to approach another; to grow in trust and affection. What better focus for our attention in this week of prayer for unity than to see our rich diversity as a gift; and to receive a fresh a vision calling us to deepen the ways we reach out into our communities.

Jesus encounters a woman whose life was shaped by longing and concerns; the stability and fragmentation of relationships. She was also part of a minority group; her collective identity was one of marginalisation and powerlessness. She was ‘other’.

Her own personal story reveals that she is in relationship; yet alone.  Perhaps she is burdened by feelings of guilt, failure and fragile self-image; longing for someone to love her, really love her.  We encounter – at midday, at height of the sun as she comes to the well.  Most people would avoid that intensity of heat; she wouldn’t expect to be seen.  Jesus is already there: tired, weary and thirsty.  The disciples have gone off to buy food. He’s been walking; he’s been talking. He’s been about his Father’s work.  He was physically drained; perhaps also glad of space away from misunderstandings/questions.

Samaritan woman approaches: Give me a drink, he says.  He acts against all cultural norms; challenging walls of division.  In one imperative he expresses something of God’s love for us – for all humanity. As Jean Vanier, founder of L'Arche Community (which reflects unity in diversity) puts it this way: He is thirsty for unity between all the children of Abraham.  He yearns for people to come together.

The woman's response names the familiar divisions; but  Jesus doesn’t step back from this place of meeting.  Here he is reaching out to the fragile, the broken, the thirsty, the seeking, and the hopeful.  He waits. He asks.  He calls forth a response; he begins a conversation; he creates a relationship. Again, Vanier expresses this beautifully:  She who has lost all trust in her own goodness is trusted by Jesus.  In trusting her, he uplifts her and gives her back her self-esteem.

They are held in each other’s gaze: his is a look that doesn’t reinforce shame, but rather reveals her worth.  She receives assurance – from this point on she can hope; and be drawn more deeply into relationship.  The conversation continues. Our attention shifts from the quenching of physical thirst to the promise of eternal life; a space is opened up for us to consider the things of enduring power, the things that sustain us.  We are drawn to a deep well of divine love; to a living spring that gushes up within us too, in the power of the Spirit.

Jesus is revealing that if we drink from the fountain of the love and compassion of God, we become a fountain of love and compassion. If we receive the Spirit of God, we will give the Spirit of God. The life we receive is the life we give. In Vanier’s words:  We risk forgetting that the joy and treasure of human beings is to be with other human beings and to celebrate life together.

In the moment of this exchange of invitation and hope, he offers living water.  He gives her space to make connections between her hopes, her knowledge, her present reality and her desire to worship. She asks about the promised Messiah; Jesus reveals himself to her as I am he. The very essence of God’s being and nature: God’s sacred name; the expression of faithfulness to us.  I am: the creator of all things; the word made flesh; the power of the Spirit.  They speak of worship and truth; of the time when all people will be drawn to God; when every fibre of our human nature will be attuned to the pulse of his love for us.

The intensity of this encounter is disrupted as the disciples crash back into the scene with their own questions and preoccupations. Yet the woman is already living out of that deep well of abundance. She leaves behind her water-jar; she returns to the city. Her heart is full of the living water; she is desperate to share it. Come and see she says; Can this be the Messiah?   This is a moment of deep revelation of divine love; this is an invitation flowing from encounter. This is good news.

So what of us?  How do we ask the questions and offer answers? How do we ensure that we are seen as God sees us? How do we see others through that lens?

To love one another is to reveal that in our diversity we are  unique, precious and have beautiful gifts.  We are called to live in a communion of hearts and wills, praise and prayer, mission and service, creativity and reconciliation.  As we do so, we become channels of God's life and love; we proclaim something of the glorious liberty of the children of God, for which all creation longs.

We bring to him our hopes and concerns; and we receive a gift that becomes a gift to others. We who drink deeply of that living water, are called to reach out to others.  To minister to those who find their lives out of kilter; to speak out when inequality distorts our vision of the common good; to rejoice when we see renewal in our communities.  In all this, we witness in the power of the Spirit to the generous love of God, made manifest in Jesus Christ.

We are called to glorify God in worship: here we drink deeply of the water of life. We are called to be witnesses to the good news of Jesus Christ: drawing on that deep well of love.   In questions, discovery & relationship we fall in love: with God, each other, our world.   In the power of the Spirit our lives are transformed - that Spirit continues to pray within us healing us, reshaping us, equipping us to witness that God was in Christ restoring all things to himself.  We become part of the movement of transformation, moment by moment - seeking the abundance of God's Kingdom.

I end with words by  Jean Vanier:

Jesus came to bring us life 

Jesus meets a broken woman
and gives her new life.

Transformed,
she then gives lives to others.


Jesus comes to give us life
so that we can communicate
life to others

This life is one of communion
and relationship.


© 2015 Julie Gittoes

Mary Magdalene - love poured into human hearts

Magdalene at the Base of the Cross

Chris Gollon 2013

Twelve months after its opening at Guildford, Chris Gollon's solo exhibition  'Incarnation, Mary and Women from the Bible' begins its national tour at Norwich Cathedral (from 17 February). On Sunday 8 February, Gollon spoke on BBC Radio Norfolk about his depiction of Mary Magdalene at the foot of the cross. She is emotionally exhausted and spiritually spent; yet there remains a physical strength.  In boldly chosing to focus on the base of the cross, Gollon intensifies the harrowing reality of her suffering; but he also makes us pay attention to the faithfulness and endurance of a woman whose life is woven into the Gospel, whose story continues to arouse our curiosity.

