Take my breath away....

What takes your breath away?

The first note of a familiar piece of music catches our breath; the assurance of knowing what comes next, holds us afresh.   Perhaps we hold our breath as we listen to the unfolding themes of a piece we've never heard before; we anticipate the climactic moment; the final note reverberates then fades.

What is that takes your breath away?  Moments that live in our memory - tugging at our senses. Moments of encounter that make time stand still - leaving us in suspended animation. Moments of anticipation - fearful, hopeful, delightful.

Perhaps you recall a very youthful Tom Cruise in 'Top Gun': the sound track builds with the rhythmic thud of the base line and synthesised melody. At the moment when arrogance and pretence are stripped away, the moment of falling in love, the lyrics take over: Turning and returning / to some secret place inside / watching in slow motion / as you turn around and say / take my breath away. 

We can't describe a first kiss or a final breath; we can't express the assurance of a hug or the depth of an intimate friendship; we can't take others to the place evoked by a particular smell or taste or sound. We feel these things deeply.

The poet and writer Maya Angelou said:  Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take but by the moments that take your breath away.  Some have criticised her for undervaluing the ordinary in favour of symphonic moments. Others hear those words as an invitation to treasure the ordinary; to savour it. In 'A Tour of Bones' Denise Inge encourages us to do this. In the face of death, she writes with delight that the beautiful brevity of this life throbs in me like an overgrown heartbeat.

What is it that takes your breath away as the beautiful brevity of life wells up in us? As we pay attention to particular moments, perhaps we find stillness in the midst of the tumult of life.  Paying attention to those little things might expand our horizons; contemplating our smallness makes us aware of the mystery of the one in whom we live and move and have our being. Do we hear that heartbeat of love divine, all loves excelling?

In his poem 'Motet', Micheal O'Siadhail invites us to listen to the voices around us; to the webs of desire and fear; to the expanse of the cosmos; to the shame we harbour and defences we erect. He writes:

Turmoil of change, our slow renaissance.
All things share one breath. We listen:
clash and resolve, webs and layers of voices.
And which voice dominates or is it chaos?
My doubting earthling, tiny among the planets
does a lover of one voice hear more or less?

God's love pours out into the world in creation.  That love exceeds the infinities of space and time; it fills our inner most parts. God is unchangeable yet transforms all things. We are tiny human creatures sharing one breath. The breath of life is breathed into us by God at the beginning of all things.  As we listen, with deep attention we discover more of that love.  It winds its way into music and art, into our prayers and praises, into our gestures and imaginations. The love of God is the cantus firmus of all that is. It is the  melodic line around which our lives improvise a glorious polyphony in all we do and say. Practices of love are hard to sustain; worship is an opportunity to relearn that melody as we put God at the centre of our lives.

We come consciously into the presence of God who creates, redeems and saves us in and for love.  At Choral Evensong, the cantor prays: O Lord, open thou our lips. The choir responds: and our mouth shall shew forth thy praise. We give glory to the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit; as it was in the beginning and as ever shall be, world without end. All our praises echo the heavenly song of Revelation:

Holy, holy, holy, the Lord God the Almighty, who was and is and is to come.
You are worthy, our Lord and God to receive glory and honour and power,
for you created all things, and by your will they existed and were created.

That is the cantus firmus. That is our melody. The God of love is alpha and omega, the beginning and end. We hear that voice of love reaching out to us in scripture - the psalms resound with God's faithfulness to us amidst the struggles of our human condition. We hear of that love made manifest in Jesus Christ - the light to lighten all people and the glory of the people of Israel.  We hear of that love worked out in human lives in the power of the Spirit, as we seek God's Kingdom of love and mercy.

If we love that one voice of love, the melodic fragments of our lives become a symphony of compassion: words and gestures that take us out of our comfort zone; showing care and concern. In worship we are confronted with the glory and holiness of God; in order that we might sing that enchanting song of love in our lives.

Whatever tomorrow holds, every breath we take is an opportunity to speak and act in love: as we listen, as we encourage, as we forgive. The decisions we make in our work and relationships have the capacity to reflect that love. Sometimes it takes our breath away in delight; sometimes we catch our breath in pain. Here, we feel those things deeply; and are held in love.

In worship our strength is renewed; we abide in his love. We draw near to listen, to be encouraged and forgiven. In worship our looking and seeking for God exceeds our imaginations; there may be moments when our breath is taken away - in silence, in wonder, in word, in harmony or resolution.  Perhaps we glimpse something of the glory of the Lord  here in this space of light and sound, in the company of others or in the stillness of our hearts.

