This post is based on the text of a sermon written for Evensong on the Second Sunday of Advent. The texts were 1 Kings 18:17-39 and John 1:19-28, stories of the prophet Elijah and John the Baptist. In the event, the sermon was pulled - because of concern about the overall length of the service and a very cold building (we now have some temporary heating!). However, having seen Fantastic Beasts there were themes I wanted to ponder further - so this piece is longer than the original sermon.
It begins with a case of magical creatures: a case which was opened ‘just a smidgen’.
It begins with an interesting man, a Mr Scamander: a man kicked out of Hogwarts.
It begins in 1920s New York: a city in the grip of political campaigning.
It begins with an opening sequence of a collapsing building: a population looks for answers.
On a wet and chilly Saturday evening a few weeks ago, stepping into J K Rowling’s wizarding world was an enchanting escape. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them fizzes with energy and humour; exotic and imaginary creatures delight us; there’s a quirky romance, unlikely alliances and Eddie Redmayne excels as the quietly donnish magizoologist.
But, in tune with the very best fairytales, there is an altogether darker subtext. This reimagined world is in the grip of fear, suspicion and destruction. We see a dark whirlwind of energy smash its way through buildings; it tears up roads, overturns vehicles and leaves chaos in its wake.
In the realm of cinematic fantasy this is force is called an Obscurus. It’s a narrative device within an imagined universe. The quest is on to 'find the child' so that 'we will all be free'; the child is key to it all. Ultimately, order is restored when the baddies are unmasked and good triumphs.
And yet, given J K Rowling’s interest in human identity and the use or misuse of power, this film operates at a deeper level.
There are themes which we must take seriously; themes which our readings also reflect. And as we pay attention to that, we are drawn more deeply into the stuff of God. To be drawn more deeply into God is to understand more fully our humanity - confronting our mortality and embracing hope.
As charming as Fantastic Beasts is, as a film it is a chilling reminder of how swiftly fear can distort our relationships; it can shut out the voices we do not wish to hear; it labels as ‘other’ those who are not like us. In the film we see how that operates at a city level - fragmenting society as people respond to alternative rallying cries. But cinema is reflected the lived reality of our social lives.
Fear - and the abuse of power - also operates at an interpersonal level. In the film, Credence cannot be who he is or fulfil his potential. Instead he is subjected to manipulation, control and actual harm - both physical and spiritual. J K Rowling uses the device of the Obscurus to make visible the impact of abuse: violence is internalised and distress is expressed externally.We don’t live in a realm of wizardry; there are no magical beasts to distract us from human sorrow. We live in a realm of human agency within which we are to protect the vulnerable from abuse - in homes, workplaces and institutions. We are to be as light in darkness because this is also a realm of divine agency.
Our world is infused by God’s creative and generous love which meets us in the depths of despair. The voices of prophets cry out against abuse of power and spiritual manipulation. And as Advent edges towards Christmas, we see in Jesus Christ God’s response to all that dehumanises.
In him, heaven touches earth: not as a romantic idyll but in confronting the violence of which human beings are capable and defusing it. It is in the cries of a speechless infant that power is confronted. To look on him - to face Christ - is to be disturbed and challenged; it is to be provoked to name bad ideologies. More than that, we must also set out a compelling vision for transformation. We do that not by ‘magic’ but in power of the Spirit which calls us to be reconnected at a deeper level
Let’s take one example of a response to fragmentation: The Bishop of Burnley, Philip North wrote powerfully in the Church Times about the narratives we listen to within our national life. When metropolitan elites are pitted against the voices of the disenfranchised, we all lose. How then does a church speak positively about national identity - about the values we aspire to embody - whilst also being generous in our hospitality?
There is an urgent task ahead of us - deepening our understanding of what it is to be a citizen, building trust and strengthening community. In the words of Archbishop Justin ‘we need a narrative that speaks to the world of bright hope and not mere optimism - let alone simple self-interest’.
We might not have seats in the House of Lords, but we do have the opportunity to act in solidarity with others - regardless of their class, gender, ability, ethnicity or economic worth.
