Sharing good news - like a lion!

Alleluia: Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed: alleluia!

It was very good indeed to be at St Mark's Wyke as the parish celebrated their patronal festival. Not only was I able to bring warm greetings from their Cathedral Church of the Holy Spirit, but I was able to do that in the company of our Girl Choristers, Organ Scholar and Director of Music. As we celebrate Mark the evangelist, may our prayers and praise, our words and music, our fellowship and conversation bear witness to the good news of Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour.

Within the Christian tradition, each of the four gospel writers have been associated with one of the faces of the living creatures described by Ezekiel in his astonishing vision of the presence of God. Amidst the gleaming amber, brightness of the clouds and the flashes of fiery lightning, he imagines winged creatures, moving as the spirit prompted them.

Book of Cerne (9th Century)

Portrait of the Evangelist Mark with his symbol, the Lion

Mark has been characterised by the lion which is quite apt.  His gospel is fast paced and dynamic.  He conveys the power of God at work in dramatic action; everything is immediate.  Immediately the disciples left their nets: immediately Jesus called; immediately they followed. Jesus is always moving from place to place; from encounter to encounter; from times of solitude to being surrounded by crowds.

The outcast is restored, the sick are healed,  storms are stilled, the rich are challenged, children are blessed,  the penitent are forgiven. In all this the Kingdom is proclaimed in word and deed, in teaching and in miracles. There are moments of misunderstanding and moments of glory as Jesus reveals God's love in these shifts of pace and context.  Mark points us to God's presence with us in the most intimate of human gestures - as Jesus takes a little girl's hand, as he breaks bread.  He points to God with us not in strength and might, but in weakness and vulnerability.

At the outset Mark boldly declares: 'The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.'  He then takes us from the vast expanse of the wilderness to the noisy claustrophobia of Jerusalem.  Jesus tells his followers that he must suffer; that unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains but a single grain. He speaks to them of a plentiful harvest; and of the temple of his body. Along the way, some misunderstand and some declare their faith; some flee; some remain watching at the foot of the cross.  Mark gives voice to the centurion who says: truly this man was God's Son! 

Ultimately, Mark leads us to an empty tomb - and leaves us dumfounded and perhaps a little afraid - for he is not here. Christ has been raised. In the words of the priest and poet Malcolm Guite, Mark is a wingèd lion, swift, immediate. His gospel of sudden shifts, points to Christ who makes the most sudden shift of all. For in him death is entered into and undone. Cross and empty tomb point to the power of God resurrection: the power of his love over sin and death is our salvation. Nothing separates us from the love of God. Mark the evangelist witnesses to these things; and we are called to do the same.

Mark set out the good news of Christ with the conviction of a political strategist setting out a party manifesto.  He also committed himself as a young man to the sharing of this message of new life amongst early Christian communities. At one point Paul lost confidence in him. Then it was Barnabas, the great encourager, who took him under his wing.  Such was the impact of this older man, that Paul himself asks Timothy to bring Mark along.

Paul's advice to the younger Timothy can be a source of challenge and inspiration to us as we seek to serve God in our community and to welcome others to a beautiful place of worship. Paul reminds us that our lives should reflect God's Kingdom - walking in the world as Jesus did. In our work and in our acts of service, we are to be channels of God's healing, restoring and reconciling love. We might not know the impact of our words and gestures, but in the Spirit we trust that each human encounter might be a sign of hope.

We are to pay attention to the conversations and concerns, the hopes and fears of those in our community, nurturing those connections and strengthening bonds of trust, gratitude and affection.  It can sometimes feel as if we, and the people amongst whom we live, are operating and Mark's pace: everything is immediate. As soon as we've done one thing, immediately we move onto the next.  This church is a sign of stability and continuity; a place of prayer and attention to God.  We are to be people who can make connections between complexity of human life and depth of God's love; we are to help others make sense of desires, fears, pressures and joys. As our lives are shaped by God in worship, we are, in Paul's words,  equipped to do the work of an evangelist and carry out the ministry entrusted to us.

For some that might be the gift of hospitality, music or teaching; administration or pastoral care.  Whatever gifts and skills have been entrusted to us, we are to cultivate in the service of God's Kingdom.  Paul urges us to proclaim the message with conviction and urgency - and to be both persistent and consistent in that. We cannot wait for others to change the world, but we are called to be the people our communities need. In the power of the Spirit, we witness to the love of God, made manifest in Jesus Christ.

Our conviction flows from the faithfulness of love divine which continues to transform us; that stills our restless hearts. Our rebuke is to remind one another of the hope that is within us; we are not to lose heart, but to see ourselves and others as God sees us. We are to be people who encourage others - praying that we might have the gift of patience.

Paul is aware that this is a hard and demanding pattern of life.  The slogans and world views of our own time can sometimes seem persuasive; nudging us to put our own desires and interests first.  Yet they're fleeting and unsatisfying. As Paul faces the end of his earthly life, he urges us to persevere. We are to offer that we have and all that we have to God in the service of others. That includes our time, energy and money; the gifts and skills of our active lives, and the stillness of attention to God. In Wyke you are doing this as you seek to deepen relationships  by nurturing faith, communicating with your community and seeking financial sustainability.

Paul paints vivid pictures of persevering  in faith: he's done his best, he has endured in challenges and joys, he has kept his eyes fixed on Jesus Christ. This weekend our papers carry images of Paula Radcliffe's last marathon and A P McCoy's last race.  They have inspired others whilst competing for medals and breaking records. How much more should we strive for the crown of righteousness, that is playing our part in the breaking in of God's Kingdom. Our confidence is in God; our joy is in seeing his transforming love at work.

Lord God, the source of truth and love, 
keep us faithful to the apostles' teaching and fellowship
united in prayer and the breaking of bread
and one in joy and simplicity of heart
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 


© 2015 Julie Gittoes

What is the common good?

Pre-election context: This blog is a version of a short address on church, place and the common good given as part of an interdisciplinary panel responding to the challenges/questions raised by the Bishops' pastoral letter 'Who is our neighbour'.
 

In churches across our diocese, we pray day by day for that our leaders might ‘seek the common good’.  But that leads to two questions:  What is it? How do we make it real?

 

In addressing those questions, I’ll name the ‘problem’ of division; then I’ll tease out what the common good might mean in relation to vision, rootedness, relationships and God. 

