Expansive Dreams

A sermon preached at Magdalene College, Oxford for Evensong on the Sunday before Lent. 

The texts were  2 Kings 2:1-12 and Matthew 17: 1-23

It’s been described as ‘furiously fast, furiously funny and still not for the faint-hearted’; ‘a magnificent comedy that us good for both heart and the soul’.  

Sex Education is now in its second series, explores significant questions beyond teenage sexual escapades. It talks about mental health, bullying and parental pressure; it handles addiction, assault and consent. It frames questions of identity, belonging and inclusion. 

The search for intimacy is seen as something serious and good, which can’t be reduced to sex. There is hope as well as heartache. The characters are open to growth and change, acceptance and forgiveness. 

For Maeve Wiley this means, in part, deciding whether to rebel or excel; whether to be defined by her past experiences of rejection or by the potential she’s invited to explore. Teetering on the cusp of self-sabotage she faces the frosty welcome of her more privileged peers who aspire to be prime-ministers and movie-makers.

What she’s written heartbreakingly eloquent, honest and moving:  ‘In 10 years' time, I want to live in a house with big windows. I want the house to be large enough to have a kitchen table with four chairs but not too roomy to ever feel the depth of my aloneness. Because I'll probably be alone. But I think aloneness won't feel so all-consuming with windows that protect me from the world but still let me watch it.’

And her teacher’s response:  ‘You’re a beautiful writer, Maeve. You can have more expansive dreams than four chairs and some windows.’

We can all have more expansive dreams; but to do that we need to feel safe. Sometimes we do need to be alone, but we also need to work together. 

The physical framing of Maeve’s ten year dream reflects her fears and isolation; her need for safety and a level of self-reliance. Her past is shaping what she allows herself to hope for; but being made in the image of God, our human potential is more audacious than that. 

Today’s readings invite us to dream expansively; but they also allow us to name our fears and the things that make us feel safe. 

In our first lesson, Elijah is aware that he is to leave the earthly realm; and this moment of departure is something that he feels should be, a private encounter between him and God. He is imaging perhaps his own space where he is alone and protected. 

Elisha, his devoted and loyal follower, feels differently: he makes pronouncements which affirm the intimacy of their present relationship, but which also reveal something of his own expansive dream. He is not only a follower, but an heir and successor.

When Elijah himself tells Elisha to say - because the Lord is sending him onwards - the younger man will not leave. 

As the news of Elijah’s departure seems becomes widespread with other prophetic voices chiming in, again Elisha asserts his knowledge of that reality; but also bids them be silent as he journeys on. He has no intention of leaving him.

As Elijah’s removes his mantel, and as waters part, we enter the intimate and liminal moment before he is taken up to heaven. Here, he lays aside the sign of his office; his work is done.

But as the horizon shifts for him, as earthly life draws to a close; for Elisha the proximity of this moment opens up a more expansive dream.

It may seem presumptuous to lay claim to a double portion of Elijah’s spirt; a ten year dream that is so audacious it seeks to surpass his master.  Yet, perhaps like those in Maeve’s cohort, the confident request masks a feeling of inadequacy. 

Elisha is loyal. He’s had the privilege of time with Elijah. Yet he knows he cannot rely on his own strength to step up to accomplish the task ahead of him. 

Here Elijah has to discern whether or not Elisha is up to it: a little like Maeve’s teacher having to challenge and encourage, cajole and affirm to test out whether she has the character as well as the ability to take the next step.

His discernment is predicated on the what God reveals of Godself in the moment of departure; and how receptive Elisha is to seeing things differently. 

Elisha watches and waits; he glimpses in a vision of immense heat and power and energy the reality that his mentor had indeed been the spiritual driving force of the nation. 

Icon from Greek Orthodox Church in St Louis, MO 

This is a moment of letting go: his way of relating in physical proximity comes to Elijah to an end; and yet in letting go, a new and expansive future opens up. A future which needs careful handling. 

Any power and authority entrusted to us can be like a fire or whirlwind. Does it disrupt, distort or corrupt our instincts for good? Or perhaps does it real something of who we are and our character under pressure?

