My heart and flesh do cry unto God

Preaching at Guildford Cathedral yesterday morning was a daunting prospect in the wake of the terrorist attacks in Paris and our responses to those events.  A sermon at mattins set against the backdrop of events which were unfolding at an intensely human level, as well as within the political sphere, is but a personal reflection. It is an attempt to begin to make sense of feelings and repercussions; and as with all such 'attempts' it falls short.  The texts were 1 Samuel 9:27-10:2a, 10:17-26 (the anointing of Saul as King) and Matthew 13:31-35 (Jesus' parable of the kingdom of heaven).

My heart and flesh do cry unto God, cry to the living God 
[J. Brahms, text from 'A German Requiem' Op 45]

Last night, iconic buildings around the world were lit in the colours of the French flag: from London to New York, Berlin to Sydney, Durham Cathedral to Tel Aviv.  The profiles of friends on Facebook have been overlaid with the tricolour - pictures of weddings, holidays, football, concerts and familiar smiling faces - reflecting our desire to connect.

Music, sport, conviviality, friendship: the very things disrupted by brutality on Friday night.

And apart from: Kyrie Eleison; Lord, have mercy; pray for Paris.... there was nothing I could say.

Words seem futile: yet we try to make some sort of sense. 

Silence seems like acquiescence: yet we need to express solidarity.  

In a tiny book 'Writing in the Dust', which reflects on 9/11, Rowan Williams gives us a seed of hope. He wrote of the  bewildered, resilient 'we' of shocked humanity. He said:  'This "we" needs, God knows, time and opportunity to grieve, but time and opportunity also to ask whether anything can grow through this terrible moment. I hope the answer is yes'.

I hope the answer is yes.  In this smallest of books, he writes honestly of humanity and God's loving mercy.  He warns of using too many words 'when we try to make God useful in a crisis... that we take the first steps towards the great lie of religion: the god who fits our agenda'. 

I hope that the answer is yes: that something can grow; that God's kingdom is glimpsed. In the words of today's eucharistic prayer, which resonated deeply: we hope in God who'll 'gather into one in his kingdom our divided and broken humanity'.

Our first lesson draws us into the reality of grappling with earthly and heavenly agendas. We begin with the anointing of a ruler. As the oil pours down Saul's hair and cheeks, Samuel tells him that he'll reign over God's people; that he'll save them from their enemies. Such words belie complexity. 

The Lord worked in partnership with human agency - through the faith of Abraham, the boldness of Moses and the collective wisdom of the judges.  God had remained faithful to them in calamity and distress; they had sought to walk in the way of his commandments.  But now his people want a king. They want to be just like all the other nations. No wonder Saul hides - overwhelmed by the weight resting on his shoulders.  

God remains faithful amidst their desire for human sovereignty; but the people learn that a king is not a panacea to their woes.  It falls to the prophets to continue to speak for God's ways of justice, mercy, compassion and peace. In the midst of exile,  they offer to God's people something akin to the breathing space Rowan describes. 

Rowan's words are eerily prescient.  Hearing Parisians speaking about their refusal to live in fear, echoes his words about shunning victimhood. As we live with the void amidst destruction, as we express both love and grief,  Rowan warns against language of war saying: 'The hardest thing in the world to know is how to act so as to make the difference that can be made; to know how and why that differs from the act that only releases or expresses the basic impotence of resentment'.

Paris is the focal point of our prayers, in part perhaps, because events in this particular place presents a challenge to our identity and our common life. Perhaps it is because we are implicitly aware that our response in Europe has wider repercussions.  As we say 'pray for Paris, are we also praying for Beirut and Baghdad, Syria and Pakistan?  Our shock and anger reveals how connected we are to the corrosive brutality of our world; our hearts and souls cry out. 

It was seventy-five years ago, in the face of the smouldering ruins of Coventry and its Cathedral, that Provost Howard, took the risk of choosing the path of reconciliation saying 'Father forgive'.  Last night that  Cathedral was lit in red, white and blue. A sign perhaps not of our suffering writ large but of God's love and vulnerability; of Christ's cross; the cross of nails, a sign of reconciliation. 

Father forgive.

And there's silence.

And we wonder how we can names our fear and make space for forgiveness? How do we acknowledge shock and learn to grieve honestly? How do we face the anger and make room in our hearts of the other?  A month ago, this cathedral hosted a day on responding to the refugee crisis.  'There is global hospitality possible too in the presence of death', writes Rowan.

How do we stay with that hope?

