Break forth into singing

 Midnight Mass 2021: Isaiah 52: 7-10, Hebrews 1:1-12, John 1:1-14

Break forth together into singing, your ruins of Jerusalem, for the Lord has comforted his people.

There is something instinctive about singing.

Something so powerful about the human voice expressing itself in song: taking up a melody, holding the harmonies, daring to improvise, moving towards resolution.

In the notes and pauses, in the breath itself, the unsayable is made known

We find comfort in coming in breaking forth into singing together: and how much we’ve missed it.

Last year, we couldn’t sing carols in churches; we couldn’t sing along to Slade in the pub.

This year, new songs are competing for our attention to be a Christmas classic alongside Mariah Carey, Chris Rea, The Pogues and Kirsty McCall. 

Kelly Clarkson wikimedia

Ed Shreen and Elton John try to name the ways in which we’ve had to carry on with the love we’ve known and the ones we’ve lost. Kelly Clarkson’s sings that Christmas isn’t cancelled - even when places and favourite things are tinged with sadness at the memories of those we’ve loved.

She describes her song writing as something that can: “breathe hope into one’s life and let possibility wander”. 

And may be that’s what this night is about: breathing hope into life.

That hope is breathed into life as light shines in the darkness.

The darkness does not overcome it.

The hope is breathed into life as God’s very self becomes flesh and dwells with us.

Mary’s labour brings God’s Word of love to birth.

Our carols give breath to this hope; our voices make possibility wander.

Erland Sibuea, Nativity (2008)

We break forth together into singing: singing carols that name the “ruins” of a  ‘weary world’ that has ‘suffered long’; yet which invite us to ‘hush the noise’ and hear ‘the love song’ that angels sing.

We break forth together into singing: singing carols which name the “comfort” offered by the one who comes with ‘healing in his wings’; a newborn king born who ‘feeleth for our sadness’ and ‘shareth in our gladness’.

We break forth together into singing: singing on this ‘silent’ and ‘holy night’ of the child who is ‘of the Father’s love begotten’; the one ‘born this happy morning’ bringing  ‘light and life’.

This is the love song that gives breath to hope: the one who created all things in and for love - for relationship and tenderness, for community and trust.

This love song continued when our hearts are broken by grief and fear:  for the one who created all things in and for love, reached out to us through the prophets, who called us back to ways of compassion and mercy.

The Word of this song was breathed as life and hope in flesh and blood: Jesus took on the very stuff of life that makes us vulnerable.

From that starting point, this love song begins to open up new possibilities: for community and forgiveness, for intimacy and understanding, for purpose and joy.

We’re all in different places emotionally this Christmas: delight at time with family and friends, or longing to be away from pressures of work; rebuilding the habits of life we’ve lost; disappointment at what’s been postponed; the grief, anxiety, uncertainty and loneliness are real - co-existing alongside the laughter, comfort, opportunities and loves.

But today we celebrate the way in which God speaks to us by a Word, a Son: the fullness of life and love and light became like us.

Who shares the joys and the sorrows: who says, in the darkest hours, I’ll be with you. 

However hard it feels to live well - with the struggles, laughter, hopes and loves; with our longing for healing, peace, joy and comfort - there is a promise. 

A new song: I am with you. 

This love will win, even over death; this light will shine and not be overcome. 

This love opens up for us new possibilities: in the intimacy of a blessing received, in the joy of bread shared.

May the love brought to birth in our world through Jesus, be breathe hope into our life.

May the way we share that love with others, bring to birth new possibilities for our life together. 

May our lives echo God’s love song. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2021

What's your song to be?

A sermon preached on the Fourth Sunday of Advent

Last Christmas: Wham!

These are the rules of Whamageddon: it runs from 1st December until midnight on 24th; you “win’ if you haven’t heard “Last Christmas”; you’re out if you accidentally or intentionally hear Wham’s pop classic.

Thanks to Jeremy Vine’s lunch time show on Radio 2, I was knocked out of Whamageddon early on. You may have heard it everywhere - car radio, supermarkets, pubs and cafes, but not at our Christmas Fair.

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart

But the very next day you gave it away

Some would say that this song, written by George Michael in the bedroom of his childhood home when visiting his parents, has a timeless appeal. 

This year to save me from tears, 

I’ll give it to someone special.

His fellow band member Andrew Ridgeley called this refrain ‘beguiling’ and ‘wistful’: somehow ‘distilling the essence of Christmas into music’. He continues, saying:  ‘Adding lytic which told the tale of betrayed love was a masterstroke and, as he did so often, he touched hearts’.

In a way, this Sunday of Advent is all about hearts and songs. The Gospel that we hear today is so familiar that we might be moved to call it ‘beguiling’ and ‘wistful’; a story that in some way distills the essence of Christmas.

Today we hear of two pregnant women in their first and second trimesters greeting each other: there is energy and exclamation in this encounter; movements of unbridled joy in hearts and wombs. 

For each of them, pregnancy brings not only physical sensations and changes, but also intrigue and speculation. Mary left Nazareth in haste, perhaps wondering what Joseph would do; Elizabeth was at home, wondering if her husband would speak again. 