Some of us will be coming to terms with the report about Jean Vanier over the last 24 hours: recognising afresh the dangers of making our heroes saints; of uncritical human regard for fame and influence. 

The conversation between Elijah and Elisha reflects back to us the need for wise mentors; of the importance of accompanying one another in accountability; of the discernment needed in seeking to fulfil our hearts desire; of letting go of our heroes and seeing things through the refining fire of God’s love. 

Those lessons apply to each of us - whatever our roles and responsibilities, however expansive our dreams. Alone and together we need there to be safety and support; we need to trust enough to flourish, but not to trust so much that we collide with that which diminishes others.

What then of our second reading? Might it also shape our expansive dreams whilst also holding in check our desire for power and glory?

In this moment of transfiguration, we see not a change in Jesus, but a change in how those closest to him see him. They see the fullness of God’s light and life. In the body of this one who is God with us, the beloved son, they see the radiance of love.  

Moses and Elijah frame this love with freedom and faithfulness and justice.

Transfiguration - James B. Janknegt, USA

But this body will suffer and die; this body will carry the weight of human violence and exploitation; this body unmasks our delusions of grandeur and self-interest; this body defeat’s the power of death itself. For this body will rise again; declaring that love has the last word.

This love checks the abuse of our power and privilege; it reveals that we cannot rely on our own strength alone. It points us to the risk of humility and trust; of placing our faith in God whose will it is that frail and bruised bodies should be restored, transfigured, redeemed and made whole.

Yes, like Maeve we must  expansive dreams; but those dreams don’t lock us in behind windows. Our need for safety should challenge us to keep others safe. Love moves us from fear to trust, from human effort to divine grace; from self-reliance to accountability. 

All this for the sake of others. In our learning, creativity, responsibility and potential, may we seek to be people who bring life and hope our of sorrow and death.  So we pray for the Holy Spirit's gift of charity - bond of peace and source of all virtue. 

© Julie Gittoes 2020

Until the day dawns

This sermon was very hard to write let alone preach, coming as it did the day after the news about Jean Vanier. I included within this sermon caveat that what I said was difficult; that we needed to check in with ourselves; that some of us might want to talk to someone (including our safeguarding officer). 

Yes, the world is charged with the grandeur of God; there is a fragile beauty. There is also the reality of toil and heartache; harm caused by abuses of power; bewilderment at our fallen heroes; and the reality of our mixed motives. This is an attempt, however partial, to name some of that complexity; a complexity that is  still infused with grace and hope. 

The texts for Sunday, 23rd  February were Exodus 24: 12-18; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17: 1-9

Sunrise from my (former) kitchen window

There are over 65 millions posts on Instagram which include the #sunrise all of them seeking to capture the colour and light of the dawn.

What is it about the breaking in of a new day that gladdens our hearts? 

Darkness is pushed back; there is a fragile beauty. 

The world is, in the words of the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, charged with the grandeur of God.

The world is awakening. For night owls, insomniacs, and early risers this moment is unbidden: glimpsing it a rarity for some, a source of energy or anxiety for others. 

We treasure this grandeur with hope perhaps, or gratitude; a moments peace or the cue to press snooze: as the poem continues, it will flame out, like the shining from shook foil; /It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil / Crushed.

The grandeur of God.

Unbidden, never spent; brooding over us.

And yet, alongside this there are the things over which we labour; the toil of hands and lives.  The things we struggle with; those things which mar God’s image in us; or scare the landscape of our world, diminishing its greatness. 

There is hope and grandeur, yes; but there are also the dark places where light needs to shine. 

Today, God’s grandeur and light and glory, is seen in flesh and blood: This is my Son, my Beloved, with whom I am well pleased. Listen to him.

Today, amidst the mess of this beautiful and challenging world, we are also told: You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your heart.

Two things to hold on to:

My beloved Son.  Listen to him.

Be attentive. As to a lamp shining in a dark place.

Transfiguration gives us a glimpse of light and glory on the cusp of Lent.

Transfiguration - Alexander Andreyevich Ivanov (1824)

We see God’s grandeur , the breaking in of a new dawn, in Jesus Christ: this hope is particularly poignant.