Like the prophet Ezekiel we look - and cannot describe or contain God: it is like a stormy wind... brightness... fire flashing... something like gleaming amber...  sparkling like burnished bronze... a sound of mighty waters... of thunder... a throne... like sapphire... something  like human form... fire... splendour.. a rainbow...

God is glimpsed in all this; yet lies beyond.  All analogies and metaphors, images and words fall away. This says Ezekiel, was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the LORD.

In his vision in Revelation, John too stretches language to convey the glory of God's presence: like jasper, cornelian, emerald or a sea of glass like crystal; like peals of thunder, flashes of lightening, like a voice.

The voice of love that calls out to us.  In turning and returning we face God who is breath taking and life giving.

Trinity Sunday reminds us that God is not an equation to be solved; rather it is a celebration of the God who draws us into a communion of love.  A God, whose love gives us the stability we need to face our challenges and choices. God's love heals us that we might be agents of compassion. May the colour of heaven finds echoes in our lives; may our lives mirror a dynamic, generous self-giving love.

In the final stanza of Micheal's 'Motet':

Infinities of space and time. Melody fragments;
a music of compassion, noise of enchantment.
Among the inner parts something open,
something wild, a long rumour of wisdom
keeps winding into each tune: cantus firmus,
fierce vigil of contingency, love's congruence.


© 2015 Julie Gittoes

Are we prisoners of our geographical and class "location"?

We are all prisoners of our geographical and class location: so writes Andrew Marr as he reconsiders how he does his   job as journalist in the wake of the General Election.  Politicians and civil servants are also grappling with a new reality - as they seek to implement policy and articulate an overarching vision. We are caught up in this too.  This week I've discussed the House of Lords, the Human Rights Act, the future of the European Union and, over lunch today, conversation turned to the impact of the SNP on Westminster.  As citizens, how do we live as disciples of Christ, committed to sharing good news?

Marr uses the forceful language of being imprisoned to describe the impact of our personal circumstances.  Our attitudes, concerns, convictions and priorities are shaped by our families and friends, our experience of education and employment, our health and responsibilities for others.  We inhabit a series of emotional, physical and social locations, if you like. But by God's grace they need not limit us. In him, we are called into an everlasting covenant. It's an eternal relationship of love in which we abide and in which find our identity. It's a love which draws us into relationship with others - enabling us to take risks in hospitality, trust, forgiveness and service.

The vision of Isaiah, picked up by Jesus, acknowledges the givenness of our human situation - as individuals and as a society. That's a vision of liberation.

Chris Gollon - Return of the Prodigal Son (2007)

After a period of oppression and exile, Isaiah declares to God's people a message of restoration for the broken hearted: mourning, oppression and captivity are replaced with gladness, praise and a rebuilt city.  In this restored world, the people of God have a distinct calling to witness to the love and faithfulness of God. Material wealth is enjoyed and strangers share the work of shepherding and farming.

The Lord's love of justice means that there will be recompense for the victim; those who do thwart God's ways are held to account. Isaiah roots abundance in the praise of God. It is deep attention to his love that enables us to bless others as he blesses us.

Jesus takes up this text as a paradigm for his mission. He goes back to his own geographical and class location - he returns to Nazareth where was known as the carpenter's son. He goes there filled with the power of the Spirit - he goes there to reveal that he is God's Son, the one who fulfils the promise of God's kingdom.  He comes to bring release from all that imprisons us.

God's purposes and human hopes are fulfilled as this new era of freedom breaks in.   Release begins with forgiveness. God's forgiveness of us entails a restoration of relationship between humanity and God. In Christ's life, death and resurretion sin is defeated.  Our perceived  status as victim or oppressor no longer  determines  the future. Forgiving isn't forgetting. It is remembering but refusing to perpetuate the hurt we've suffered. It is a new beginning.

The release proclaimed by Isaiah and fulfilled in Jesus Christ is about deep healing.  It operates at a spiritual, personal and social level.  This is good news to the poor.  Luke does not just define poverty in terms of  economic status.  He is concerned with all those 'locations', to use Marr's phrase,  which imprison us.