Hearts had been given away not in romantic infatuation but in love so deep that it is both mysterious and scandalous.

Yet here, there is the call and response of hearts that have been touched by love. In the company of her pregnant cousin, Mary finds both sanctuary and delight in the face of uncertainty. 

These women embrace and so enfold each other’s stories. As John leaps in utero at the nearness of Jesus in Mary’s womb, this human loving shifts to be a moment of worship, a moment of blessing.

Here there is overflowing joy and renewed trust; here, hope bubbles up with awe and wonder. Hearts are opened and given away in a love which moves from fear to communion, from promise to fulfilment.

Elizabeth’s words of blessing are but the beginning: as she affirms Mary’s faith and trust, when labour is still many months off,  the good news of God’s Word of love made flesh is magnified in a song of praise.

On Mary’s lips, there is a new song. She finds her voice. A voice which picks up the cries of prophets throughout the centuries: she sings of God’s strength, generosity and mercy; she cries out for the poor and broken hearted.

This is a song of hope and change. It names the ways in which the human heart can be turned in on itself in pride and self-reliance; it names our misdirected desires for wealth, and the ways power can be misused.

This is a song of hope and change: it names the way God’s blessing and love reverses the status quo. She described the honour given to the humble and the raising up of the lowly. The world she describes will be marked by the justice and mercy brought by the child she carries in her womb.

Mary and Elizabeth

This determined and courageous young woman - makes her voice one with the prophets. She does so not as a future hope but with the confidence of present reality. The God of whom she speaks has acted to raise up and fill, to bring down and to send.

This is song of describes what healing and salvation look like: as relationships are transformed; as imaginations are enlarged; as resources are redistributed. God’s compassion is embodied in human flesh and in networks of community; all this for the sake of the flourishing of the whole of creation.

Human lives magnify and amplify the loving purposes of God.Hearts are given away, but not betrayed; when lives are freed from tears; when next year brings the unfolding mystery of God’s love. 

In her song Mary sees the world as God sees it: she amplifies God’s love and invites us to magnify it in our own hearts. 

What then will our song be?

We are to make Mary’s song our own - committing ourselves to feed the world and banish fear; embracing the lonely, vulnerable and fearful; challenging those gifted with economic and social capital. 

The prophet Micah denounced dishonesty in business and superficial religion; he challenged the abuse of power and the exploitation of the poor.  He looked forward to a time of peace - when we could set aside our reliance on military might and the false gods of wealth.

And foretold that this work of redemption would begin in a small place; in a city which was home to a small clan. In Bethlehem, this marginal place, blessed Mary will go into labour. In this city her firstborn child - God’s own beloved Son - is born. 

Peace breaks in in the cries of an infant; in a babe at his mother’s breast.

Blessing is found in the fruit of Mary’s womb.

We are blessed by God’s love dwelling with us in flesh of our flesh. 

We bless as we become receptive to that gift, and channel that love.

Our world cries out for that gift of peace and love: a world of universal credit and food banks; a world of environmental degradation and refugee crises; a world of homelessness and zero hours contracts.

We respond to cries: singing increases our capacity to act; the Spirit strengthens us to seek justice, compassion and peace. We commit to Mary’s manifesto of struggle and change with hope and courage. 

The body Mary carries in her body is God with us. That body will teach and heal, console and provoke. That body will be beaten, mocked and lifted up on a cross. That dying body destroys death and brings new life. In broken bread, we are fed, restored and strengthened by his body; we become his body, receiving dignity and purpose.

We sing out in places of vulnerability and fear; we stand in solidarity with suffering and anxious. As his body we cry out for those seeking healing and hope; we act of those seeking justice and peace. May our lives be blessings of love.

This Christmas will we give God our heart; will God work in us to open hearts to those around us.

© Julie Gittoes 2021

Do you want to close the door or open it?’

A Sermon from Advent Sunday 2021. I found myself drawn back to Bonhoeffer on Advent - words from his prison cell. The readings were: Jeremiah 33:14-16, 1 Thessalonians 3:9-end and Luke 21:25-36

For 21 days, a man went on hunger strike for his imprisoned wife.

This week, 27 people died after their boat sank in the Channel.

In Greece, 28 Afghan female MPs fight on from a parliament in exile.

Storm Arwen has brought 100 mile an hour winds and torrential rain. 

Rising sea levels in the Gambia have left 30 hectares of land too salty to grow rice.

On the earth there is distress: confusion, fear and foreboding. 

Do event the powers of heaven shake?

The church year begins here: in the dark hours before dawn and, in the northern hemisphere at least, in the season of shorter days.

We begin here: not with fireworks and parties of a new year; nor even with the familiar image of a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes. 

We begin with distress, fear, confusion and foreboding: we begin with the world as it is now. We notice and name the fragility and the determination; the forces beyond our control; the fears and the hopes. 

Now, it might seem that things fall apart; and yet, there will be justice, safety, righteousness and abounding love. Hearts will be strengthened and not weighted down. 