The problem: The album of my student days the late 90s was Different Class by Pulp. The track ‘Common People’ includes the refrain: I want to live like common people; I want to do whatever common people do. Jarvis Coker’s lyrics move from amusement to a bitter, desperate evocation of a north/south class divide. The fear of failure and the reality of life without a safety net is palpable – I said pretend you’ve got no money; she just laughed and said ‘oh you’re so funny’. I said yeah? Well I can’t see anybody else laughing. 

Pulp - Different Class (1995)

The fear and instability engendered by division is as real now as it was a quarter of a century ago. ‘The common good’ looks beyond divisions of social, economic and cultural capital; it is intergenerational and gives space for a diverse range of identities (gender, ethnicity, and religion). This demands a move beyond what the bishops call ‘retail politics’ – targeting policies at those most likely to vote. 

A vision: Cultivating a vision for the common good isn’t necessarily being able to define an end point – being able to say ‘it looks like this’.  The network of activists, political thinkers, leaders and theologians Together for Common Good describe it as a process.  It’s a creative and relational; it’s the adoption of virtues and practices which enable human flourishing.  

Seeing the 'common good' as a process might overcome the polarization between state welfare and market economics – drawing together social relationships shaped by voluntary commitment and personal responsibility.  We need to re-learn practices of listening and engaging with those who hold different political convictions.  If seeking the 'common good' is dynamic, we may become more open to building consensus, even though we may be motivated by our own political or social convictions  The church has a role to play in this deepening of engagement because of its rootedness: in place, relationships and God.

Our rootedness in place:  the incarnation, the reality of God with us,  means taking seriously the places where we live, worship and work. The parish system is an intensification of this.  It offers a point of stability through a commitment to schools, voluntary organisations and other local agencies which extends across time. It is rooted in corporate memory and although vicars come and go, the parish networks have the capacity to endure. Given then the challenges of sustainability and funding, the church rootedness offers continuity of engagement and support.  There are opportunities to bridge the gap between local and national; to actively support the weak and vulnerable, as well as challenging the influential and powerful.

Our rootedness in relationships:  disciples don’t just worship on Sundays; we inhabit networks of work, family, interests and community involvement throughout the week.  We are paying attention to what is going on locally (in moments of celebration and crisis as well as in the ordinary stuff of life).  We are actively doing things with people - strengthening community, sometimes in the face of disagreement.   An example of the impact of such work is seen in Liverpool.  Bishop David Sheppard and Archbishop Derek Worlock worked across sectarian divides amidst social/political pressure (particularly in the wake of Toxteth riots and Hillsborough) to benefit the people of that city.

Bishop David Sheppard and Archbishop Derek Worlock

Our rootedness in God: A commitment to place and relationships flows from our understanding of God – which is shaped by Scripture and worship.  We believe in a God who creates in love, freedom and goodness. In Jesus Christ, that generous, forgiving and transforming love reaches out to us in our human frailty. We are called to walk in his steps.  The Spirit inspires to proclaim God’s Kingdom of justice, hope and mercy. That same Spirit equips us to be agents of encouragement and reconciliation. Indeed, perhaps part of our prophetic witness in the world is the way in which we handle disagreement.

What is the common good and how do we make it real?  It means approaching polling day with a commitment to participate fully in processes and practices that build community; it means attending to God and to the people in the places where we live. It also means cultivating authenticity and credibility of our common life. Both the inward and outward focus is reliant on building trust and renewing hope. It means looking beyond self-interest for sake of sustainable and equitable future.

© 2015 Julie Gittoes

You are witnesses!

Alleluia: Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed: alleluia!

My gold-glittery Easter shoes have been packed away and it's unlikely that there are many (indeed any!) chocolate eggs left in our homes.  Perhaps all those things we'd given up during our Lenten fast are now a routine part of our daily diet.  Yet this season is anything but routine.

Alleluia remains our refrain.  Love and joy, hope and life, faith and forgiveness are bound together.

Rather than being frivolous, drinking a glass of fizz during Eastertide continues to be a tangible expression of resurrection in the midst of ordinary.  With a healthy lunch, whilst cooking a meal, at the end of complicated day, spontaneously with friends - it recalls the joy of new creation.

Such joy is an invitation to live intensely now, moment by moment; remaining open to the way in which each conversation, task and encounter might reveal something of the love of God. It is a reminder to live lightly now, moment by moment; knowing that life is a gift and the assurance that death is the beginning of life.

Joseph Žáček - The Resurrection (2003)

Our joy is the love of God poured into our hearts as he speaks to us words of peace; our fear and frailty is transformed.   Our joy, as a community of faith, is the love of God poured into the world as we speak words of forgiveness; as we walk with the disciples as witnesses to repentance and healing.

In our readings, Luke writes both about encounter with Christ in waiting and witness to Christ in the world.

Startled, terrified, frightened and doubting: these aren't surprising reactions for a small beleaguered group of disciples who are trying to make sense of what others have seen, heard and encountered.  Their risen Lord comes to them in the midst of grief and confusion and speaks words of peace. His words allay their fears.

Jesus Christ gives substance to this peace by inviting them to look, touch and see. This is the reality of resurrection; they aren't hallucinating.  Yet even as they rejoice in new life they are sill wondering; still disbelieving. He eats a piece of fish; this is no ghost.

Here there is joy and transformation. His presence with them reveals the glory and power of God. Resurrection is not resuscitation: the crucified victim is the risen Lord, he is their hope. The appearance of Jesus' glorified body amongst them heals and restores memories of hurt and failure.  The disciples are liberated to face the future.

This moment of encounter is purposeful. They too are transformed - disciples are prepared to become witnesses.  In order to embrace this responsibility and calling, Jesus invites them to remember. He refers them to his own words:  his suffering, death and resurrection in fulfilment of God's purposes. He opens their minds to understand the scriptures.

God's love was poured out in creation; humanity used freedom to pursue our own desires. In the law and the prophets our desires are redirected to the source of love; we learnt to share responsibility for acting with justice and mercy. Jesus has walked the land as God with us. He opened wide his arms on the cross and broke the bonds of sin and death; his risen presence draws us into this new reality. Our lives are turned around in repentance; our lives are renewed in forgiveness. We are witnesses to these things.

We bear witness because Peter and others testified to the immediacy of their experience of Jesus' presence. We walk with them in faith and hope and love.  The Acts of the Apostles recounts the conviction and reality of this witness.  In the verses preceding today's text, a crippled man has been healed - a gift more precious than the few coins he'd begged for.

Peter's first response is to re-direct the crowd's attention: why stare at us, he says, this is the action of God. God's restorative power breaking into human lives.  He reminds them of their shared heritage of faith and of God's faithfulness.  He also speaks of our human complicity with violence and our propensity to reject God's holy and righteous servant.  Just as his risen Lord had interpreted the scriptures to him, so now Peter witnesses to the crowd. He shares the purposes of God in fulfilling the law and the prophets.