Luke tells us of Jesus's encounters with the rich young man and the tax collector; he writes of shepherds and lawyers; he tells us stories of a widow, a samaritan and a prodigal son.  All these people are the object of God's love and compassion, forgiveness and blessing. In our own diocese, the poor - those imprisoned by their emotional or physical location - will include the harassed commuter, the victim of domestic abuse, the overstretched care worker, the person whose benefits have been cut and the entrepreneur risking capital on a new project.

In a world of intense pressure and deep longing we are called, like Luke, to share a message of freedom, release, hope. He understood his context and responded to the way power or poverty imprisoned men and women. For him, Jesus Christ is the one who offers dignity and grace - drawing us into a new community. For him, it's the power of Spirit that compels Jesus' followers to go into the world as agents of blessing and reconciliation. Across our diocese, men, women and young peole are responding in manifold ways; in churches, workplaces, families, communites and voluntary service.

Whatever our circumstance or profession, we are called to reach out in acts of generosity and compassion to bring release; to speak words that convey God's purposes not worldly values, challenging systemic and relational injustice .  Today we look forward in expectation to the outpouring of the Spirit at Pentecost: when we will be anointed, equipped and sent out afresh into our world.

I will end with a reflection on the work of Jean Vanier, founder of the L'Arche community.  Speaking on Radio 2 today, he said, we live in a culture of winning and being a success; those who are physically/mentally vulnerable are told they are no good.  Life at L'Arche means finding acceptance, encountering difference, having fun and loving with the heart. We are born weak and will die weak he said; but facing our vulnerability with others brings strength and freedom.

This is not just a visionof the church but of God's Kingdom.  To be human is to be made in the image of God.  Politics, wealth or background should not divide, imprison or classify us. In the power of the Spirit may we bear witness to the love of God made manifest in Jesus Christ.

© 2015 Julie Gittoes

All shall be well?

On Friday, 8th May, it was a great pleasure to speak at a Private View at St. Andrew's Church (Limpsfield Chart) which featured some of Chris Gollon's recent religious work.  I first came across his paintings as we prepared for his exhibition 'The Incarnation, Mary and Women from the Bible' at Guildford Cathedral (which is now on national tour). It was a delight to see his work in the beautiful and tranquil setting of St Andrew's - and to be amongst friends including the Rev'd Wendy Harvey who shares my passion of Chris's work. What follows is the text of my short talk (further images can be found at: http://www.iapfineart.com/chris-gollon/?filter=religious-imagery-cg).

At this Private View, I was discovering (or even rediscovering) the range of Chris's engagement with religious themes.  It felt appropriate to be inspired and challenged afresh my his images during the  season of Eastertide - a time of joy, creativity and new life; it's time when we wrestle with doubts and hopes in the light of Jesus' death and resurrection.

Whether it's in drinking a glass of fizz or wearing gold shoes on Easterday, this is a season of surprise and delight; when we remember that we are called to live intensely and lightly. Every moment, every task and every encounter is a precious gift, full of purpose and potential; yet we do not know when we must face death to embrace life eternal.  Chris's images draw us more deeply into what it means to be human; what it means to love.

On Friday, I spoke about three things: Chris's work itself;  Julian of Norwich (whose feast day we kept on 8th May); the nature of pilgrimage.  Perhaps that might open up space for us to consider what Chris's work says about our own journey through life: our dreams, responsibilities and convictions.

Chris's work has a tremendous capacity to move us by graciously inviting us into stories.  In conversations with him and with David (Tregunna his curator), I constantly feel as if I am sharing a story I know well. I have to think carefully and deeply about how love, human and divine, is conveyed; where there are points of tension; how we interpret it afresh.  In the retelling of episodes in the biblical narrative, I am in a sense handing over what is familiar to me in order to receive it back with added depth, challenge and meaning.

Chris's work is illuminating in many ways.  He is infusing men and women with light. By drawing us into moments in their lives, he gives us permission to work our our own resolution or stay with uncertainty. He shares with Rembrandt the capacity of holding moments in particular narratives - we think we know what happens next, but we are held in expectation, hope, uncertainty or delight.

Chris Gollon - The Pilgrim (2015)

 

His paintings offer us glimpses of reconciliation and loss; grief and  contemplation; determination and despair. He pays attention to the detail: of individual lives and iconographic moments. He alerts us to the gaps in what we know, inviting to think about nameless men and women as well as celebrated saints and pilgrims.  In doing so he confronts us with that which is personal to us, and also a more universal narrative. Which of us isn't affected by desire, power, betrayal, forgiveness, weakness and resilience and altruism?

