Teach us to pray

A sermon on the prayer Jesus taught - and the things we learn by and with our heart: Genesis 18:20-32; Colossians 2:6-19; Luke 11:1-13

A question posed by Radio 4's Poetry Please: When was the last time you learnt something by heart?

Perhaps it was pages of French vocab, our times tables or the lines of a school play?

Did we learnt the lyrics of a song, the words of a poem, wedding vows, the rhyme of a hymn…

Remembering is one thing: learning by heart quite another.

Learning by rote is one thing: learning with the heart, quite another.

Vivid Heart painting by Ivan Guaderrama

If we’ve learnt something ‘off book’, the poem, the hymn, the prose, the lyrics become part of us. We carry it with us. We live with it. Catching a new meaning in a familiar phrase.

The expression of another becomes our life-long companion; meaning more to us than they dared imagine: their words bury into our hearts and become our thoughts; their thoughts our prayers.

And what more profound heart language do we have than the words of the prayer that Jesus teaches to his disciples; words spoken not just on the human heart, but heart by the heart of God.

“Our Father” is known by heart in hundreds of languages over thousands of years. Not a second goes by without it being spoken somewhere across the world. It takes shape on our lips day by day. 

It’s heard at Eucharists and weddings, at morning prayer and Evensong, at school assemblies and acts of remembrance, at hospital beds and in crematoria. The prayer of one heart beating along with the prayers of another.

Today we are invited into a moment of prayerful communion.

Jesus had been praying in a certain place.

The beloved Son had spent time in deep loving attention to his Father.

Touching the earth: kneeling, sitting, abiding with us.

Stanley Spencer - Rising from sleep in the morning  (1940)  

Reaching to heaven: a posture of perfect love and trust.

Jesus’ heart was at one with his Father; beating in time with our longings too.

And a disciple says, ‘teach us to pray’.

And the teacher gives the language of the heart.

This prayer memorable in its rhythm and simplicity. It draws us into a rhythm of intimacy, holiness and praise. It names the simplicity of our need for bread, for mercy, for strength.

As we pray it we bless God’s holy name; our wills and identity aligned with love. We pray for the world, for homes, for friends, for communities and for ourselves, that our lives will be shaped by God’s will.

We ask for what we need: for mercy, protection and forgiveness; for daily bread, for strength and sustenance; for grace to bear the needs of others and humility for others to support us.

This is a practical way of praying: noticing what gives life; and what drains our energy; to discern glimpses of goodness; to name hurts or selfishness; for our lives to be shaped by God’s love; allowing heaven to be known on earth.

Jesus embodies this prayer and proclaims the Kingdom as he breaks bread and heals; forgives and challenges; blesses and encourages. 

He also tells a story to help us remember. It’s a story about friendship and bread; temptation and community. We might liken it to a commentary on prayer.

One writer calls it the parable of the ‘pushy pal’ - a late night conversation with Mr Host and Mr Sleepy. We might add in Mr Guest. Together they invite us into a circle of friendship which echoes the heartbeat of the Lord’s Prayer.

Mr Host has been woken from sleep by Mr Guest, who finds a welcome in his friend’s home.

However Mr Host has no food at hand to feed this late night traveller.

He calls out to his friend, Mr Sleepy,  just as Mr Guest called out to him.

At first Mr Sleepy is not terribly keen to respond: it’s late, the kids are asleep, the doors are locked.

Why would he abandon the warmth of his own bed to help a friend provide for a guest?

My Host is persistent. Mr Sleepy does the right thing. Mr Guest will have breakfast, his daily bread.

This is a circle of friendship and blessing; of hospitality and reciprocity. 

To pray ‘Our Father’ opens our hearts that we might receive what we need; and that we might not withhold goodness from others.

Human beings may not be perfect, but we do know what love looks like.

In Genesis Abraham makes his own petition of mercy. A petition which names the cries of our hearts and find in the heart of God an echo. Sodom and Gomorrah’s sin had been a failure to show hospitality; and yet when one cries out for the many, such a lack is met with compassion.

The persistence of a human heart reveals the heart of God.

We too are to ask for what we need: for the needful gifts of grace.

In the power of the Spirit we are invited to share in this pattern of life: discovering our true identity and purpose; aligning our wills with God’s; breath by breath; living lightly and intensely moment by moment.  

It’s challenging and life giving. And even when we stumble and fall, as we surely will, God’s Spirit still cries within us: Our Father…

This prayer changes us. The language of our hearts nudges us out of selfishness. It reveals the power of love divine - in life, death and resurrection, as Paul reminds the Colossians. 