Yesterday morning, a report was published about one of my theological inspirations the late Jean Vanier. 

A man whose commentary on John’s Gospel explored the challenge and beauty of God’s love; love revealed in Word made flesh, dwelling with us.

A man who founded a network of communities serving adults with mental and physical disabilities; treating them as equals, as children of God.

This same man has been accused of manipulative sexual relationships with colleagues; women have spoken out about the emotional and spiritual abuse they experienced.

This news is heartbreaking for it revealed the harm done when there is power and influence, without accountability.  It was shattering because we want our heroes to be perfect; we make them saints. We fail to acknowledge, that they, like us, are flawed, with mixed motives. 

It has also painfully revealed to us the damage that uncritical human regard and admiration can do. As Sr Catherine Wybourne reflects in her blog, when she heard Vanier speak, she half expected someone to genuflect before him. No-one did; but nor did anyone ‘challenge anything he said, either. Every word was received as incontrovertible wisdom.’

It does indeed feel as if we are in a dark place; what then are we to do; who then can we trust?

We are to trust in Jesus; God’s beloved Son. We are to listen to him. We are to be attentive to him in the dark places of our world and of our lives.

This listening begins with prayer:

We pray for the women who’ve carried the cost of their stories, the weight of a hidden truth, the pain of not being believed. For they have spoken and been heard.

We pray for the  L’Arche communities; for wisdom and strength as they create safe spaces where all can flourish; for that work to not be discredited.

As we pray for forgiveness of Jean Vanier, we also pray for ourselves and all who’ve been inspired by him.  For when our trust is undermined or when a hero falls from grace; when we see the suffering caused, we are also confronted with the reality of our human condition.

We are all flawed with mixed motivations: we are capable of doing good, but also of causing harm. We wrestle with our own desires and vulnerabilities; with temptations to take advantage or pursue selfish ends. 

Lent brings this into sharp focus.  What we call sin is the reality of things that distort God’s image in us; that we are capable of being wounded and wounding others. So we pray that God will reshape our wills, hearts and lives that we might love goodness.

We do not do this alone. At the very heart of the Christian life is the immense courage needed to be compassionate to others; it is risky and demanding. It is why, in our life together, we remain accountable to one another. 

Before we begin our lenten journey of prayer, fasting and generosity, we are given a glimpse of the light of Christ to give us hope for the journey.

At this moment of transfiguration, Jesus is revealed in majesty before he suffered death on the cross. Our collect for today not only asks that we, like the disciples, may see that glory; but that also we might be strengthened and changed. 

We are to be attentive to this light shining in a dark place: strengthened when we suffer and changed that we might reflect more of God’s loving goodness. 

Todays’ readings are full of promise and give us a glimpse of that goodness.

There are echoes and parallels in what we’ve heard read today: words of commandments carved in stone; words of that same love poured out in human flesh. 

Moses and Elijah remind us of God’s call to freedom and to faithfulness; to the commandant of love and the prophetic work of justice. 

We hear words of glory reflected in Moses’ human face, a brightness which faded over time; we hear of that same glory reflected radiating in all its fullness in God’s beloved Son; it does not fade, it is who he is.

What we see in our Gospel, is not a change in Jesus but a change in the disciples’ understanding of who he was.  Peter, quite understandably wants to hold on to this experience; to make it permanent. 

Yet this is just the beginning of a journey: for this body, glimpsed in all its divine radiance, is a body which will suffer and die for us. This body will carry the weight of human violence and defeat its power. For this body will rise again.

The dying and rising of this body, gives hope to our bodies. It gives hope to the whole of creation - infused with God’s grandeur but also harmed by greed and carelessness. Frail bodies and bruised creation will be restored, transfigured, redeemed and made whole.

As he writes of this experience, Peter does so knowing it only made sense in all its fullness after Jesus’ death; this glory is only shared when resurrection life has broken the bonds of death. 

As he writes, this experience becomes a gift to us; an image of God’s presence with us in Jesus which is to be a light in dark places. He gifts us this image that we might listen and pay attention - not to cleverly divided myths and untruths - but to the love that casts out fear.