There are so many stories retold in Chris's religious paintings: he offers them to us that we too might pay attention to hands and faces; to tear stained cheeks and welcome embrace; to the physicality of pierced flesh and death in the Salmon Cross; to raised hands of the Pilgrim pausing for a moment on a journey, perhaps weighing regrets and hopes.  We wait with Rachel and Lucy, Cecilia and Alexis: in the lives of these individuals, something of the beyond breaks in. The particular is infused with a love that is all in all.

Chris Gollon -  Julian of Norwich (2013)

Julian of Norwich has been a particular source of inspiration for Christ: she is someone who,like Chris, is interested in the particular and the cosmic. She's a scholar and a theologian, writing in English; an anonymous woman who's named after a place. Chris captures inner assurance and depth of wisdom; and also, and this is something encouraging for me, an untidy desk strewn with papers and her glasses!

In the face of her own illness (and possible death), she had a vision of light and love; a vision of the divine.  According to tradition, she finds herself contemplating a tiny object in the palm of her hand; perhaps a hazelnut.  Its size says something about our human frailty; our smallness. That it is held carefully says something about the mystery of God. That all that is, is created and sustained by love.

One of her most famous sayings is that 'all shall be well'; it'd be easy to pass that off as a truism; a naive or patronising optimism. But it is worth considering that her insight is forged in the crucible of her own vulnerability; perhaps in those moments we see our selves and each other as we really are. We long to reach out in love; rooted in the assurance that we are loved. Our human capacity to get caught up in things; to make mistakes; is met by God's capacity to love and restore. That is the arch of Julian's story: a story of creation and freedom; of our propensity to sin and God's gift forgiveness; of frailty and new creation; of knowing that we are made and redeemed in love

That 'being loved' is made manifest in Jesus Christ. It is poignant that either side of the altar we see two of Chris's new paintings of Mary at the base of the cross - her stillness, her tenacity, her grief and her love is evident. The one out of view is her Lord, Jesus Christ, who pours out his love to draw all people to himself.  Chris's technique infusing light - in anticipation of resurrection; hints  of yellow and luminous blues amidst the darkness.  

Chris Gollon - Study (I) for Mary at the Base of the Cross (l) and Study (II) for Mary at the Base of the Cross (r), 2015

Love gives, waits, endures and wins. All shall be well.
 
So here we are in the midst of Eastertide: a season of new life, which boldly, foolishly or wisely declare that death is not the final reality, it does not have the final word; that asserts that love wins.  It's also a significant moment in our national life. Today is the 70th anniversary of VE Day; today we have a new government.  In all that has been said in defeat and victory, in remembrance and hope, we are reminded of the the importance of our earthly lives. We are pilgrim people - journeying on. We do so in the assurance that  if love wins; if in God all shall be well, then all we do has meaning purpose. We are to live more intensely; yet lightly because life is a gift we receive, share and let go of.

Chris makes us pay attention to pilgrims; to people like Alexis, The Poor Pilgrim. Who knows his reasons for abandoning his bride at the altar?  Why would a wealthy man abandon his position of wealth and influence, choosing to live in itinerant life in the wilderness?  Having abandoned his comfortable life, he was reliant on the generosity of others. Perhaps those who saw his humanity - his vulnerability and need - were moved to give; and in their response something of God's grace is revealed. Alexis in turn shared what he received from others with those faced by misfortune.

Chris Gollon - Alexis, The Poor Pilgrim (2015)

He discovered who he was called to be in a radically disruptive way; his life pointed to human interdependence and generosity, rooted in the love God. In Pilgrim, Chris challenges us to think about our desires and temptations and mistakes; it challenges us to think about forgiveness, new beginnings and our own callings.

Chris gives us permission to ask questions and to wonder in these paintings:  in amusician and a scholar we see gifts used in praise of God and in love for others.  We see a forgiven son and a compassionate father - the glasses celebratory fizz is open the story afresh to joy or reunion, and the absence of an older brother.   Life is complicated and fragile; love forgives and restores.

 I remain indebted to Chris for making me think more deeply; he gives us back a narrative that leaves us challenged and changed; he invites us to inhabit those stories, human and divine. As we do so perhaps we ponder the mystery of love divine all loves excelling.  Do we see in them Julian's assurance that all shall be well?


© 2015 Julie Gittoes