Link to Bonhoeffer image here

The twentieth-century theologian, pastor and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer was imprisoned because of his criticism of and active opposition to the Nazi regime. In 1943, he wrote to his fiancee, Maria, of the dark hours of their lives. He wrote: ‘we shall ponder the incomprehensibility of our lot and be assailed by the question of why, over and above the darkness already enshrouding humanity, we should be subjected to the bitter anguish of a separation whose purpose we fail to understand’. 

From that place of separation and isolation, he found words of hope - reflecting on how we can and should prepare for and celebrate Christmas despite the ruins around us. For there, as he says to Maria, we find that ‘God is in the manger, wealth in poverty, light in darkness, succour in abandonment’.

It is in the season of Advent, that Bonhoeffer holds on to love - to goodness and light - even in the midst of signs of distress. He wrote this to Eberhard, one of his closest friends:  ‘Life in a prison cell may well be compared to Advent. One waits, hopes, and does this, that, or the other--things that are really of no consequence--the door is shut, and can only be opened from the outside.’

In Advent, our senses are in a way sharpened as we wait for Christ's coming in the here and now. yet, as prophet Jeremiah hints, we cannot bring about the completion of God’s promises on our own terms - as an act of willpower or in accordance with our own agenda and timing. 

Jeremiah calls us back to trust in the Lord’s promise: both in the midst of the desolation of his own age, when restoration seemed a long way off, but also in the face of the distress, fear and foreboding of our world. 

Christ has come and will come to execute justice, the righteous branch who will bring us health and salvation. As Bonhoeffer wrote: Christ ‘is coming to rescue us from the prisons of our existence, from anxiety, from guilt, and from loneliness’. 

Today’s readings sound an alarm - they call us to attention - so that we can both see the world and our lives as they are, but also knowing that Christ has set us free. It is the words of Jesus’ prophetic wake up call that our hearts are strengthened not weighed down; that our hearts are turned outwards rather than turned inwards. This freedom writes Bonhoeffer sets us free from ‘thinking only of ourselves… it means to be for the other: the person for others. Only God’s truth can enable me to see the other as they really are’. 

In the distress of the nations, the raging storms and people fainting from fear, even when the heavens are shaken, Jesus calls us to be present here and now: to embrace reality and know the nearness of God with us. It isn’t always easy.

When our hearts being weighed down with worry; when we numb our reactions with alcohol, consumption or escapist fantasies, we are sucked into a cycle of despair - the loss of hope. As human beings, we will always find something to fill the gap: to find meaning, purpose and worth outside of ourselves; to find a flicker of satisfaction or happiness.

Advent offers a different path. It is one picked up in the letter to Thessalonians. They were a Christian community aware of the distress of the earth, who were encouraged to live in hope not fear.

It’s a letter which echoes Jesus’ invitation to be alert and attentive; we are to look and see. 

We are invited to fix our eyes on the coming dawn, even when it is dark; to look out for new leaves, even in winter. Only when we are alert will we see the coming of God’s kingdom and play our part in it as we respond to the needs of others.

Then will our hearts be strengthened. The Thessalonians were learning to rise to the challenge of this way of life too. For them hope flowed from relationship with God and others. They brought joy to others; they were a source of gratitude. They were held in prayer - and Paul and others longer to be with them face to face.

Thankfulness, delight in the other and the pulse of prayer turn our hearts to hope. Prayer for protection and strength, for wisdom and imagination, for courage and guidance; and above all love. 

Love that increases and abounds: love for God, for the one standing at our door; love for ourselves, in our frailty and dignity; love for others, in their different gifts and needs.

This Advent, may we embrace that longing: a longing as we lift up our hearts in prayer and worship, that our hearts might also be strengthened and opened to others. 

In this season, we begin in darkness and strain our eyes towards the light. We long for the manger, for our arms to cradle the life and love of God in a speechless babe. For now we wait - we wait with longing and hope, with obedience and expectation. 

Bonhoeffer went on to say that not only was Advent ‘a season of waiting, but our whole life is an advent season, that is, a season of waiting for the last Advent, for the time when there will be a new heaven and a new earth.’

Such waiting is an active way of life: not only full of longing but also a time to notice what is going on. Look says Jesus - where are there sprouting leaves, where is dawn breaking?

This blend of longing and noticing shapes our imaginations - as our hearts open towards new possibilities.  Who might need company and support because they can no longer leave their house unaided? Who might need mentoring and encouragement so that they might flourish in school?

The God we believe in comes in unexpected ways: eternity was enclosed in the life-giving darkness of a young woman’s womb so that we might know the light of  God’s very self in flesh of our flesh.

When the earth is in distress, may we be people of hope; when we are gripped by fear, may our hearts be strengthened. With gratitude and joy, may we look towards the light and life which is born amongst us to save us.

We must do all this more intensely as storms rage and heavens shake: we wait in hope because the God who was in the manger will be with us still. As Bonhoeffer gives us space to respond to God’s love with and for us, saying: 'as long as there are people, Christ will walk the earth as your neighbour, as the one through whom God calls you, speaks to you, makes demands on you. That is the great seriousness and great blessedness of the Advent message. Christ is standing at the door; he lives in the form of a human being among us. Do you want to close the door or open it?’

© Julie Gittoes 2021