We are to hold onto this light as we walk in the way of vulnerability and compassion; being courageous yes, but not alone. Sustained by the words of scripture and the grace of the sacrament. Before we depart today that we who’ve gathered at this table might reflect the life and light of Christ in word and deed. Knowing that it is not human fame and honour that saves, but only the power of God who can bring changes us. For it is only this light that can drive our darkness.

Transfiguration - Armando Alemdar Ara

The world is charged with the grandeur of God; and for all the toil and sorrow, Manley Hopkins gives us hope:

And for all this, nature is never spent;

    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

©  Julie Gittoes 2020

A pinch of salt

A sermon preached at the Eucharist on the third Sunday before Lent thinking about what it is to be salt and light. The readings were: Isaiah 58:1-9a, I Corinthians 2:1-12 and Matthew 5:13-20

The format has been described as MasterChef meets Bake Off; with some critics panning it as overdone, derivative and a cooking contest too far.

Nevertheless, each week, I’ve caught up with the contestants on Best Home Cook as they’re put through their paces by Mary Berry, Angela Hartnett and Chris Bavin.

They’re challenged to make the Ultimate meringue, curry of pie before having to Rustle Up a dish from scratch, with a single humble ingredient as the start of the show.

Someone will be sent home after an Eliminator: a fast paced test of technical skill, precision timing and perfect seasoning.

Image: Metro

Inevitability one of the judges will pull a face and dismiss a dish as needing a little more salt; and contests crumble before the culinary heroes; confronted with a hug from Claudia Winkleman.

A pinch of salt makes the food we taste become more fully what it is meant to be: from risotto to soup. 

Salt doesn’t exist for its own sake; nor does light. Flavour and illumination are metaphors that suggest we have purpose in turning towards the world. 

We aren’t to be hidden away or called to be less than ourselves: rather Jesus seems to be telling his followers, our calling is to be a blessing. 

Somehow, when we are fully ourselves, we participate in God’s ways with the world, allowing it to become what it’s called to be too. 

Creation is called into being by and for the love of God. The impact of our own lives is not merely self-satisfaction, but to play our part in this fundamentally connected pattern of life. Commitment to this way of living and loving is directed beyond ourselves to the praise and glory of God; the one whose breath gives us life.

These themes of being called, connected and committed were at the heart of a conference for CofE school leaders last week. 

We may not all be teachers; but we all have a calling. To inhabit that well  - individually and collectively - is an inspiration to others.

Paula Gooder reminded us that first and foremost, God calls you to be you. 

In creation, God calls all things into being: giving names, defining purpose and shaping identity. 

Within that calling to be you, to be called by name, we  discover a call to a longer term role: shaped by our gifts in health care or music, technology or business, as parent or volunteer. 

Within the cope of that work, we are entrusted with particular tasks: what is God inviting us, you and me, to do today?

Whatever we do, we are both dependent on others and needed by them.  

Each Eucharist, we remember that though we are many, we are one body, because we share in one bread.  It was Augustine who coined the phrase, that here we receive what we are and become what we receive: that is the Body of Christ.

It is through the life and movement of this body that the world sees Christ: through the work of our hands, in the places we walk, in the gestures we make.  Our body language says something about the life and love of God - in embrace and protest, hospitality and care, inspiration and joy, kindness and challenge.

What we receive is all we have to offer the world: the life of our Lord Jesus Christ.

In the power of the Spirit, we are to love as God so loved the world.

We are to be salt and light: a living and breathing body, moving in our world.

We are called in a world where all around us there exists a competitive matrix of mis-directed desires: desires to consume and control. The fruit of such desire is greed and oppression, indifference to others for the sake of personal ambition.

Isaiah reminds us that the people of God are susceptible to forgetting their calling and becoming ensnared in these dynamics self-interest and argument and injustice.  As a prophet, Isaiah repeatedly calls people back to the things they have forsaken: love of God and love of neighbour.

The promise of universal restoration remains: words of challenge and rebuke invite us back into a life of calling, connection can commitment; back into ways of love which bring stability and life, rebuilding and flourishing. 