The hope of the kingdom of heaven in Jesus' teaching starts with such smallness. Yeast and seeds are full of promise. Already within the seemingly insignificant there lies immeasurable power.  We might not be at the point, today,  when we can embrace the sureness of rich loaves and shrubs offering shelter.Yet, such illustrations invite us to look beyond the random violence and chaos we see around us.

Jesus' vision of the kingdom is dynamic: it is rooted in Spirit's power.  He teaches us with quiet assurance. He promises a transform of our world; but he faces opposition and suffering.  The powerful and violent  mock him as a defeated king or naive prophet. Yet in him, God is revealing the significance of the insignificant. In him, God reveals his patient love, made perfect in human weakness. By the power of the his Spirit, we are to participate in that patient transformation.

It is God's work to bring home the lost, give dignity to the despised and restore the sinner. 

We are called to plant seeds of grace, justice, love and peace - revealing light and holiness in darkness and hatred.

As pilgrims walk towards Parish to the UN climate summit at the end of this month, let us pray that our endeavours to fulfil sustainable development goals will be part of the global transformation of conflict. That us pray that we are on the cusp of a political and scientific revolution of building allies as well as infrastructure.  

May we choose life and hope; may we overcome hate with the power of God's love; may we stand with the suffering and defeat the curse of terror; may the smallest acts of compassion be signs of God's redemption.

Let us pray for God's mercy upon those of all faiths and no faith who shudder with grief, and strength be to those who work for peace:

Grant us to look with thine eyes of compassion, O merciful God, at the long travail of humankind:

the wars, the hungry millions, the countless refugees, the natural disasters; the cruel and needless deaths, our inhumanity to each other; the heartbreak and hopelessness of so many lives. Hasten the coming of your kingdom, when nations shall be at peace and all shall live free from fear and want ; and there shall be no more pain or tears in the security of thy will and the assurance of thy love, shown in Jesus Christ, the Saviour of all. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2015  

What happens when we stop, in silence?

It was moving and humbling to give an address on Remembrance Sunday [2015] at Charterhouse School. The texts were James 3:17-18 and John 14:27

27, 36, 22, 19, 20, 42, 47, 34

The ages of some of those held in remembrance on your [the Charterhouse School] Roll of Honour.

Some a little older than you; many not much younger than me.

Men known as Majors, Lieutenants and Captains.

Men known as sons, husbands, brothers, friends and colleagues.

Men known as Eustace, Richard, Thomas, James and Ralph.

Of the three thousand five hundred Old Carthusians who served in the Great War, 670 died.

They're commemorated here in this Memorial Chapel, along with the names of the 340 who lost their lives in World War II. It did not end there, for today we remember all those who've lost their lives in subsequent conflicts.

In recent years, the losses born by service men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan affect our generation deeply: for parents, friends, chaplains and colleagues it feels as if every day is Remembrance Day.

We remember, knowing that the shadow of war extends beyond battlefields; it lingers long after the end of hostilities. It's  glimpsed it in physical or psychological wounds; in family trees cut short and in the story of this place, their absence is felt.

How do we make sense of all this? We recite the poetry of Rupert Brooke and Wilfred Owen;  we might have read  Andy McNab's bestseller Bravo Two Zero or Simon Weston's  autobiographies tracing his life after the Falklands War; we follow the Vicar of Bagdad on Twitter and await official reports.

Even then, the cost, the pain, the courage, the fear: it feels incomprehensible. Our lives are shaped by those who grow not old.  Fragile poppies poignantly testify to those who gave their 'today' for our 'tomorrow'.  Do we find a point of connection with our own grief, regrets and loss?

It was Simon, not me, who became the Head of our CCF RAF Section. We did drill exercises and flew chipmunks together; he was the better shot, but my mark in principles of flight was higher. He wrote a cheeky comment in my School Leavers' book.

Twelve months later, he was dead. Killed not in war, but in a car accident.  The senselessness and heartrending grief that took hold was wholly new and wholly other. And faith and hope were crushed.  That silence, a microcosm of grief.

Today is honest about the sacrifice of service men and women, lives given and taken away; about the cost born by civilians in terror or fighting; about our own responses amidst all that disrupts life or bewilders us.

What happens when we stop, in silence?

Today, and at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month?

Today's remembrance is also honest about the future. We commit ourselves to work for freedom, peace and justice among the nations. We don't do that in our own strength, but through trust  in God, who will draw all things to himself.  Even in the chaos we're assured of love; in turmoil we hope for peace

Such peace is promised by Jesus as he speaks words of farewell to his own disciples. He meets them in their fear and uncertainty. In advance of his own death and in anticipation of their grief, he gives them a bequest.