We all get caught up in actions of crowds - we're shaped by social, cultural, political and peer pressures.  Yet, Peter is balancing our human excuses with the invitation to put God centre stage.  He is interested in effecting positive change - in the face of personal responsibility we are assured that within God's story our ignorance or failures is not the end. God's faithfulness to us changes our hears and minds.  His forgiveness and healing transform our penitent hearts.

Peter isn't pointing the blame at an anonymous crowed.  He stands alongside them as one who denied God's holy one. His encounter with the risen Lord took his past failings and memories of hurt and opened up a new future. He is recalled. So are we.  We are drawn into the promise of blessing - not just for a few, but for the whole earth.

We are being asked to respond afresh today.  Here in a community of faith, we are being drawn back to God in worship.  Here we can name our deepest longings - for insight, companionship, forgiveness and hope.  Here we discern God's presence with us in the intimacy of out stretched hands taking bread and wine.

Here at the heart of our waiting fear is turned to peace.  We are transformed by the risen Lord into a  joyful people.  Here we are forgiven and called into a new way of living and a new future.  Here we become witnesses to that reality in the  tapestry of our lives:  work, responsibilities, interests and relationships.

Over the coming weeks, we long for the outpouring of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost.  As we wait, we are to give prayerful consideration to the life and witness of this cathedral community. We are to open ourselves to a new future. Let us pray for those who are standing for election to positions of service and governance.  Chapter, Council, Synod and Community Committee are instruments of discerning and fulfilling God's will and purposes for us.

In the power of the Spirit we witness to the transforming love of God made manifest in Jesus Christ our Lord. Each of us has a part to play in proclaiming this good news: may we grow in trust and mutual affection - forgiving, encouraging and celebrating. This is the substance of our Easter refrain: Alleluia is our beautiful and compelling song.

Alleluia: Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed: Alleluia!

© 2015 Julie Gittoes

Holy grace in an untidy church

Introduction

This paper was given at the Society for the Study of Theology Conference 'Thinking the Church' and takes as its starting point comments made by the Archbishop of Canterbury in his presidential address to General Synod in February 2014. Justin Welby spoke of the need for a massive cultural change with the Church of England, so that people could flourish together despite deeply held differences. That shift is a journey of learning to live as an 'untidy church': learning to love those with whom we disagree and seeking mutual flourishing, rooted in what the Archbishop calls 'holy grace'.

I begin by setting out the challenges and hopes of his address. It is a vision that resists perpetuating the fearful denigration of the other; to sustain it we need resources which prevent us lapsing into idealism which is readily abandoned. I wonder if Dan Hardy's work on the nature of holiness might help us here. His description of divine holiness as a refining fire which heals fragmentations is challenging and compelling.

Holiness understood as transformative and performative leads to consideration of two questions: firstly, how might the dynamics of holiness increase our capacity to live with untidiness within the life of the church? Secondly, how is holiness embodied in such a way that it becomes a movement of hope in the world?

Prayer - Chris Gollon (2009)

The address

Archbishop Justin uses the five principles agreed by the House of Bishops (in relation to the
legislation to women and the episcopate) as an example of how love and trust work: ‘the love has to
be demonstrated and the trust has to be earned. But the love cannot be demonstrated if it is refused
and the trust cannot be earned without the iterative process of it being received and reinforced in the
reception.’ This might be described as a practice of holiness.

The ‘massive cultural change’ necessary for the living out of ‘a commitment to the flourishing of
every tradition of the church’ means accepting that those with whom we disagree are ‘deeply loved
by Christ and therefore must be deeply loved by me’. For him, the ‘gift that Christ gives us, of loving us to the end, to the ultimate degree is meaningless unless that love is both given and received, and
then passed on’. Holy grace is cruciform: we are held and moved by God’s holiness in worship,
participating in the refining fire 'as it has occurred in the Cross of Christ’ (Hardy, Finding, p. 20.).

Loving in this way is a difficult and risky calling. The Archbishop speaks about the need for integrity,
transparency and honesty; about doing what we do out of love. Such practices are societal patterns
needed to create trust. So we ask with Dan, what difference does worship make in cultivating
holiness? (Hardy, Finding, pp. 22-23.).  Might a ‘holy trust’ equip us to face disagreement and crisis in the hope of healing.

Holiness and healing do not equate to ‘tidiness’. The Archbishop said that an untidy church tells the
world 'holy grace' rather ‘consistency and coherence' is the ultimate virtue’. The Church of England’s
untidiness is reflected in lobbies and groups within and beyond the synodical structures of
governance and episcopal collegiality. When these things work well, love overcomes fear; but often
the opposite is the case. To acknowledge that the ‘resources of love lie within God hints at the
performative nature of holiness. That is an encounter with divine promise and assurance in worship,
in penitence and faith. Such love is demanding. It is a process of gracious reconciliation which is
cruciform.

Many of the issues which are centre stage engender fear: fear of rejection and irrelevance, the limits
of authority and generosity. Yesterday's headlines about GAFCON show just how acute and corrosive
these fears are. Perhaps Dan’s legacy will edge us beyond tribalism towards a holy and gracious
church. A church that is not preoccupied with its own inner life, but called outwards by the Spirit to a
creative vision for the sake of God's kingdom.

A refining fire - nature of holiness, human and divine

In Finding the Church Dan states that ‘holiness, sociality and worship are – or should be – extremely
rich and powerful notions and practices, and therefore capable of orientating vast ranges of life in the
world’ (Hardy, Finding, p. 8). He warns against supposing that it can be fully grasped – theoretically or ethically. Whilst heading this warning against domesticating such vision, we hold on to the challenge of how such practices change us and deepen our engagement with the world, not least because for Dan the church is constituted by mission and worship.

To begin with, how does Dan's understanding of holiness relate to the scope of God’s work in
creation and salvation? The gift of creaturely freedom is risky: our desires are misdirected, our lives
dispersed and fragmented; we are in danger of losing the sense of God’s presence with us (Hardy, Wording, p. 68.). ‘Extensity’ names this spread-out-ness in the world - our human propensity to get caught up in things. 'Intensity’ describes God’s self-movement of love towards the world – in creation, redemption, the perfection of human life in the world (Hardy, Finding, p. 34.) This intensity calls forth a response. Dan uses Coleridge’s term ‘abduction’ to describe the dynamics of this attraction to God. This attraction is cultivated and sustained in worship as we a turned away from self-absorption, as we participate in God's ways, as our desires are reformed.