Perhaps it was in praying Our Father that they were built up in Christ; being nourished as one body. Perhaps we have a common heart language which  resists the deceits and falsehoods of the world and draws us into the fullness of new life.

We reach for the words of the Lord’s prayer when there is nothing left to say; when we cling to another in heartrending grief. 

We pray with our hearts as we prepare to receive afresh the wafer thin bread of life that strengths us, the ligaments and sinews of Christ’s body on earth. 

We pray it with hope and trepidation at the beginning of a day; in exhaustion and thanksgiving at its end. It’s familiar rhythms lending us an inner stability.

The Lord’s Prayer teaches us how to pray. It is a living text. Simple enough to be memorised by children; broad enough for us to grow into; ordinary enough to name our basic needs; engrained enough to out last our memory, profound enough to sustain a lifetime of praying. 

Our Father in heaven: we crawl into bed, exhausted.

Hallowed be your name: as the kettle boils

Thy Kingdom Come: in an overcrowded  A&E

Thy will be done: as we go to the gym.

On earth as it is in heaven: as water is handed to the homeless.

Give us this day our daily bread: as the tube trundles into the tunnel.

Forgive us our trespasses: when we go to a difficult meeting.

As we forgive those: as we text the friend we hurt.

Who sin against us: as a policeman responds to the next call.

And lead us not into temptation: when we do the weekly shop.

Deliver us from evil: as we gather for worship.

For thine is the Kingdom: at a school leavers’ service.

The power and glory: at a baptism.

For ever and ever: at the end of a wedding.

Amen: said and sung, for this prayer is for everyone. 

We add our voices today: in the silence of our hearts; in words and music: Our Father…

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Choose what is beneficial!

A sermon from Sunday Evensong - thinking about connections, common humanity and seeking the good of the other (via Joseph!). It begins with a description of the TV2 film "Connected" which can be seen here.  The texts were: Genesis 42:1-25; 1 Corinthians 10:1-24 

A camera pans across a waiting room.

A voice over says: These people have a lot to talk about.  They just don’t know it yet.

It’s a diverse group in terms of age, ethnicity, mobility and dress.

They walk into what looks like a sports hall; standing in a crowd.

The voice over continues: In a minute we’ll show them they have more in common than they think.

Thomas, says the conveyor of this ad hoc gathering, will you stand over there. And Aske.

She says: Thomas you live in a lovely house with his family.

That house had been Aske’s childhood home.

That’s right. They laugh.

Different families; playing games in the same garden.

Next, Mathilda is invited to stands opposite Aske.

They’ve faced each other before, on the rugby field aged twelve.

They give a hi-five, saying: Good game.

Inge’s an old woman. She steps forward, facing Mathilda.

When she was born 27 years ago, Inge’s was the first face Mathilda saw.

My midwife she says; they hug and cry.

Anna’s husband had a heart attack whilst out jogging.

The person who reacted quickly and saved his life comes and stands in front of her.

Knud looks at her. Thank you, whispers Anna.

Just below the surface, a total stranger can turn out to be someone you’re actually connected to.

The fireman, the online gamers, the dog owners.

Rana and Maher came to Denmark as refugees from Syria for years ago.

Dorrit and Jan stand next to them. They have a similar story from WWII.

And Rikke steps up: her great-grandfather took the risk of sailing all night to bring Jan to Sweden.

The voiceover kicks back in, saying. It’s easy to mind our own business; harder to mind the community.

This invitation to discover something in common, something that connects us comes from the commercial world. 

The Danish company TV2 with it’s tagline ‘all that we share’ has produced several of these mesmerising and humanising mini-films.

They’re pieces of cinematic art which invite us to see beneath the surface of things; to step outside our own boxes and to recognise the common humanity beneath the surface of things.

Genesis draws us into the space of common humanity fraught with memories of hurt and the reality of power.

Andrew Lloyd Webber told us how Joseph loved his coat of many colour; how handsome and smart he looked, like a walking work of art. So memorable was this musical of a dazzling coat of colours, that one ordinand I know sang the lyrics to herself when translating Genesis in a Hebrew exam. 

But there’s only so far you can go in improvising on the text with red and yellow and green and brown and scarlet and black and ochre and peach and ruby and olive and violet and fawn and lilac and gold and chocolate and mauve…

Lloyd Webber tells us of the dreams and the dreamer’s demise. Joseph sings of closed doors and a land of his own. We learn of Pharaoh being kept away with vision of fat and thin cows; and Joseph’s rise to be his right hand man.

This evening we come in at the chorus of ‘Those Canaan Days’: golden fields of corn are no more. Now the fields are dead and bare; No joie de vivre anywhere.

We’re a long way from the Joseph mega-mix number. 

The scene is full of recognition and what remains unrecognisable.  

