A sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral - Evensong 27 January 2019 which ended up being about love, normal people and discerning vocation. I was struck by the image of the cloud in relation to God's presence - settling and moving on, as we settle and move on. Holding on to that alongside Paul's instruction to lead the life assigned to us... The texts were Numbers 9: 15-23 and 1 Corinthians 7:17-24
Sally Rooney’s second novel, Normal People has generated a buzz of critical acclaim - long-listed for the Man Booker Prize and winner of the Costa Novel Award. Its green cover is ubiquitous: piled high in Waterstones; clutched in the hands of a commuter dashing through Waterloo.
Normal People: it’s a deceptively simple tale; and perhaps one which is universally recognisable. Rooney draws us into an intricate web of intimacy and regret, affluence and poverty, quarrels and forgiveness. She does so by tracing the lives of Marianne and Connell from a small town in rural Ireland to their student life in Dublin.
They are “normal people”: seemingly mismatched when judged by their popularity and class, yet bound together by attraction, a meeting of minds as well as bodies. However much they understand and misunderstand themselves and each other, there is protection, vulnerability and growing self-worth.
She pours hot water on the coffee; white light floods the room as she draws the curtain.
The day begins before work begins. She takes a shower.
All perfectly normal.
She dries her hair with a towel; as he sits up in bed, closing the laptop down.
They respond to the email he’s received: practicalities, questions, indecision.
Normal life.
And Connell says: I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.
In the words and silence of these characters, Rooney gives us a more than a glimmer of hope.
And Marianne thinks: she’s made a new life possible, and she can always feel good about that.
In the words and silence of a final scene, Rooney gives us a glimpse of a love that gives dignity and purpose.
It’s not a saccharine cliché of ‘happy ever after’. That wouldn’t do justice to the struggle with the darkness of grief and violence or the shadowy fear of being lonely and unlovable.
Instead, Rooney echoes something more universal: how one person can shape another; how our lives can be indelibly marked by that love; how goodness is a gift of patient care and acceptance; how life is given and chosen.
Those universal concerns - the longings of normal people - are threads running through our scriptures. Threads which express our hopes, fears and regrets as we try to make sense of ourselves and our world; threads of silence and speech, stories of lament and praise which seek not only to understand our innermost hearts, but also the God who created us.
In our scriptures, those threads are woven together with the deep desire of God to communicate something of Godself to us. In words spoken on the holy ground near a burning bush and in the awesome silence after the earthquake, God is present.
In the giving of commandments to love, we are invited to choose life; in their repetition and enactment, community is formed. In prophetic rebuke, we are called back to love mercy, do justly and to walk humbly with God. In the song of the psalmist, we are reassured that our help does indeed come from God. This God gives life; and is with us.
In Numbers, the sometimes imperceptible reality of God’s presence is made tangible.
The assurance of God’s nearness and faithfulness is made visible at a time of hardship.
The joyous miracle of liberation from Egypt had now turned to the laborious journey to a new homeland. Nomadic life in the desert was challenging; trust in God’s promises wavered.
In Chapter 11, we hear people reminisce about the food they used to eat in Egypt: the fish and cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, onions and garlic. Freedom had dinted the memory of slavery, their earthly longings undermined their gratitude for manna from heaven.
Despite all this, the Tent at the centre of the camp marks God’s presence with them always and the cloud serves as a sign of when to rest and when to walk.
When the cloud settles, they are to settle: making camp, lighting a fire, telling stories, mending clothes, weening infants, tending the sick, replenishing resources.
When the cloud lifts, they are to lift their feet: moving onwards, navigating their way through the wilderness, sharing responsibilities, seeking out intelligence about the land ahead, leading a new generation home.
The one who had called them out of Egypt remained faithful. They learnt hard lessons about how to live together - facing disputes, jealousy and fatigue. In these human struggles, God was ever present; they learnt to discern together God’s ways for them.
Our lives might not be marked by a visible cloud: and yet perhaps we do sense when God is calling us to take our rest; to give our energies to one thing or another; to commit ourselves to a particular place or task.
Cultivating habits of attentiveness to God - in prayer, in scripture or in conversations with trusted companions along the way - helps us to discern when God is calling us on to a new thing. It might be a niggle of being unsettled or a desire to use gifts in a different context; it might be that we are entering a new season of life, when the availability of time or energy creates a new opportunity.
In both cases, dare we say ‘yes’: when God is calling us to settle, rest and serve there; when God is calling us to a new thing, take a tentative step.
This is at the heart of what the Church means by vocation - or calling. Listening deeply to one another and to God; discerning together the ways in which the Spirit might be challenging, encouraging, equipping or inspiring us to do a new thing. Neither staying or going are without risk or cost; but both are rooted in the love of God who says ‘choose life’.
For Paul, writing to Christians in the vibrant cosmopolitan city of Corinth, was perhaps all too aware of the proliferation of ‘choice’. Choices about marriage or singleness, circumcision or uncircumcision; choices about the place of women and slaves; choices about who to include or exclude; and even choices about which spiritual gifts were most valuable.
His words are both challenging and liberating: let each of you lead the life that the Lord has assigned, to which God called you.
He cuts through the debates which preoccupy us, the Corinthians and even Rooney’s ‘normal people’. Status, race intellect, gender, wealth, sexuality and abilities make no difference. We are to live integrated lives - as individuals and within community; to live life in response to the love of God which changes us.
Such freedom has been bought at great price; and reshapes every aspect of our social life. Now we are joined together in Christ’s body; and with the power of the Holy Spirit at work in us we are to honour others.
Such honour demands trust in the face of vulnerability; humility in the exercise of authority; generosity in hospitality; faithfulness in relationships; compassion in response to the needs of others; wisdom in using our resources; joy in the midst of normal people.
Now, I hear Marianne’s words differently. I hear them not about her human love - but of God’s love made human in Christ.
Love that relieves the pain of loneliness; which brings goodness like a gift.
Love which means we no longer see ourselves us unworthy; which opens up life.
Love that changes us; and changes each other.
© Julie Gittoes 2019