Might this be a holy grace for an untidy church?

For Dan holiness and God are mutually defining: holiness is the attraction to God, which calls and
moves people; it is beautiful, satisfying and humbling; relational and performative ( Hardy, Finding, p. 12.).  It is rooted in the triune God. Dan says: the property of holiness is one of ‘intrinsic relation to all else… then holiness is intrinsically triadic… the Trinity immanent in God is his consistent performance of holiness, but this is maintained – as the Trinitarian economy in the world – through God’s energetic congruence with the world’ (Hardy, Finding, pp. 14-16.).

‘Facing the holiness of God, and performing it within human social life, is the special provenance of
worship. There all the interrelated dimensions of life are raised to the holiness of God’ (Hardy, Finding, p.19.). It is not merely routine human activity. God’s ‘formative, freeing and energizing attraction’ shapes us (Hardy, Finding, p. 20.). Worship is a crucible which enacts and extends holiness, which heals fragmentation of our extensity.  Might, in the words of Barbara Pym, our 'incremental shifts in virtue' be an outworking of holiness, in Christ, in anticipation of the Kingdom?


Increasing our capacity to live with untidiness

How might the dynamics of holiness increase our capacity to live with untidiness within the church?

For Dan, the Eucharist is an occasion of performing – and thus learning – the quality of God’s
holiness in action, whose implication are seen as it reconstitutes the life of those involved, forming
their multifold interactions with others.’ It counteracts fear and cultivates love (Hardy, Finding, p. 21.).  Might it also be a place where holiness is kindled not as a list of prohibited or acceptable actions, but as a way of being in relationship?

In Finding the Church, Dan describes the way in which trust liberates us to act without fear; it is a
sign of love which we give to others. It shapes and enriches our relationships, creating what Dan calls
'moral density'. If human flourishing is ordinarily dependent on stability and systems of
accountability, what difference does worship make?

How might the Eucharist enact a 'holy trust' as we are confronted with the 'refining fire' of divine
holiness? Divine intensity is the response to our extensity. Dare we approach worship in the
expectation that God will establish and transform our relationships as the cruciform fire of God's
holiness refines us?

Archbishop Justin criticised sermons offering the moral claptrap of niceness. Rather we are drawn
into a moral density is enacted in the sacrifice of Christ, which we call holy grace. Living this out in
the life of the Church is difficult and demands patience and attentiveness, which stretches our human
capacity. But our capacity is stretched by placing our assurance in God’s holiness. Only then can we
live with untidiness; waiting for difference to become a gift.

This increased capacity to disagree well in an untidy church sounds idealist. Dan himself was not
naïve about the cost in his work within Anglican Communion on issues of sexuality, gender, the
interpretation of Scripture and authority. He continually reignites our imaginations as we seek holy
grace in an untidy church. Let’s for a moment consider the reality of a local church in crisis and
discover the possibility of healing and the balm of spirit.

In Wording a Radiance, Dan describes the way in which the pastor opens herself to be an agent of
transforming and healing spirt. Individuals might then shift from being passive recipients to active
agents of the Spirit: Dan describes this as a turning from 'self-attraction to divine attraction and thus
attraction to others' (Hardy, Wording, p. 107.). It is not immediate, simple or straightforward; it is not mere choice or will. It is the central drama of our ecclesiology: 'when a pilgrim's openness to the Spirit is met by the Spirit and 'other' replaces 'self' as the object of attraction. This is not the end of the drama but the beginning: an opening for attraction to meet attraction and, with the balm of the Spirit, for a wounded Church to walk with Jesus' (Hardy, Wording, p. 107.).

It is difficult and time consuming. Holy grace demands that we deepen bonds of mutual trust and
affection by improving the quality of our disagreements. Holy grace in an untidy church means living
in the hope of healing. Dan has a word for this too: he calls it ‘granulation’, a healing from deep
within. When intransigent problems and differences are centre stage, they consume our energy.
Confronting the holiness of God in worship creates space and gives us the assurance to take risks,
with patience and generosity. It does so because our attention refocused on the glory and light of
God, whose kingdom ‘is not a matter of our working out every detail of how to move on; we need to
leave room for the Spirit to work’(Hardy, Wording, p. 105.).

Holiness - a movement of hope

Enriched by the Spirit, how is holiness embodied in the world as a movement of hope?

In Finding, Dan talks about holiness of God demanding the proper interaction between ecology,
history and culture; and social institutions playing a key role in the performance of holiness as
‘provisional approximations to the good’. In Wording, sociopoesis (the creating of the social)
emerges from his discussion of the way in which holiness is enacted in the world. Dan's
diagrammatic representation of this demonstrates a two-way dynamic, under God for the sake of the
Kingdom.

If facing holiness in worship cultivates generosity, trust and reconciliation in the face of disagreement, it becomes both a gift and challenge to the world. Rather than becoming overly concerned with our own ‘inner meaning’, how do learn afresh how to persist with our task in the world? What might be the signs of hope for the world of this holy, graced and untidy church?

Archbishop Justin spoke about letting go of the absolutes of coherence and consistency; but I
wonder what that might look like in term of holiness conceived as a mode of engagement.
Commitment to facilitated conversations and the Archbishop's frankness over Wonga might be
examples of that.

Risking incoherence and inconsistence might be part of our prophetic calling. If our assurance is
located in God - in his holiness - we increase our capacity to live with difference. Life is not tidier or
less complicated, but with God centre stage when we abide in the perfect, holy and refining love that
casts out fear. Holy grace in an untidy church is cultivated in worship, but it is also about witness.

The body of Christ radiating the light and love of God for sake of the Kingdom; opening up true potential of human life. As Dan puts it:'Liturgy is one way of facilitating and helping people enter into this creative dynamic and drawing them deeper into the light, letting it penetrate and irradiate them. But this opening is certainly not exclusive to the Church: there are lots of other ways, too, and we need to recognize and interpret them in public life. It is about how the Church relates to the world (16 Hardy, Wording, p. 106.).

If Dan was renowned for acknowledging the complexity of that, he was also renowned for calling us back to the unfolding work of the Spirit.


© 2015 Julie Gittoes

An idle tale?

Alleluia: Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed: alleluia!

It's right that we celebrate the resurrection with joyous shouts of praise: yet the process of making sense of this new reality takes time - resurrection is disruptive and awesome. Luke describes terror, disbelief, confusion and amazement. Silence is multifaceted in its eloquence.