She is named as Mary Magdalene - a woman who is restored to wholeness and dignity through her encounter with Jesus.  The stories of other nameless women are attributed to her: stories of sexual improprity or exploiation; of penitence and restoration; of mental anguish and healing. She is the type of women who witness to who Jesus is: lavishly annointing his feet with oil and tears; crying out with fear and despair on the way to calvary; waiting at the cross, near the tomb and in the garden. Our imaginations are shaped by all that is told in memory of her; all that is told points to a reality beyond our imagining.

In this particular painting, Gollon draws us into a moment of sheer endurance in the face of suffering. Mary has refused to walk away.  Her exhaustion is a moment in a vigil that is yet to come to an end; her whole being responds to the one who transformed her life in and through love.  Love has been poured into her heart by Jesus -  the one who is the fullness of God's love made perfect in human weakness. Gollon presents us with a woman whose character has been formed by sorrow, acceptance, loyalty, challenge and compassion. Her character is seen in sinew and touch; in her poise and closing eyes.

Gollon refuses to resolve this moment for us. We have to wait with her as she waits alongside her beloved Lord. That waiting creates a capacity to endure; it forms our character.  It is sometimes all there is: this abiding in love; this refusal to collude with a naive optimism; this facing of the darkness as the tears dry on our cheeks. In an earlier painting, Gollon makes us fix our gaze on one for whom there was no remedy:

There Was no Remedy 

Chris Gollon 2012

Mary Magdalene has both passed beyond and also anticipates this moment without remedy. She has confronted the horror of the cross and sleep weighs heavily on her. Yet when she awakes she will stand bewildered before an empty tomb; she asks through her tears 'where have you laid him?'  She waits in the hope of being able to treat her beloved Lord with dignity in death.  Yet before we reach the garden, Gollon refuses to allow the darkness to overcome. 

As the poet Micheal O'Saidhail writes in Knowing  'A majesty and awe, but even more the wonder/That something is where nothing might have been. Even in our brokeness a beyond is breaking in'.  Vivid oranges and yellows infuse this moment with hope. A hope that does not disappoint because it is rooted in the love of God which is being poured out in sorrow and at the end, at the moment of final breath. It is  a love being poured out in endurance that means this moment is also the beginning of life. Love has taken root in Mary's heart; a love that she will recognise when her risen Lord calls her by name.

She will bear witness to what she has seen - love welling up in her heart.

Yet, in this moment she abides with us at the base of the cross - where love human and divine is poured out.

As she abides and endures, Paul's words to the Romans echo within us:  'suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because  God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us' (Romans 5:3-5).

© 2015 Julie Gittoes

To be solitary

This first foray into the world of writing a blog arose because of friend of mine invited me to write a short reflection for a group of young adults prior to Valentine's Day.  Amidst the hype and commercial opportunism, there's often an underlying pressure to be 'in a relationship'. How do we handle the expectations and pressures of being single or not? How might being alone enrich our lives and the lives of others? What follows is just a short piece thinking about Jesus' need to be alone -  how being solitary might be generative and restorative?

Mark 1:29-39

As soon as they left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon's mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told Jesus about her at once.  He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them. 

That evening, at sunset, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed with demons. And the whole city was gathered around the door. And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons; and he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him.  In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed.

And Simon and his companions hunted for him. When they found him, they said to him, "Everyone is searching for you." He answered, "Let us go on to the neighbouring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do." And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.

Reflection

Mark recounts Jesus going to a deserted place, early in the morning, to pray.  He had gathered around him a group of disciples who had responded to his call; he had begun to proclaim that the Kingdom of God had drawn near; he was reaching out to those in need bringing grace and healing; he had spent time in the intimacy of Peter's household.  He was with us; he spent time together with others.  And he went to be alone; to pray.

Bonhoeffer wrote of the balance between time in solitude and time spent in fellowship in his book Life Together:  He warns us that many people 'seek fellowship because they are afraid to be alone'; but he says let whoever 'cannot be alone beware of community.'  When we take the risk of laying ourselves open to the intensity of God's refining light we are strengthened and sustained in our discipleship.

Being before God is a gift of deep attentiveness that shapes our whole day: stillness and silence; prayer and contemplation. Time alone leads to more fruitful fellowship and mature relationships; we can delight in the gift or our togetherness, rooted in Christ, in worship, fellowship and mission.

Jim Cotter's poem 'Solitude' extends our moments of being alone to the places where we are able to be at a distance, if not in a deserted place.  How do we encounter God when we are alone, knowing God's love at a profound level? How does that solitude equip us to be together, how can it be creative & generative space and time? 

Solitude

Aloneness is neutral.

To be alone is simply to be at a distance -

in a bathroom or crowded cafe.

Loneliness is negative.

To be lonely is to dislike being alone,

even to be cramped and embittered by it.

But to be alone or to live alone

is not necessarily something to dread.

For solitude is positive.

To be solitary is not to exclude or be excluded.

It is to be in touch with the springs of your own creativity;

it is to be aware

that we can never be separate from anyone;

it is to know at the deepest level

what it is to love and be loved.

© 2015 Julie Gittoes