Joseph recognises his brothers, but he treats them like strangers: in public there is a harshness to his tone, in private he weeps.

Before there can be a joyful reunion, there is a time of reflection.

Joseph perhaps recalling the arrogance of his youth as well as the wrong done to him.

The bothers have lived with guilt and remorse for twenty or more years.

They’ve seen their father’s heartbreak.

They’ve treated young Benjamin with more care than they did Jospeh.

Now in a desperate attempt to avoid starvation they bow before the one whose dreaming they’d despised.

They do not recognise the one sold into slavery; they don’t know of his imprisonment. 

They bow before a leader; an unrecognised brother. 

If TV2 were filming this perhaps they’d say: stand hear Joseph and you Reuben. 

Your brothers divided by envy and united by love of your kin.

Perhaps they’d hug and weep, laugh or high-five. 

Joseph can’t rebuild the trust that quickly. In shock and self-protection he sets his own test of honesty and truth. He will see his father and his brothers. They will live and not die.

The story does not end there: relief from famine becomes prosperity in a new land; prosperity becomes threat and enslavement. Slavery is turned to freedom; freedom means walking in the wilderness, trusting in promises yet to be fulfilled.

In his first letter to the Corinthians, Paul reflects on the time our ancestors spent in the wildness: he notes the faithful presence of God in the parting of the sea and in the guidance of the cloud; in the provision of manna, quail and fresh water.

And yet, as we learn elsewhere, they grumbled and complained. They longed for the cucumbers and garlic of Egypt. 

The received commandments to love God and neighbour, and yet they fell into idolatry: the golden calf being no substitute for the holiness of a God who spoke in burning bush and the still small silence. 

Paul gives to the Corinthians a warning from history: complaint led to idolatry, idolatry led to immortality. Hearts turned away from God become hearts that turn in on themselves. 

Choose life, Paul is saying, that is at the heart of the commandment of love.

To choose life, can sometimes mean taking risks as Jacob and his sons did: seeking refuge in an unfamiliar land.

To chose love, can sometimes test our capacity to forgive, as Joseph moved from harshness to tears; living and loving beyond youthful vanity and sibling guilt.

It’s easy to mind our own business; harder to mind the community says TV2.

Paul reminds us that we are one in Christ, one in the bread we break and the cup we bless.

This is all that we share.

Paula Walker - Circles of Life

And in sharing, we choose life and love that moves beyond stereotypes; which challenges the corrosive prejudices of race, class, gender, age or sexuality.

We are to choose what is beneficial to others and what builds up. 

As Paul says, Do not seek your own advantage, but that of others.

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Paying attention

Preaching on Mary and Martha at Christ Church and St Mary's: on sisterly difference and learning to live an integrated life - rooted in paying attention to God and God's world. 

This passage always resonates. I am an older sibling and my own sister is a beloved friend: we have our differences, but value them (and each other) more than when we were teenagers.  However, rather than setting up yet another set of rivalries about the contemplative/active life, Jesus seems to be inviting deeper integration in those habits. 

The texts were: Genesis 18:1-10a; Colossians 1:15-28; Luke 10:38-end

Alice Walker once asked: ‘Is solace anywhere more comforting than in the arms of a sister?’

Sisterhood is more complex than that.

Sense and Sensibility (1995)

From Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women  to Jane Austen’s Bennet sisters, writers have explored those bonds: at best, the loyalty and incomparable depths of friendship; at worst, the rivalry and clashes of temperament.

In the Dashwood sisters Austen gives us “Sense” in Elinor’s earnest and serious character; and “Sensibility” in Marianne’s romantic and impetuous nature. Over the course of the novel, they learn more about themselves and they come to value each other’s differences.

In today’s gospel, we glimpse sisterly differences: Martha who’s welcoming, practical, out-spoken; Mary who’s more introspective, attentive, eager to listen.

Christ in the house of Mary and Martha - Johannes Vermeer 

We learn from John’s Gospel that Jesus loved these sisters, and their brother Lazarus. 

Jesus enters this house, the home of his friends. Peace comes to this household.

He’s made welcome by Martha. There is time for hospitality. 

Mary sits at his feet. There is time for learning.

One sibling adopts the role of host; the other the posture of the disciple.

One is distracted; the other sister, attentive.

In this household, there is a moment of revelation and of encounter.

The usual habits and tasks of the domestic routine are disrupted. 

Martha speaks: resentful, fed up or anxious about all that needs to be done. Hasn’t her guest, her friend, her Lord noticed that Mary’s left her to it?

And in a phrase that’s past the lips of many a brother or sister: Tell her. Tell her to help.

And Jesus answers.