A headline in today's newspaper, reads: furtive silences that speak more eloquently than flowery words.  Andrew Rawnsley is writing about election manifestos and the significance of what is left unsaid as opposed to what is promised. Politicians will be balancing distinctiveness and credibility; seeking to allay doubts and offering inspiration.

We join the dots between particular pledges; they seek  to present compelling arguments. We long for conviction and vision; they are wary of making promises that can't be kept.   Declarations about Trident and assurances about the NHS sit alongside spurious tales about politicians' personal lives. Perhaps our response to the election coverage will be to say 'these are just idle tales'.

The tale told by Luke is far from idle.  He invites us to make sense of the power of the resurrection by allowing us to take our place alongside the women; he invites us to trust the faithfulness of God even when human instinct says 'this is an idle tale'.  Luke engenders trust without using flowery words by drawing us into a communicative silence.

Wordlessly, the women had woken early to fulfil the rituals surrounding death; spices are prepared to to honour the body.   Their plans were interrupted by what they found - the stone had been moved. Their reaction was complicated by what they did not find - Jesus' body.

Women and the tomb

http://www.canonesses.co.uk/gallery/art/stations-of-the-resurrection/

The process of making sense of this double dislocation begins with the proclamation of mysterious strangers.  The physical reality of what confronts the women in the garden leaves them feeling perplexed; the dazzling reality of this message terrifies them.

Silence and emptiness is shattered by the challenge of assurance:
Why do you look for the living among the dead?
Absence and discovery is affirmed by the startling declaration:
He is not here; but  has risen.

The proclamation of the resurrection makes sense in relation to what has been fulfilled and what the women remember. The promises of God, revealed in  scripture, have been fulfilled; the women bear witness to the fulfilment of Jesus' words and teaching. They are invited to remember all this.

Remembrance is not the ending of this story. Fulfilment and recollection prompt them to leave the tomb in order tell the others.  But they did not believe: the communication of this message seems to hit a dead end.

Peter alone races to the tomb. He stoops and looks and saw.  It was no idle tale.

He goes home: we do not know if his amazement is incomprehension or apprehension.  He, like us, has to weigh the silence of what he finds against what God has promised.  We piece together what has been fulfilled in our collective remembering.  It rests not on subjective experience alone, but on an objective reality of the  light, peace and love of our risen Lord.

Like Peter and the women, moments of shock and disbelief permeate our lives - the heartrending incomprehension of grief, the overwhelming delight of falling in love, the confusion of breaches of trust. We struggle to make sense of human frailty; yet are drawn into a deeper intensity of communion with God. Luke's account of resurrection invites us to find assurance in the remembrance of God's story worked out in human lives. He invites us to turn our eyes away from the discovery of an empty tomb and to fix our eyes on the risen Lord walking alongside us.    Our hope is renewed in him.

The words of the prophet Isaiah express human longing and divine promise. Trust in God is the sources of our peace. Trust flows from the character of God - so faithful and steadfast in love that the prophet speaks of an everlasting rock.  Trust in God secures our well-being, and changes us that we might seek the well being of others.  Peace is an expression of righteousness. The mighty  are brought low, the poor raised up and we walk on a level and smooth path together.

The work of restoration is human and divine. God's pledges to us in creation and salvation are an everlasting bond. Jesus Christ humbles himself to share our humanity, that we might share his risen life;  by the power of his Spirit we proclaim the good news  that endures beyond election manifestos:

Lo! Jesus meets us, risen from the tomb;
Lovingly he greets us, scatters fear and gloom;
let the Church with gladness, hymns of triumph sing;
for her Lord now liveth, death hath lost its sting.
Thine be the glory, risen conquering son; 
endless is the victory thou o'er death hast won.

© 2015 Julie Gittoes

Easter is now!

At the weekend,  I bought new 'Easter shoes' and Prosecco: amidst the waiting and solemnity of Holy Saturday I was hoping for Easter Day. Holy Saturday was a day of inactivity - we live in the wake of the brutality of the cross and coldness of the tomb.  And yet... we also sense that we are on the cusp of the beyond breaking into or brokenness.  The shoes were much commented upon and returned to the box; the fizz was enjoyed in the company of friends.  And yet... resurrection isn't transitory.  The reality of Easter continues to shape us moment by moment.

Resurrection is the assurance of love, forgiveness and hope at a cosmic scale: in Christ, God's redemptive power defeats sin and death; in baptism we die and rise with him; in the Spirit, we live with new hope.

The hashtag #EasterMeans was used by Christians to say something about the meaning of resurrection  in the realm of Twitter: love wins, creation made new, light overcoming darkness, Jesus lives, joy and hope, freedom.

We are called to live out of that reality day by day.   The readings at morning and evening prayer during Easter Week draw us into the full sweep of salvation history: of God's steadfast love drawing us back into right relationship with him and restoring us to live rightly with all creatures.

The readings from Exodus take us back to the calling of God's ancient people the Jews; the stories from Acts and the epistles, reflect the hopes and challenges of the early Christian communities; they are also full of promise, pointing us forward to a time when all nations will worship.

The psalms and canticles we say, resound with songs of praise; our songs echo that  joy today as Alleluias resound in this building; on our hearts and lips.

As we celebrate the Euchasrist, we continue to be drawn to the garden and the empty tomb. Our Gospel readings confront us again and again with the the wonder and confusion of the resurrection morning.  We inhabit a complex web of stories; we are invited to pay attention to the particular details of these narratives. We are being offered space to consider God's purposes for the whole world: resurrection as fulfilment of promise.

The cinematic retelling of the story of Exodus, "The Prince of Egypt", had the tagline: The power is real; the story is for ever; the time is now.  Perhaps we can take that as out tagline for this Eastertide and beyond.

The power is real: the people of Israel owed its freedom entirely to God; the story continues to be retold and to unfold in the Acts of the Apostles in Paul's letters to the Corinthians.  We are sent out to love and serve in peace of the risen Christ.  The time is now.  God's power breaks into human lives - in our loves -  revealing his steadfast love.

In the midst of our fears and uncertainties, our betrayals and failures, we are restored. Again and again we encounter our risen Lord in bread and wine; by the power of the Spirit we who are many bcome members of one Body.  God promises to be with us as  we walk onwards into a future we  cannot not envisage. It is God's future.  Thre resurrection speaks of his glory, strength and might.

The Eucharist also draws us into songs of heavenly praise: it is a prayer full of vibrant imagery; it is full of  hope amidst earthly reality. Our longings are named and our vision is restored.   It evokes a future where God's promise from the beginning of all time will be fulfilled. A new song  of redemption is heard: victory, amazing deeds, justice and truth.

