Tuesday 23 February 2016

Do you have (a) family?




The text of a sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral on Sunday morning: there had been an interesting discussion on Twitter about family life, singleness, childlessness and marriage - and what the church assumes about our personal situation (the judgements or values we place on people as a result). Alongside that, we now find ourselves in the midst of a debate about Europe in the run up to a Referendum. What is our vision for union? Are we making a special case in the face of turmoil that we need to face together?  See below for suggested resources to explore those questions. The readings were Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16 Romans 11:13-24.
 


"Do you have a family?"

It's perhaps one of the most obvious and seemingly innocuous questions we ask in the midst of our ordinary social interactions.

"Do you have family?"

It's a question that can be made more or less generous - more or less intrusive - with the omission or inclusion of that one word: a.

A family: it conjures up an image perhaps of a family unit.  Today life is far more complex than the stereotype of parents plus 2.4 children. But if we live alone; if we aren't parents; how do we answer?

Speaking of family, with the "a": perhaps it gives us permission to talk about parents, siblings, granddads, cousins and honorary aunts or uncles, even perhaps our godparents. It becomes more inter-generational; it sounds more diverse.

Even then, it doesn't account for the number of people with whom we share our lives.

 Colorful Family Tree Background (1)

Today's readings take us several steps further: we are drawn into a narrative of blessing, covenant and fruitfulness; it's a vision which extends the notion of family beyond biological kinship. God's wider purpose is for the whole world.

But how would Abram and Sarai answer? Do we see this geriatric man and his barren wife as pitiable, vulnerable or as channels of grace and hope?  Their story is rich an complex and you can follow it in full in the pages of Genesis. God called Abram to leave his father's house aged 75 - he promises to bless him with a great name and a great household.

With Sarai his wife, they travel in famine, plenty, hospitality and enmity: perhaps childlessness in the face of promise becomes an intolerable burden; impatiently they take matters into their own hands, and Abram has a child Ishmael  with Sarai's maid Hagar.

Now, some 20 years later, the language of multitude, offspring and nations is repeated. The promise of blessing is renewed. Names change and hope is renewed. Isaac will be more. Their family isn't singular - 'a family' - it is rich, complex and fraught; a family of nations and faiths.

Such covenanted relationships operated across three dimensions: rooted in the faithful call of God, Abraham and Sarah respond in trust for the sake of a blessing that transcends time. It's a blessing that unfolds in the mystery of the incarnation, in who Jesus is.

These notions of family, calling and promise are precisely the things that Paul is grappling with as he writes to the Christian community in Rome. Elsewhere he has declared his credentials as a one who was circumcised on the eighth day, a Hebrew of Hebrews; righteous, zealous and blameless.

But now, he is rejoicing in his ministry to the Gentile community: his notion of a family of God - of people of faith - has been radically expanded.  In Jesus Christ, he sees God's action in reconciling the whole world.   He agonised over this - spiritually, theologically - because this hope comes seems to be related to the rejection of the good news of Christ by his own people.

In struggling to make sense of this he uses  language he uses of stumbling and failure, even of branches been thrown away reveals the depth of his own turmoil.  And yet and yet, he sees some continuity of God's purposes: it is the same faithfulness, the same hope and ultimately the same family.

In God's plan, the people of Israel and the Gentile community are interdependent: the holiness of the first fruits sanctify the whole, the health of the cherished roots strengthens the branches. He extends a gardening metaphor in a way which stretches horticultural viability - not only are wild branches grafted in, but those which have been cut off can be re-grafted.

Such is the hope of this family of nations - the multitude of those loved and called by God - that it is cosmic in scope. If the rejection of Jesus by Jews brings reconciliation to the world; then their acceptance of God's ways will bring even more life.

We can never boast says Paul in an 'exclusive' or 'special' relationship with God that forecloses on the divine promise of redemption to all.  There is one tree.  For all of us our faith rests on the faithfulness of God. Our hope is a hope for the whole world.

We are called to seek and serve that wider purpose - in the power of the Spirit.