His legacy of peace is more than a ceasefire or treaty between opposing forces, the kind of peace the world gives.  His peace is more than the absence of war; nor is it just an inner stillness. It is the promise to be with us and in us and alongside us. He is our peace.

To embrace that, to place that hope centre stage, is risky. It's transformative.

It is a hope  that our world longs for; something that our culture tries to articulate.

Last night, I accidentally caught the end of Dr Who: the shapeshifting Zygons are everywhere; the ceasefire has broken down; no one knows who to trust; opposing forces face each other, locked into a cycle of violence.

The Doctor, Peter Capaldi at his best, urges them to break that cycle. He says 'the only way anyone can live in peace is if they're prepared to forgive'. He acknowledges the complexity of unfairness and injustice, the futility of cruelty; the turning wheel of winners and losers, of ideals and troublemakers.  'It's not a game' he says, 'it's a scale model of war'.  Broken hearts and shattered lives, bloodshed and pain.

The words that the Doctor speaks echo words that God speaks to us: 'here's the unforeseeable. I forgive you'.  He urges an end to war because he doesn't want anyone else hear the screams or feel the pain that he does.

It is God in Christ who both bears the pain we remember today and forgives our fragile humanity; in him, God reconciles the world to himself.

For God so loved the world, he sent his Son to be with us from the moment of speechless infancy to the intimacy of friendship's embrace; from the deepest agonies of suffering to the defeat of death itself. That is our hope.

We remember, because we have a duty to the future as well as to the past. What will happen on our watch? Dare we break the cycle? In the Dignity of Difference Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes 'I honour the past not by repeating it but by learning from it - by refusing to add pain to pain, grief to grief'.

That demands a wisdom from above: peaceable, gentle, merciful, willing to yield. A wisdom that answers bitterness with generosity, hatred with love, injustice with compassion, anger with forgiveness, conflict with reconciliation, violence with peace.

God's wise and peaceable Spirit work in us, in you and me: in each conversation, gesture and act of service.  May we be living sacrifices of love courage  hope and compassion for sake of God's Kingdom.

When the world is in turmoil, peace making and peace keeping are complex and costly things.

On our watch, we need men and women who are wise and peaceable to seek the greater good and restore hope: in soft power, in political influence, in military strategy.

Jesus said: I give you my peace.

On our watch, may there be a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace for those who make peace.


©  Julie Gttoes 2015

The dead are alive

After yesterday's Rugby World Cup Final at Twickenham, some of us are celebrating All Blacks as much as All Saints.

However, over the last week, there's been another source of anticipation and excitement.

Bond is back.

In a dazzling opening sequence, we're transported to Mexico City.  It's Bond.  It's a little bit silly; a little bit cliched. Gadgets, glamour and martinis. We see dramatic ariel stunts, adrenaline inducing car chases, a train hurtling through the desert and a villain - with a white cat.

At  moments, it's heart stopping - but not always in the way we expect.

Spectre captivates us with a spectacular, vibrant and exotic parade scene.  It's 'The Day of the Dead'.  A Latin American festival full of rich cultural and religious allusions; elaborate costumes and intricate dances.

Two people - a man and a woman - move through through the crowd with purpose. Masks hide their passion and their intent.

Four words - an on screen epigraph marks the beginning:

The dead are alive.

Four words... pulsating through unspoken traumas, fears and hopes of one man.  It's Bond. Of course it's full of nostalgia and the ghosts of previous 007s and their enemies. The Telegraph describes it as an act of pure cinematic necromancy.
 
Perhaps it's the combination of Daniel Craig and Sam Mendes that has given the franchise a degree of emotional and psychological depth. The losses are real; the stakes are high.  Ghosts of parents, lovers and enemies lurk amidst the muted tones of the film's palette.

The use of data, monitoring mobile phones, security breaches and tracking: these are the things we
fear in relation to freedom and we'll have chance discuss themat Thursday's penultimate 'Proclaiming Liberty' lecture.  In Bond, it's 'C' who talks about an international surveillance scheme which will capture the world's digital ghost.

The dead are alive.

Death and life lie at the heart of our faith.

Our fears and limitations are changed by hope of the Gospel. Today we celebrate the lives of those who have gone before us in the faith: the apostles, prophets, martyrs and saints.

It is indeed a holy company.  They are knit together, in one communion and fellowship.

Tomorrow we remember the lives of the departed, remembering them in love and thanks giving.