For God alone is holy.

All nations will come and worship.

We have a foretaste of that vision: of justice, hope and peace.

God is love.

Father, Son and Spirit: one God.

Creating, redeeming, sustaining: one act of generous love poured into our lives, calling us to be his people.

The hope that inspired ordinary people to follow Jesus; the vision that drew young and old to listen to him; the voice that spoke words of compassion and healing; the love that touched lives is far more robust than anything we can do for ourselves. He alone is God with us; overcoming power of death.

Resurrection is about hope, conviction, vision and transformed community. Resurrection is not something we bring about.   Our song is not a grim determination to survive; but the Alleluia that all has been accomplished. Our restoration is not transient;  rather we glimpse the way things are destined to be for all eternity. Our sorrows, our betrayals, our tears and our bewilderment are born by God, and transformed into joy.  We are assured that we are loved: now & always.

In this Easter season  we remember and celebrate that God has not given up on us; that God's love is stronger than sin and death.  What looked like a lost cause is just the beginning of transformation breaking in; even in the midst of frailty and uncertainty. We  are to agents of God's reconciling love: practicing habits of forgiveness, building trust, deepening bonds of affection. Love calls us our of darkness into light:  to embrace that service which is perfect freedom.  Our acts of justice and compassion become moments of resurrection hope and glory.

Easter is now: hope overwhelms death; new lift bursts forth; we now live in the light of eternity.

All nations will worship.

Christ yesterday and today, the beginning and the end, Alpha and Omega, all time belongs to him, and all ages.

May the light of Christ, rising in glory, banish all darkness from our hearts and minds. Amen.




© 2015 Julie Gittoes

Here we stand at the foot of the cross

Here we stand at the foot of the cross

We are not alone. Standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.

Chris Gollon: At the base of the crucifixion (2003)

What must they have felt, and longed for at that moment?  Witnessing such brutality against one whom they loved; one, whom they’d nurtured, followed and listened to.  What do we hope for in a world that feels bewildering, painful & despairing?

Often we hope for a dramatic change, a radical intervention or a quick fix.  And now, in John’s passion, we look on the face of a God who does not provide instantaneous solutions.    In his brief earthly ministry, Jesus did reach out to those in need, responding to them through healing, providing food or by drawing them back into community.  The women standing with us today had heard Jesus’ challenging words when they sought to persuade him from the path he walked on; they had also heard words of healing and hope as he transformed their lives.

The thrust of Jesus’ teaching wasn’t about temporary or short term help. It was far more radical – challenging the roots of suffering and evil. His message was about healing which involved hospitality, trust and compassion; it was about restoring our relationships with God and one another through love, forgiveness and inclusion.  Ultimately, the deep healing we long for and need, is costly.

It is painful.  It takes time. It demands patience.

In Jesus, we see the depth of God’s love for us, for all his creation.  Jesus does not play the part of sympathetic listener or unmoved observer.  He does not just speak up for those who are lost and confused or in pain.  His compassion goes beyond outward concern.  He suffers with us. He suffers for us.

When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.

When he washes his disciples’ feet, Jesus enacts loving, generous and humble service.  When he suffers the humiliation of unjust imprisonment, mockery and abuse, he stands with all those who are tortured and bears the sin of those who despise humanity.   On the cross we see the power of love & self-sacrifice confronting the powers of darkness. The corrosive power of sin that separates us from one another, that cuts us off from God is destroyed.

And here, at the foot of the cross, we see a glimmer of a new reality breaking through.  Jesus, as he looks on his mother and beloved disciple, does not speak to them out of filial duty or necessary trust in a friend.  He speaks of the possibility of re-imagined and restored community.

That small, beleaguered, grief stricken group – arms outstretched towards a bare tree – are the first to glimpse the reconciled new creation; they sense its meaning in human form.  A mother adopts a son; a friend welcomes a woman. At that hour, grace breaks in.  In the midst of pain there is hope.

John’s passion narrative does not spare us the horror and pain, the ugliness of the violence; we look upon ourselves in our weakness and fear, in our vanity and collusion.  Nor does he hide from us the extraordinary and overwhelming love poured out in Jesus. Reality and cost are set alongside hope.  The promise of new life; trust in God’s faithfulness; the work of the Holy Spirit in restoring brokenness; the power of love to overcome sin.

John reminds us that suffering, evil and death do not have the last word.    In the midst of confusion, uncertainty and despair, there is still the presence of one who brings light, love and healing.   He is revealed to us in awful desolation of suffering; in the isolation of abandonment; in the simplicity of hospitality; in the joy of love.  And if we respond to his call, we allow him to expand our horizons; to discover our purpose and wholeness.  Grounded in the costly love, we begin to live differently.

At the foot of the cross, prefiguring new human community, is Mary who spent a life time pondering light and glory; sorrow and pain. She knew that a sword would pierce her soul. The beloved disciple rested against Jesus' chest at the last supper, and now offers that intimate dwelling place to Mary.

Here begins a people abiding in love, abiding in God.

That is the people we are called to be: a people who both find acceptance in God’s love, and uphold others in it.  At times of deepest sorrow, despondency and frustration; moments of profoundly overwhelming, uncontainable goodness can break in. It offers us comfort and assurance and cuts through the fear of abandonment. But to be held in such an embrace also means being let go.  It means making ourselves vulnerable and letting the other go.

After this, when Jesus knew that it was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), ‘I am thirsty.’ A jar of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the wine, he said, ‘It is finished.’ Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

After agony and death, there is silence and darkness.  We wait.

We wait for a dawning light to pierce our gloom.

We wait for love to permeate the dark and silent places of our hearts and minds.

We wait for humanity to be healed, renewed, and restored.

God has drawn all people to himself in love.

We are to be drawn to each other in love: mother, son, father, daughter; as friends.

Together we share in love, in pain and in hope.

It is finished.

He bowed his head.

He gave up his Spirit.
We wait.



© 2015 Julie Gittoes

Harsh realities of death and stone

Dead and Buried   by E. Rooney

And so we took him down

(Or thought we did),

Wiped off the sweat and spittle

From his face,

Washed the dried blood,

Threw out the crown of thorns,

And wrapped him once again in swaddling clothes.

A tomb can be a cramped,

Confining space,

Far smaller than a stable.

We laid him there

(Or thought we did).

We were not able

To comprehend

The infinite contained.

For us it was the end.

Only the harsh realities

Of death and stone 

Remained.

Nic Fiddian-Green: Christ Rests (2013)

Let me go there, he said.  The world is overwhelmed with darkness: light fails and a curtain is rent in two.