This is a claim about the God-given dignity of every human being. It’s a claim that demands action in response to the increasing numbers sleeping on our streets; it’s a claim that ought to shape our daily interactions. Elijah and John the Baptist literally and figuratively point us in the right direction.
Elijah faced an urgent challenge in terms of the stability of national life: that is the faithfulness of a people to their God; and the well-being of individuals. King Ahab regards him as troublesome. Why? Because he points out the the King that he has abandoned the ways of God. Rather than walking in the ways of the God of Israel, he now followed the Baals.
He had neglected the commandments of God: commandments which spoke of love of God and love of neighbour. Such loving was not an abstract philosophy; faithfulness to God was revealed in acts of mercy and wise judgement; in compassion for the widow and foreigner.
Why might a King forsake the Lord and sit lightly to commandments? Ahab’s wife Jezabel gets much of the blame. Their marriage secured a political alliance; but she was ruthless and manipulative. Her worship of Baal - a god of rain and fertility - might have seemed like an attractive option to a people under threat from other nations. It might have appeared a far less demanding ethical code; perhaps much more suited to the pursuit of one’s own desires.
Elijah throws down the gauntlet: he sets out the conditions for a competitive religious drama. On the one hand there were elaborate preparations; endless cries to Baal; physical injury to participants. It reads like a corporate act of will which is met by ridicule on the part of Elijah. It’s a noisy charade which is met by silence. There is no answer; no response.
On the other hand, we see a simple declaration of dependence on God. Elijah speaks of God’s faithfulness; he hopes for the restoration of dignity and purpose; he longs for a people to turn back to God’s ways. It’s not flashy; it’s not trying to force God’s hand. It is a longing for God’s presence to be acknowledged. And as in the burning bush, flames of fire serve as a mysterious sign of the divine presence.
It’s not a fantastical story about the supernatural; it’s actually a story about us.
It’s about the ways in which we so often seek fulfilment in the transitory; it’s about how we affirm our identity in seeking to control others. It’s about how we want a short cut, because walking in God’s ways is hard.
But… there’s still that whisper which catches our attention. The honest human cry which is met with the divine assurance of our dignity.
John the Baptist, like Elijah, put God first. He didn’t keep that to himself. He cried out. He cried out to people to do the same. He poured water on the heads of those who came to him - or, as is more likely, he plunged them into gushing waters of the Jordan. Such a sign of bubbling new life was accompanied by the demanding call to repent.
He echoed Elijah in calling them back to God. Turn around. Turn away from all that is selfish, destructive and toxic. Turn around. Turn towards the God who brings mercy.
The people of Israel were waiting for a prophet to liberate them from occupation - for someone to save them from the Romans as they’d been freed from the Egyptians and so many others. They’d endured abused and subjection. They longed for their dignity - and their identity - to be restored.
Given John’s vision and stature, it’s no wonder the authorities trekked to the wilderness to see for themselves. Could he be the Messiah? They were expecting perhaps a warrior, one who’d bring unity and victory. Might John be the one who’d restore them to fulfil their calling as chosen ones; blessed to be a blessing to all.
John is brusk in his denials: I am not. I am not the Messiah. I am not Elijah. I am not one of the prophets.
John is enigmatic in his responses: I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness; make straight the way of the Lord.
His calling is to prepare hearts and minds to receive him.
He is faithful to God and invites others to rekindle their commitment.
He is alert to the nearness of God and invites us to respond wholeheartedly.
John tells a story which is honest about our human condition: about our capacity to seek our own glory; to manipulate others; to impose our own agendas; to the dark violence of abuse.
John tells a story which is honest about God; about a love that breaks down barriers of fear, anger and resentment.
In due course John will declare: ‘Behold, it is he!’ But first, he calls us to prayerful repentance.
There is no magic; but there is mercy.
There is darkness; but it does not overcome the light.
The child is key: the Christ child sets us all free.
Today, we pray O Rex Gentium:
O King of the nations and their desire,
the cornerstone making both one:
Come and save the human race,
which you fashioned from clay.
© Julie Gittoes 2016
