A sermon preached at Mattins at Guildford Cathedral on 23 October, which marked the celebration of our Cathedral Singers' 30 anniversary. Philip Moore composed a setting of Jubilate Deo for the occaision. The texts were Isaiah 59:9-20; Luke 14:1-14. Although this was a (rightly) joyous occaision, I couldn't overlook the parallels and challenges of Jesus' parables and Ken Loach's film I, Daniel Blake.
Today we gather in the house of the Lord with gladness: praising God, giving thanks for our Cathedral Singers, for the dedication and enthusiasm of successive generations of musicians; in their singing of the Te Deum, we hear praise the God of our redemption, and pray for grace and mercy; after this service we will celebrate with them in hospitality and fellowship. However, first we pay attention, together, to the parables of social life lived before God which Jesus sets before us.
Ken Loach has been described by the film critic Peter Bradshaw as 'the John Bunyan of cinema; a bringer of parables'. In I, Daniel Blake he returns to a narrative of 'social outrage'; a parable of power and kindness of bureaucracy and dignity. Daniel Blake is witty and wise; a respected tradesman, proud of his craft; he's honest and resilient, making no attempt to play the system.
A heart attack leaves Dan caught between following the advice of his consultant that he cannot return to work yet; and the judgements made by so-called 'medical practitioners' and the remote 'Decision Maker' which deem him fit for work. As walk with him, we too long for the justice and righteousness and truth which echoes throughout Isaiah's plea to God.
We watch Dan, who is 'pencil by default', navigate a world which is 'digital by default'. Like Bunyan's pilgrim Christian, Dan faces his own 'Slough of Despond': doubts, fears, temptations and guilt and shame. He tries to maintain his dignity and honesty in the face of a system of punitive sanctions. When he's forced to sell furniture and carpets to pay a final electricity demand, he keeps his tools; he hopes he'll get back to his trade.
As with Pilgrim's Progress, Dan meets characters like Hopeful, Ignorance and Little Faith along the way: those who exploit and demean; those with entrepreneurial flare; those who reveal a depth of compassion in ordinary things: in libraries, supermarkets, job centres, food banks and building sites. We wonder if his appeal will be heard - a glimpse, perhaps, of the Celestial City on earth.
Loach paints dignity and shame and humanity in vivid colours: there's an uncompromising seriousness about what he wants to say. Like the prophet, he rages against oppression and the uttering of falsehood: We roar all like bears, and mourn sore like doves. There are parallels with the way in which Luke recounts Jesus' parables. He tells us of crafty stewards, harsh masters, unjust judges and persistent widows; of proud religious leaders and humble tax collectors; of the rich man and Lazarus.
Today we are drawn into a set of socially subversive parables about community, conduct and generosity. Jesus is under scrutiny - those in positions of power are watching him. He goes to eat a meal - and in the face of the silence of his host and guests - he brings healing. He restores the marginalised to community. In that moment he reveals that we cannot add value to people; rather we are to treat them as being valuable. God made us with intrinsic worth.
God gives us value: yet worldly dynamics of power undercuts that with questions of who we count as the 'deserving' poor. Even within the realm of hospitality Jesus is aware of our human desire to 'get on' to be viewed in the 'right way'; of our pride and ambition; our concern for status and false humility. Jesus' teaching recognises that our that fear of social embarrassment or disgrace can motivate us to do the right thing. If we raise ourselves up, we will be humbled; the humble will be honoured.
In these parables, he invites us to consider our conduct and to extend our vision of community. Jesus breaks open the closed circles of reciprocal invitations which are as deeply engrained in our own social conventions as they were 2000 years ago. He shatters a pattern reliant on wealth, aspiration, obligations and the people we like. If we affirm that relationships of mutual affection and friendship are part of our common life; here, Jesus is taking what we know, value and understand and inviting us to stretch our habits of hospitality.
At our public lecture on Thursday night, Dr Margaret Adam reminded us that food and meals can become the means of powerful ethical choices. It's precisely the ordinariness of eating that enables it to be a conduit of grace. Those moments exist when we invite those who cannot or would not offer us what the Authorised Version calls recompense, what we might call payment, by inviting us back.
Those moments exist, when we offer a sandwich to a person who is hungry; when our donation to a food bank enables others to be fed, or allows them the dignity of sanitary products; those moments exist when we sit with someone on the fringes, when we take risks in relationship: welcoming the one who is not yet a friend, but who is our kin, valued by God. That circle is kept open, deliberately, when children who've endured more than we can imagine arrive to take refuge.
I, Daniel Blake takes us to the heart of graced hospitality. When Dan meets Katie, he sees beyond his own circumstances to befriend her in vulnerability; to become to her children Daisy and Dylan reassuring quasi-grandfather. When she's sanctioned, he buys some food. He dignifies her by eating what she offers, knowing the cost of that to her.
He walks with her to the food bank; he comforts her and gives value when her desperation is humiliating. He cooks for the family knowing they can't afford to entertain him. There is no recompenses or repayment; but there is relationship and mutual love, value and dignity; in his isolation and illness, it's the ten year old Daisy who hammers at the door, who won't walk away; who brings him couscous she's made.
At the end of his review, Bradshaw quotes a line from Dickens' Bleak House: 'what the poor are to the poor is little known, excepting to themselves and God'. If Loach's cinematic parable has expanded that knowledge, then our worship restores of vision of God's will for us and what is demanded of us.
Our longing for God's kingdom resounds through all that we say and sing and pray; we rejoice in God's forgiveness and loving-kindness; we come into the house of the Lord with gladness; we seek after peace and plenteousness. In the words of the Jubilate Deo, composed by Philip Moore for this occasion: 'the Lord is gracious, his mercy is everlasting; and his truth endureth from generation to generation'. In that mercy, grace and truth we are sent out in his Spirit, to witness to and embody God's love made manifest in Jesus Christ.
© Julie Gittoes 2016