He cries with a loud voice.

The same voice that cried ‘Father forgive’ cries out ‘Father, into your hands I commend my Spirit.’
The one who knows we know not what we do, commends all that he is into his Father’s hands.
The one who did not cling to equality with God, entrusts himself to his Father when all he is has been spent for us.

Let me go there, he said. He comes to our agony and longing, he reaches out to our thin outstretched arms.  And in that final breath, there is rest. Let me go there, he said. Let me go to the tomb, he said.

He breathed his last.

Something stops.  Release. Ending. Everything stops.  Noise is shattered by breath. Silence. There, in that moment, God is praised; innocence is declared.  But this giving up of breath, this letting go of life, this moment of recognition passes.  Life goes on. It is relentless. The crowd disperses.  Those who had gathered return home.  In response to the spectacle they beat their breasts.  This is one more death; one more piece of brutality meted out on those condemned.

Something stops. There is a moment when those who had followed him, stood at a distance; those who were acquainted with him, watched.  Transfixed? Shocked?  Returning home seems to be incongruous. Life ebbs away. The  quiet ugliness is as disturbing as the pain.

As he exhales that final breath, the centurion saw something that prompted praise.  He looked on the face of Christ and saw innocence. What do we see when we look on the face of Christ, silent and in repose?  In Christ rests, there a poise and elegance in its profile; yet the closed eyes, the lips pressed together; the closeness of unmoving air is shockingly final.

The crown of thorns remains, piercing the flesh and refusing to allow us to forget the manner of this man’s life and death.  Are we brought up short by our own mortality?  There is no escaping the tragedy in this ending; but there is also waiting and hoping.

The centurion saw innocence and praised God.  In the face, the love of God is made visible.   Jesus said, let me go there; to our outstretched arms, to bring sight and life, abundance and peace.  He restores human dignity encounter by encounter.  As he walked through the land, step by step, people followed; some deserted, some stood by.  As he spoke words of forgiveness and hope, people heard; some mocked, some clung to them. And now in his final breath, he rests:  God’s love is made visible to a broken world, in this face.

As they watched, a good and righteous man acts.  One who had disagreed with the council, who waiting with an expectant spirit for God’s Kingdom, asks for the body.  There is a linen cloth and a rock-hewn tomb.  There is human tenderness in the practical acts of honouring a body that has breathed its last.

And so we took him down (Or thought we did), Wiped off the sweat and spittle From his face, Washed the dried blood, Threw out the crown of thorns. And wrapped him once again in swaddling clothes. 

With us in birth and with us in final breath. That tapestry of life is played out over and over in our own lives. A father hears an infant daughter’s cry; a daughter hears a father’s final sigh.  The Word that cried out as a speechless infant now wordlessly enters into the depths of loss and death.

A tomb is a confined space. Claustrophobic; lifeless.  It is incomprehensible that the tomb is the infinite contained.  The Sabbath was beginning – a day of rest and preparation.  The women who had followed from Galilee watched, and returned home to prepare the spices for burial. The one whom they had followed is at rest.  At peace; in peace.  Pain is no more for this resting Jesus; yet death itself is being swallowed up.

On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment; on the Sabbath it must have seemed like an ending.  Only the harsh realities Of death and stone Remained.

The cross that we venerate and look upon in horror and hope is a bare sad tree.  It is the tree of our salvation, where humility and sacrifice reveal the height and breadth and depth of God’s love.
It leads us to a tomb, to a cool, enclosed and sealed space.  We cannot escape the reality of this death.  We by human inclination rail against it.  We count the length of years, yet are affected by the brevity of love we have known.

Christ rests: fight and pain are over.

He comes to the palace of our greatest fear – of annihilation of utter abandonment. And we wait.  A grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies; unless it does so, it remains but a single grain.

Harsh realities of death and stone remain.

At an ending; on a day of rest; dearest friends depart;
We watch. We wait. Our eyes veiled with tears.
Dare we hope for sorrows to be forgotten or prepare for joy restored?
We watch and wait and rest.


© 2015 Julie Gittoes

Christ speaking

A Quiet Roar - V. Zundel

one

he lays his left hand along the beam
hand that moulded clay into fluttering birds
hand that cupped wild flowers to learn their peace
hand that stroked the bee's soft back and
touched death's sting

two

he stretches his right hand across the grain
hand that blessed a dead corpse quick
hand that smeared blind spittle into sight
hand that burgeoned bread, smoothed
down the rumpled sea

three

he stands laborious
sagging, split
homo erectus, poor bare forked thing
hung on nails like a picture

he is not beautiful
blood sweats from hin in rain

far off wher we are lost, desert dry
thunder begins its quiet roar
the first drops startle us alive
the cloud no bigger
than a man's hand

Chris Gollon: Jesus takes up his cross (first study) 1999

Let me go there, he said.  The hand that cupped flowers, that stroked the bee’s soft back is stretched along a beam.  The hand that brought life out of death, that restored with touch and spittle is nailed to the grain.  The one who brought bread in abundance is the bread of life broken; broken that a fragmented world may be made whole.  There is no beauty here.  Laborious, sagging, split and nailed.

Zundel’s poem resonates with the hammering of nails: one... two... three. The sheer physical constraint and agony of being put to death.  Everything that we cling to in order to define ourselves is stripped away.  Jesus is led, with two criminals: they are led away. There is no autonomy or freedom in being “led away”.

There is no choice or trust.  Led away to be put to death; life does not ebb away gently.  It is taken, painfully. Every shred of clothing is divided by lot. What we wear, what we own, all that we possess defines us, shields us and cloaks our vulnerability.  Here Jesus is laid bare.  He is dispossessed.

Around him lies a simple robe; taken from our Lord as he gives up his life. The dice rest alongside it; the casual gambling to attain what? That which belongs to another? And there are nails and a hammer; not in the hands of a craftsman but of those caught up in a system of brutal punishment which brings no peace.

There was noise: a deafening, clamorous cacophony. The one, two, three of nails; the cries in agony; the indifferent banter of those casting lots; heckling voices and somewhere, far off, a deep quiet roar.  There was noise and din but what is heard?

The voice of Jesus saying “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.”
There is a plea to his Father to forgive those who taunt and torture, who mock and despise; who led him away to death and scorn the possibility of salvation. They know not what they do.

There are times when we know not what we do: the effect of our words or of our indifference; the consequences of selfish preoccupations; our collusion with agendas which, though seeming soft and harmless, have within them the sting of death.  Father, forgive us. We know not what we do.