The Gospel reframed questions about family: regardless of tradition or status; our parentage or parenting. Our family includes the holy first fruits of brothers and sisters across denominations and faith traditions; it includes the rootedness of our family in Syria, Israel, Palestine, Egypt and Iraq. How does citizenship of heaven, through the cross of Christ, shape our earthly responsibilities?

 EU flag ballot box

How might this notion of a holy family - a multitude of nations, peoples living in covenantal relationships - shape our own engagement with the EU Referendum? It is Bishop Nick Baines puts it in his blog an act of faith. As Europe faces crises: reform of institutions, renewal of vision, challenges to financial systems, thousands of refugees, upheaval on our boards, what dare we say about the place of 'union'?  

As the debate unfolds, we are being asked to consider what are the basic principles of our life together; to discern a bigger vision how earthly realms manifest the virtues and hopes of a heavenly kingdom.


©  Julie Gittoes 2016
 
 A multi-disciplinary offering space for Christian reflection on Europe: http://www.reimaginingeurope.co.uk/

The Rt Rev'd Nick Baines (Bishop of West Yorkshire and the Dales):
https://nickbaines.wordpress.com/

The Very Rev'd Michael Sadgrove (former Dean of Durham):
http://northernwoolgatherer.blogspot.co.uk/

Sunday 14 February 2016

Love that makes us real


 The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams | Books for Parents & Kids ...





A sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral on the First Sunday of Lent - which this year falls on 14th February.  Thinking about the impact of Valentine's Day on the popular - and Christian - imagination is a salutary thing in Surrey. On the one hand, Weybridge was named as the most romantic place in Britain in a survey revealing couples spent £235- or nearly four times the national average - on Valentine's Day gifts. On the other hand, arrest rates for domestic violence across all 43 forces, which caused concern and including training/development needs for the sake of victim safety. Love that is real condemns abuse and goes beyond material gifts. My colleague Helen Dawes sparked some thoughts by her Tweet this morning! However, in today's readings Romans 10:8b-13; Luke 4: 1-13, we focus on how God loves us and what that might mean for each human 'I love you'. 


The first Tweet I read today said: is it happy Valentine's Day or gloomy first Sunday of Lent? @revhelend

My reply was: Or subverting Valentine's Day and saying something joyful about love of God on first Sunday of Lent? Far from gloomy @GuildCath

Today's readings draw us into the reality of love, which is far from gloomy.  We subvert the cliches and excess; the flowers and chocolates. And we glimpse a love that is so real it vulnerable. It bears our hurts and increases our capacity for joy. God's love is the first breath and the last word. It reconciles, strengthens, waits and transforms. God chooses to love us by becoming one of us. It's a reality that subverts and deepens our human 'I love you'.

It's such a simple sentence.

Three monosyllables.

Subject. Verb. Object.

I love you.

It's such a familiar phrase: longed for, expected, demanding or routine.

Developers of auto-correct technology for our smart phones and tablets have analyzed billions of key strokes. They tell us that the most commonly typed sentence is: I love you.

As Joe Moran says in the Guardian Review: 'all those millions upon million of what seem... to be inimitable feelings, with intricate emotional histories behind them, condenses into the same three-word chorus.'

I love you.

It's enough: reassuring words; habitual words; an everyday sign off.
It's freighted with meaning: a grand gesture; a formal declaration. 

I love you: the intimate becomes the universal.

It's layered with excess: the Truly, Madly, Deeply  of love expressed in some of our films.

It's open to manipulation and control: anyone listening to The Archers senses unease and fear when Rob Titchener expresses his love for Helen.

Three words: I love you.

It's a sentiment that is relentless extended: Gonerel declares to Lear that she loves him 'more than words can wield the matter'.

It's given and expressed within the limits of our relationships. Lear's youngest daughter rejects the competitive excess.  She knows she's not poor in love. Her love is 'bigger than her words'. Yet, when faced with transaction and conditions; with rhetorical word play to gain a greater share of the kingdom, there is nothing that she can add.

She loves as a child should love a father, neither more nor less.
Love, obedience and honour: half as daughter, half as wife.
If love is bound by conditions, what more can she say?
What can be added to 'I love you'?
Cordelia utters painful, honest truth:  'Nothing, my Lord.'