Isaiah gives practical examples of what this way of life looks like, if we cease from finger wagging or blaming others; if we give up on factious and quarrelsome talk: feed the hungry, welcome the homeless, seek what is just and release people from burdens. We might add to that list: reach out to the lonely, teach the young; stand alongside the migrant, show kindness to the fearful.

This way of light and life must be visible: a lamp on a stand, a city on a hill. A light that is dispersed and moving in the world - carried with us like a torch or beacon or lantern. 

Paul describes this calling as one which flows from weakness.  It demands of us a vulnerability which doesn’t cling to worldly status or privilege. Paul knew all too well that we will fail and fall short; and in acknowledging that reminds us that God is greater than all our failures. 

We are called to be ourselves; to be vulnerable and to bless. There are many things which can obscure our vision or disrupt this way of life - our Archbishop spoke on Thursday about tiredness, bereavement and the pressures of immediate crisis.  Then it is our prayer and scriptures which ground us - reminding us that there is strength and grace to be found in God.

The God who dwelt among us, who lived and died for us, also rose again that we might know the power of risen life; that we might know that death does not have the final word.

Symphony of Light

Jesus teaches about being salt and light in the context of his Sermon on the Mount: a set of teachings which go to the heart of what it means to live our lives with attention fixed on God’s love; and which helps us relate to each other in new ways. It is a teaching which brings hope for humanity and for a better world.

This teaching is about the fulfilling law and prophets: in the way Jesus brings into being what the law and prophets promised, drawing us into a deeper of commands to love which require more than outward observance. Instead, this love calls us to attend to weighty matters.

It is about the risk and challenge of loving without limits; of doing justice; being merciful; of learning to practice forgiveness, to liberate ourselves and others by God’s grace. 

It is about whole relationships.

It about being blessed in order to be a blessing. It is about speaking God’s wisdom not with plausible words but with courageous service after the example of Christ; that in the power of the Spirit we might bring hope to our world. In the words of a colleague from the URC, Richard Becher :

You have all been invited at this time to this place

We don’t just want an invitation: We want to be welcomed.

You are all offered a warm welcome to this place

We don’t just want a welcome: We want to have a voice.

You are all welcome and this is a place for listening

We don’t just want a voice: We want it to be heard.

You are all welcome here, and your story will be heard

We don’t only want to be heard: We want to be believed.

You are welcome to this place where no truth is denied

We don’t only want to be believed: We want to be trusted.

You are welcome to this place where your words are accepted

We don’t only want to be trusted: We want to be loved. 

You are welcome to this place where God’s love embraces all 

We don’t only want to be loved: We want to know we belong.

Whoever belongs to God, belongs among us, for we are one in Christ.

© Julie Gittoes 2020

By candlelight

Candlemas is my favourite of feasts: it's full of light and glory but also honest about suffering and mortality Eucharist. The warmth an intimacy of candlelight is also a sign of hope and solidarity.The flickering flames we hold enable us not only to see by candlelight but to see, and to be seen, by a more radiant light. 

The texts were: Malachi 3:1-15; Hebrews 2:14-end; Luke 2:22-40

Today is a feast of light.  

Candlemas is the climax of the season of Christmas and Epiphany.  

We light candles on birthday cakes and in power cuts; when we pray and when we party; on our dinning tables and our altars.

In churches or our homes, candles conjure up warmth and intimacy, celebration and welcome.

When we break bread together, we do so by the light of candles: they invite us into the presence of love.

They allow us space: to reflect, to listen, to be.

They allow us to hesitate before before we find the words.

They speak wordlessly of friendship and of hope.

Many lit candles on Friday night: flames acknowledging our contribution to the EU and holding out a beacon of co-operation whatever the future holds.

One Irish journalist [Bobby McDonagh in the Irish Times] writes of the flickering flame shining beyond slogans and politics, saying: ‘One of the best things about a candle is that it is silent. In a world inundated by words and deafened by a cacophony of posturing, a candle has its own eloquence’.

Today the candles we light, give voice to the nearness of God with us; they blaze with a universal hope for the nations.  The tiny flames we hold invite us to shine as lights in the world.

Candlemas is feast of light: a moment that shapes our hopes, our hearts and our world.

Today we celebrate the Christ-child who comes to be a light to lighten the Gentiles.