This is the complexity of our life: this is where our pain, pride, loss, ambition, betrayals and mockery collide. Our failures and selfishness coalesce around the cross; at the foot of the one who knows we do not know what we do. And on his lips we hear no longer a lament, but a gut wrenching plea for forgiveness.

And the crowd stands by, watching. Leaders scoff; soldiers mock; a criminal derides. Yet even in the callous words of victimisation and aggression reverberate with a glimmer of truth. Yes, he saved others. He restored relationships, brought peace, shared puzzlements, told stories; he burgeoned bread and smoothed down the rumpled sea.

Yes those words of derision and provocation also reveal misunderstanding.  He cannot save others by saving himself.  The paradox made manifest on the beams of a bare tree is that peace comes through death’s sting; touched, confronted and embraced.  Far off, where we are lost, a distant roar of thunder prefigures the triumph of reconciliation.

Save yourself is not an imperative that Jesus can obey.  Instead he empties himself, pours out his life in generous, costly, incomprehensible love.  Let me go there, he said. Let me go to the furthest point of human alienation and abandonment; let me go to the depths of despair and condemnation; let me embrace the victim and bully.  Let me go there.  There is no longer any place where God’s love is not.

Under the weight of condemnation and in the face of death, one of the criminals derides Jesus, making a desperate plea for escape.  Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us.  It is the other criminal who rebukes him.  He speaks under the weight of condemnation and in the face of death, in the light of his own culpability.   He trusts in who Jesus is: he expresses deep longing and hope. Remember me.  When you come into your kingdom, remember me.

Today, says Jesus, you will be with me in Paradise. All that we are is drawn into the heart of God.  Far off where we are lost begins a quiet roar which startles us alive.  A cloud no bigger than a man’s hand is a sign of refreshment in the desert; Jesus’ promise, spoken in the face of death, is a sign of peace and restoration.  We are to look on his face, to hear his words, and find in the depths of our hearts that he loves us.  In humility he seeks us out; he knows the very depths of our being.  He speaks words of forgiveness and promise into our troubled, anxious, overburdened lives.

In the midst of the noise of mockery, scoffing and derision, Jesus speaks:
Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.

In the midst of fear, failure, abandonment and death, Jesus speaks:
Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.

For where God seems most hidden, most absent; God is most active.  Where creation seems most desolate and human frailty most stark, there is the promise of life.  God is where we least expect God to be found.

God speaks in the midst of suffering; God is with us.
far off where we are lost, desert dry
thunder begins its quiet roar
the first drops startle us alive
the cloud no bigger
than a man’s hand.

© 2015 Julie Gittoes

Christ walking

The Coming by R. S. Thomas

And God held in his hand

A small globe. Look he said,

The son looked. Far off.

As through water, he saw

A scorched land of fierce

Colour. The light burned

There; crusted buildings

Cast their shadows: a bright

Serpent. A river

Uncoiled itself, radiant

With slime

                            On a bare

Hill a bare tree saddened

The sky, many People

Held out their thin arms

To it, as though waiting

For a vanished April

To return to its crossed

Boughs. The son watched

Them. Let me go there, he said.

Chris Gollon: Women of Jerusalem (2013)

Let me go there, he said.

God’s Son dwells with us. He comes to this small globe – a light of water and light and colour; a place of buildings and shadows.  He comes to us; to a people whose arms are out stretched in longing; to a people waiting in hope and fear.  Let me go there, he said; to a bare hill and a saddened tree.

R. S. Thomas’s poem captures our human condition.  It is both bleak and luminous. Such is the complexity of our world, our lives.  God does not just look on – watching us build and create and desire.  God comes to us. For God so love the world he sent his only Son.  The one who abided with his Father comes to us and dwells amongst us.

Christ walks in our midst.  Let me go there, he said.  Over the course of his ministry, Jesus has walked the length and breadth of the land.  As he does so he encounters crowds and pays attention to individuals; he captures imaginations with parables and arouses wonder and outrage with his acts of generous mercy and transformation.

He walks.  And many follow: the lost and the least; the curious and the hopeful; the bold and the restored.

Today the voice of earthly authority is shouted down; Pilate wants to release Jesus.  He finds no grounds for the death sentence; he cannot equate the man standing in front of him with the charges against him.  He hopes that flogging will suffice. He does not prevail.  His verdict colludes with their demands. Political expediency claims another victim.   Crucify, crucify, crucify.

This victim is Emmanuel. The one who dwelt with us, walking among us and calling us to follow, is led away to a bare hill and saddened tree.

They led him away.  And coming towards the crowd is a Simon of Cyrene.  They seize him.  They lay the cross on him.  He carries it. He follows Jesus.  Does he cast his eyes down to the ground, bearing the weight and fearing lest he stumble? Or does he focus his gaze on the crowned head in front of him? He is following Jesus, walking the steps of suffering and humiliation; bearing the weight of brutality and injustice.  And he looks ahead, and the crowned head.  The thorns piercing matted sweat soaked, bloody hair.

If we dare to look up we see a head crowned with thorns; we see the vulnerability of the nape of his neck; our eyes bore into the back of his head as our footsteps are placed in his.
Let me go there, he said. To a people whose arms are stretched out in need and longing, in desperation.  He walks.  Simon follows.  A great number of the people followed.  And there is a double lament.

The women beat their breasts and wail for him. Their lament is gut wrenching and visceral; they rend their hearts as they follow this man who has loved, who has walked among them, reaching out to them. But Jesus turns his head to face them.  Daughters, he says, weep not for me.  His lament is reproachful and sorrowful.

We too lament: we lament the brutality of conflict and injustice; we lament over the words that embitter us and the people who are alienated from us; we lament the divisiveness of policies that pit one generation against another; we lament the exploitation of the earth’s resources.  We weep not just for the one who walks ahead of us; but for those who walk with us and those who follow us.

Do we pass by or mock or lament?  Every footstep Jesus takes, is a step with us in the anguish of our world, the personal burdens, all that overwhelms us as we see the scale of human suffering. In every step he takes, bears the pain and sin of the world.  We see the love of God meeting us in the midst of all that, whether unsought or self-inflicted;  we see that hurt and despair taken up into the heart of God.

We are confronted  with a crowned head.  Around it lies a purple robe of mockery.  We gaze upon the face of one who walked ahead of us, and with us; the face of one we are called to follow as we step back into the world. We too are to weep and to love; to follow Christ, walking our own paths in his way.

And God held in his hand a small globe.
The Son watched them.
Let me go there, he said.



© 2015 Julie Gittoes