The dead are in a profound sense 'with us' not just in our hearts and minds; but as part of the mystical body, in Christ.  Although it stretches our imaginations and confounds our perception of time in relation to eternity, they worship with us; praising God and singing with us holy, holy, holy; Lord, God Almighty. 

To celebrate the saints is an encouragement to us:  as we rejoice in their faith we find inspiration to follow their example, proclaiming God's glory in our own generation.  In the power of the Spirit we are called, like them, to witness to the love of God made manifest in Jesus Christ. We are to do so with boldness and joy.

To celebrate the saints, is a source of hope amidst all that challenges, overwhelms and perplexes us.  It is a hope that meets us at our most vulnerable. It's a hope that confronts our mortality, and says this is not the end. For nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

As we discussed at BOB yesterday,  [our cathedral youh group is called Bunch of Believers, known as BOB]  Halloween faces the darkness of death with pumpkins, fancy dress and the refrain of 'trick or treat'.  Perhaps we dismiss it as light-hearted fun; but there is something sinister about it too. It is a night that talks of ghouls and ghosts but which does not speak of the defeat of darkness by the light of Christ.

Over pizza and cake, BOB pondered the promise Isaiah, discerning words of hope and promise to hold onto now and in the future. Isaiah speaks of a shroud cast over the nations: perhaps an acknowledgement of injustice, pain and sorrow; of all that weighs on our hearts and casts a shadow over our lives. But he also promises an end to mourning and death; he offers a vision of feasting on rich food and mature wine.

As we wait for the fulfilment of that vision,  it seems that the world wrapped in a shroud; like this morning when Guildford was surrounded in fog. We wait for glimpses light, love and hope. As one member of BOB asked, what if our lives resonated with the brightness of that hope - as if the dampening piano pedal has been lifted, and a compelling tune is heard?

In today's Gospel, a shroud is destroyed. It is a story full of love and intense emotion. Jean Vanier describes it as one of the most beautiful chapters of John because it reveals  how profoundly human and totally divine Jesus is.    We see the depth of Jesus' human emotion: he knows the intense anguish of grief.

The pain and horror of the untimely death of a friend is excruciating.

He weeps.

We feel too the weight of the words of Mary, Martha and the crowds: the weight of expectation, disappointment and loss.  We hear the sting of if....

If you had been here, he would not have died. We hear the demands of love. Could he not have prevented this?  They weep. This death is real. There's a stench.

He comes. He sees. He weeps. He is distressed. He speaks:  Take away the stone.  He faces death. Lazarus, come out!  The dead man is alive.

He releases an outpouring of human emotion: a breath-taking an overwhelming joy and adoration.

He releases us from the constraints of death, saying: unbind him and let him go.

Some perhaps were moved to faith and trust by what they witnessed. Here is a glimpse of Isaiah's promise being fulfilled : the shroud is unbound; tears are wiped away; there is joy and gladness.

Today, we  name our fears - of change or pain or dependence on others; of failure, rejection and despair. The fear putting the love of God at the centre of our lives: calling us to let go of jealousy, grudges and self-determination and to see ourselves as we are. As loved. Unconditionally.

Dare we trust the power of God within us and others?

Lazarus' hope, and ours, is in the the Lord of life who swallows up death. In the one who lies in a tomb for three days; the power of God in him defeats death itself. Folded grave clothes remain as God's transformative power is seen in the glory of the resurrection. In different garden, another Mary cannot see through tears yet hears her name and says I have seen the Lord.

We live in the hope of unspeakable joys. Like Lazarus we called to be fully alive in the face of mortality. We're ensnared by fear and condemnation; yet called to live with fearless generosity; fragmented and overwhelmed, yet called wholeness, holiness and godly living.

Jesus says rise up; live as people of light and life. Jesus calls us out of the tomb; he unbinds us. We are called to give life.

Amongst the saints, there is no them and us. For we are all called out of darkness into God's marvellous light.

We are, Vanier says on a journey of resurrection to do the work of God, to bring love in to our families, our communities and the world.  That process begins every morning and is shaped by every Eucharist; it continues in every act of forgiveness and every gesture of gratitude.

The dead are alive.

We live because God lives in us.
We love because Jesus gave himself for us.
We shine as lights by the power of the Spirit.

Rise up in love!

Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead.
He calls each one of us
to rise up
in love.



A sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral on All Saints Sunday. The texts were Isaiah 25: 6-9 and John 11:32-44. John Vanier's commentary 'Drawn into the Mystery of Jesus through the Gospel of John'  continues to be an inspiration. Yes, I've seen Spectre but hope I have avoided spoilers! 

© Julie Gittoes 2015