He doesn’t chastise her. He speaks her name with concern, tenderness and may be even a hint of challenge. 

Martha, Martha!

He names the worries and distractions of the work she’s doing. The word Luke uses for “tasks” is diakonia - it’s a word which would have resonated with his hearers beyond hospitality and the realm of ‘women’s work’ to include forms of ministry and service. 

This is important work and it isn’t to be done alone. As one scholar puts it: ‘The worries and pressures of ministry are substantial: ensuring people have enough food, shelter, health care, companionship. Jesus is not belittling Martha’s situation. He is, rather, establishing priorities’.

Jesus is reminding Martha of the importance of attentiveness. To pay attention is to give our whole selves over to receptive.

Pay deep attention, says Jesus. Pay attention to God; to that pulse of love. 

Such attentiveness enables us to be more alert to the needs of others. 

To pay attention increases our capacity to be attentive.

Mary and Martha - Jesus Mafa

Sometimes, this passage gets read in a way which exaggerates the potential sibling rivalry, but setting up a hierarchy of inferior or superior occupations - that the contemplative life is to be preferred to a life of service or practical action.

Elsewhere in the gospels, Jesus criticises the host for being distracted from the main thing - because they’re more concerned about the status of the guests or proper ettiequte than anything else. 

As host, Jesus is saying, there need of one thing; that is to attend to her guest, her Lord.

Hospitality and learning go together. 

And perhaps there is a challenge or potential danger for Mary too. She has chosen the better part - to listen to her Lord. Yet to flourish as a disciple, she in turn will also need to speak, act, serve or come to the aid of another.

Jesus is inviting Mary and Martha into an integrated pattern of life. There is a time and place to be receptive; to listen and learn. There is a time and place to ask questions, to engage and be challenged. There is a time and place to contemplate, to be still; and to mirror that attention in faithful, fruitful acts of service. 

Mary and Martha will work out their own callings, together. In the light of this encounter with their beloved friend and heavenly Lord, they’ll learn to value each other, and their differences.

There are lessons for us too, as brothers and sisters in Christ. 

At our PCC last week, we pondered two sets of questions: firstly, where have we encountered Jesus, seen God at work in the Spirit; and secondly, what is our heart’s desire, what do we long for?

To answer those questions we have to be attentive: attentive to our selves and our community; and we also have to be attentive to God.

Sometimes the biggest threat to such attentiveness is busyness. When we try to do more and more, without the capacity to be fed or to reflect, we lose focus. It becomes draining and makes us anxious.

This is too much for the contemplative heart and the activity itself becomes a burden we resent.

When we talked about traces of God’s grace on Thursday, we were being attentive: naming the freedom of stepping into new territory; naming the fear and hope of going outside our comfort zone. 

When we talked about our heart’s desire, we were attentive we talked about the needs of our community, our schools and university; we expressed a longing for our fellowship to go outwards; for confidence in expressing our faith, for others to find joy in this place.

This double attentiveness is rooted in Jesus, the one who is God with us. The one who helps us name our distractions and our need to do ministry, together; The one who gives us permission to enter into a stillness and silence; learning, contemplating and praying.

Such attentiveness releases joy and brings new life and hope.

The story of Abraham and Sarah being hospitable to the mysterious strangers is full of attentiveness: in listening and responding, in refreshment and promise. It reminds us that when we are attentive to ordinary, earthly human encounters, we might also glimpse something of heaven.

For the earth is the Lord’s. By the power of the Spirit we are to open our eyes to see the possibilities, our ears to hear the cries, our hearts to respond with compassion.

Just as Jesus teaches Mary and Martha that they need to listen and question before they serve, so the Sprit teaches us to be attentive to the small things; to focus on what really matters.

Christ is God with us: the one in whom all things have been created; the one in whom all things are held together. 

Christ is the image of the invisible God; the one in whom the fullness of God’s love and power was pleased to dwell. In the frailty of our flesh, he reconciled all things to Godself.

That peace was made possible by the cross: a meeting point of all our human cries of despair and the fullness of God’s mercy.

Here and now we are called to be channels of that peace and reconciling love. 

At this Eucharist, love bids us welcome; bids us sit and eat. 

Love is our host.

In bread and wine, the mystery of love is made fully known to us. We are united in Christ’s body, given new life in the Spirit  and called to share the good news of God’s fullness with the whole of creation.

Within our community, there will be many Marys and Marthas: rather than being fractious siblings, let us be brothers and sisters who find common purpose; teaching each other to breath deeply in prayer; encouraging one another to be joyful in service.

Let us pray that we might be attentive to the light and love of God in our worship; and to that light refracted in our world. 

© Julie Gittoes 2019