At church weddings, couples increasingly seek out non-biblical readings to give expression to their love. Perhaps the nursery rhyme familiarity of The Owl and the Pussy Cat adds a quirky edge to their personal commitment. Perhaps the image of entwined tree roots in Captain Corelli's Mandolin says it better than they could. One couple reverted to The Velveteen Rabbit.  Perhaps it's the safety of a children's book that renders the inexpressible cost of love, say-able.  Perhaps it's still a favourite of grandparents and babysitters.

The Velveteen Rabbit longs to be real.  In the nursery he seeks the wisdom of one of the oldest toys. How can he be real? 

'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.



'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt'.

In Luke's Gospel, we have already learnt that Jesus is conceived by the Spirit; he is baptised with that same Spirit. Now that same Spirit leads him in the wilderness. The Spirit fills Jesus and the Spirit guides him. Here in the desert, Jesus commitments himself to loving the world. Tempted as we are - yet without that fracturing of relationship, or selfish desire, that we call sin.    

In the weakness of our flesh, God loves in a way that it so real it hurts; so real it saves.
 
The Temptation In The Wilderness
Briton Riviere (1898)
Guildhall Art Gallery, London 

The devil's questions, prompts and offers to Jesus are lens through which we see the power of love.  In the human frailty of hunger, Jesus faces the relentless psychological nagging 'if you are the Son of God do x or y.'


Satisfy your hunger!  

No, says Jesus, for we are sustained not by bread alone. No, I will not love the world simply by satiating physical desires; by refusing to go deeper into human longings; by colluding with greed.  Love that gets to the heart of our needs and hopes, that is real.

Accept earthly power!

No, says Jesus, seizing glory and authority in that way is not God's way of loving. Resorting to domination on someone else's terms is not real love.  Love that coerces and bullies a response isn't real.   Attention to God in worship is the beginning of love; serving others by attending to their needs, that's real love.  This is love that walks the way of grief and exclusion; transforming it into joy and welcome.

Perform a dramatic stunt!

No, says Jesus, I won't take a short cut. I won't put God to the test in that way. Real love doesn't change human hearts by performing feats of reckless showmanship. Such love is superficial and fleeting: it doesn't forgive or heal; it doesn't challenge or embrace.

Three times, Jesus chose to serve God. 
 Three times he rejected the temptations power and security. 

This is what God's love looks like: it doesn't dominate or seek easy wins.  It's a love that walks the way of the cross. It's a love that is our ultimate reality. A love that overcomes pain, sorrow and death itself. 

And if that's how God loves, then it's how we should love too. This is the word that is near us; that is to be on our heart and on our lips.   It is a word of love that shapes our community; it is the assurance that our fears and hopes are held in his generous love. 

Paul reminds the Romans that this has three implications:

We can have confidence in what we believe: we confess that Jesus is Lord; we proclaim that God raised him from the dead.

We are to be messengers of God's grace: rather than being self-sufficient, we are to draw on his love, living  out of that well-spring.  As one of our confirmation candidates put it 'God is our daily basis'. God is our all - our beginning and end; the one in whom we live and move and have our being. The one who gives us breath; and teaches us love that is real.

We are to rejoice in the breadth and depth of God's love for us, and all people: there is no distinction between Jew and Gentile.  In Christ, God is faithful in fulfilling the promise to his people Israel - that all nations will come to his light.

There is no distinction or partiality in the love we celebrate today: whatever our ethnicity, status, age, popularity, knowledge, experience. All those 'implicit' tribal identities are swept away as we kneel and receive the gifts of God's love: in broken bread, in out poured wine, in signs of God's blessing we hear God say 'I love you'.

The Skin Horse tells the Velveteen Rabbit that becoming real takes a long time: 'your hair has been loved off, your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.'

And Toby says: 'you were right, Rabbit. Love makes us real'.

In Jesus Christ, God tells us that love that is real bears all things to the agony of the cross and the silence of the grave.  In the power of the Spirit, we are called to love that way too: bearing the weak; forgiving hurts; challenging the strong; growing in trust, and encouraging each other.   

May the God's word of love be on heart and lips. 

May the love we celebrate this Lent, make us real.


© Julie Gittoes 2016