It’s a feast which also strikes a darker note: of opposition, pierced souls and broken hearts.

It’s a feast which reverberates with love.

With  a love does not let us go: it refines us; it frees us; if comforts and empowers us. 

We see that light today reflected in a tiny infant; held in a parent’s arms; seen in an old man’s eyes; spoken on a widow’s lips.

Rembrandt’s captures this light in darkness in his final painting: Simeon with the Infant Christ in the Temple. 

It is an image that takes us to the very heart of Candlemas.  Simeon is frail; his eyes closing; his lips parting in words of praise.  It is a moment of encounter between an old man and a baby.  A master of light, Rembrandt confronts us with mortality and infuses it with hope.

This is the story that Luke tells: of Mary and Joseph presenting Jesus in the Temple.  There they meet Anna as well as  Simeon: two people who have dedicated their lives to God, offering prayer in that holy place.  In the Christ child, their expectations and hopes have been fulfilled.  

Simeon declares: ‘my eyes have seen your salvation... a light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of your people Israel’.  

Anna gives thanks for this revelation and proclaims it to all who sought redemption in Jerusalem.   

God is drawing all people to himself.  We are to rejoice with them as the joy, love and light of Christ is revealed in the world. 

This is a feast of light. 

It is a feast with universal implications: the hope of God’s chosen people, the people of Israel, is being fulfilled. All people are being drawn into one family, worshiping one God.

This astonishing moment, is proclaimed in a public space; it is fulfilled in the intimacy and trust of an elderly man receiving a child into his arms.

The ‘all-ness’ is contained within a human heart; and yet exceeds it.

The Lord comes to the temple - embodying a love which knows the secrets of our hearts. 

This love knows our smallest fears and our most audacious hopes; this love heals our hidden wounds and the kindles our gifts.

To see and be seen by this light draws us out of ourselves; freeing us from selfishness and self-absorption.

Our hearts are turned outwards: we see this in Mary and Jospeh.

They come to the temple to present their first born to God: they do some with simplicity and devotion, giving out of love not wealth.

Yet the one they carry in their arms with faithful obedience, is the one who will purify and redeem the world.

God’s very self is presented in substance of our flesh in order that we may be presented pure hearts.

There is a darker side to Candlemas. It is a turning point in the Christian year as our thoughts are directed towards Christ’s Passion.  Mary was the first to hear the good news; she nurtures the Christ-child; she ponders the sayings of shepherds and wise men in her heart.  

When Simeon tells her that  ‘a sword will pierce your own soul too’, Mary faces the anguish and pain of parenthood. She has to let go, she and Joseph have to let go, of their first born. 

She witnesses disputes and moments of honour; she hears him extend bonds of kinship beyond the family; she witnesses his suffering and death.  Mary knows the overflowing love of God with us; and she knows the cost.  

Yes, Simeon’s words are a poignant indicator of what Jesus Christ will endure.  But Mary also stands alongside Miriam and Deborah, Judith and Anna in speaking and going the will of God.  She waits and prays for the Sprit to poured out all men and women, young and old. 

Light shines in the darkness as Christmas meets Easter on Candlemas Day.

Candlemas is a place of meeting.  The light of Jesus Christ radiates out to us.   His humanity Christ connects with our frailty; love is made perfect in human weakness.  

As he faced his own death, Rembrandt paints an image of consolation: even in the darkness Christ’s light reaches us.  It transforms us and gives us hope amidst all that unsettles, perplexes or grieves us.  

We are given permission to face those things honestly in the context of God’s love, which will ultimately banish all darkness.  It gives us courage to wrestle with the complexity of life so that we may become more fully the people God calls us to be.

Today, as we break bread together, we will light candles.

Flickering flames which conjure up warmth and intimacy, celebration and welcome.

They speak wordlessly of friendship and of hope.

Candlelight reminds us of a more radiant light, which darkness does not over come.

A light of truth and justice, or compassion and faithfulness. 

Our communities need us to bear this light: to allow others space to speak, to listen, to be.

May these candles remind us of the scope of God’s reconciling love; may they encourage us to share that extraordinary love in the ordinary.

© Julie Gittoes 2020