Beyond Reith's vision

 Bible Sunday, 23rd October: Isaiah 45: 22-25, Romans 15:1-6, Luke 6:16-24

This month marks the BBC’s centenary: their first director General, Lord Reith, famously said that the BBC was ‘to inform, educate and entertain’.

That’s still the corporation’s stated mission. In a 2 minute ad celebrating 100 years, the Beeb’s described as an unique experiment - no corporate sponsors - a bridge, a common ground, a reflection on who we are; something that  only exists if we really believe it matters, and which belongs to all of us.

We probably each have our favourite: from The Archers to Eastenders, Newsnight to  Strictly, HIGNFY to Songs of Praise; from the Proms to Top of the Pops, Blue Peter to Life on Earth, Panorama to Dr Who; the World Service to local radio and the Shipping Forecast; from CBeebies to Sounds and iPlayer.

However impressive the visuals and graphics, the sheer diversity of how the BBC has sought to inform, educate and entertain highlights the importance of the spoken word - in drama, news, comedy, documentary, and even praise. Those words reflect what’s going on in the world, conveys meaning and may even change lives. 

Today is Bible Sunday: a day when we give thanks for the Scriptures - for those who’ve translated them and helped us to learn from them in commentary and teaching.  Yet it’s more than that. It is a reminder of the way God speaks.

The Bible is made up of hundreds and thousands of words - of human beings trying to make sense of the world and ourselves, seeking after meaning and purpose; and hundreds and thousands of words of God reaching out to us, seeking to reveal something of Godself and God’s ways of love - and guiding us as we walk in them. Ultimately, those words point us to the Word made flesh in Jesus. 

As a prophet, Isaiah used words to encourage others to turn back to God. Prophets educated and informed - telling as it is; speaking truth and justice; naming the consequences of human action - what builds up or destroys, what raises up or marginalises.  Today we hear Isaiah speaking words of righteousness and strength - following a time of captivity, freedom is breaking in. Babylon may have been defeated by the human agency of other rulers, but to inhabit that gift, to rebuild their life together, God’s people were called back to God. There is no other. 

Image: Mike Moyer

In today’s Gospel, we hear of that moment when Jesus returns to that place where he’d been brought up and nurtured; and, in the familiar rhythm of attending synagogue, he stands and takes up the scroll of Isaiah. He reads those familiar words - words of good news and freedom, recovery, favour and release.

Eyes remained fixed on him as he sat down. In that moment of ordinary worship and observance, the words point to the Word: anointing, fulfilment and goodness.  Then there is amazement - perhaps a desire to celebrate the local lad made good; high expectations of him or the hope that they could hold on to him. 

Yet, this isn’t about change just in his own community - but a vision of radical inclusion which enfolds the whole world.   This goes beyond merely informing and educating; it is more than entertainment. This is about teaching that makes whole; words that proclaim the habits of justice and hope of sustained transformation through mercy and compassion. 

Interestingly there is only one  prisoner to be set free in direct connection to the words of Jesus, or by his presence as God’s Word of love made flesh. That person was Barabas. The one who was released from prison as Jesus was bound, held captive and mocked before he walked the way to the cross. There, in the weight of that isolation and suffering and death, God’s Word has the last word: a love brings new life even from the grave. 

This fulfilment of God’s word was not just for the life of the church but the whole world. Yet today, as we gather as is our custom, we are reminded of what is at the heart of our life together. God’s words remain a source of encouragement, learning and hope; God’s Word made flesh, broken and poured out in bread and wine, remaining a gift to sustain us. 

Paul, when writing to the church in Rome, is aware of the ways in which they are divided - disagreeing over whether to eat meat offered to idols or to refrain; disagreeing over other pressure points in their life together - strong and weak. And yet, God is at work in them - and in us. God desires that we unite around a  common purpose.  

Here in Hendon we are continuing to tease out that common purpose - what does that look like in response to those seeking company, friendship and warmth; what does it look like in music and creativity; what does that look like for our young people, families and teachers; what does that mean in the partnerships we form?

Rather than focusing on our differences, we are invited to extend a vision of encouragement, justice, and a love that strengthens and builds up.  All of that flows from and flows into our worship - giving glory to God. 

Bible Sunday isn’t just about reading more of it more often: but seeing where God is at work in church, world, community and creation.  In a way, we are all broadcasters. Going beyond a Reithian vision to inform, educate and entertain 

Our words can transmit love and  beauty, our actions share justice and  joy. We share God’s promises that are fulfilled in Jesus Christ in the building up of our neighbours: the church isn’t just an  unique experiment - with no corporate sponsors. It in some ways offers a common ground - in all our diversity and disagreement; it is a bridge between the world as it is and how God longs for it to be. 

The Bible too reflects who we are and who we’re becoming. The church as Christ’s body doesn’t exist because we believe it matters - but because we believe in something that matters, we’re called into a life which belongs to all of us.  

We are called to proclaim the year of God’s favour - that season of jubilee when debts are erased, land restored, justice enacted and inequality reduced. In the power of the Spirit we are to witness to the love of God revealed in Christ Jesus. The one who is the Word made flesh. 

Prayer: the heart of advocacy and action

 

Sunday October 16, 2022: Genesis 32:22-3, 2 Timothy 3:14-4:5, Luke 18:1-8

In ‘The Diary’ column of the New Statesman, a criminal defence barrister comments on going back to court after strike action. Our advocates had been advocating not for clients but for the justice system itself. 

When confronted with her inbox, this barrister, like many others, finds ‘a long and brutal queue’: the people making up the 60,000 case backlog. She opens the files - the first an 18 month wait for a date, the next two years for a muder case, then three years for a theft. 

Those held on remand and those waiting to give evidence might well feel like the widow in today’s parable: someone waiting for justice. 

She is one of those, who along with the poor, the stranger and the orphan, is among scripture’s protected characteristics; a person who’s vulnerability and plea for justice evokes our empathy.  Afterall, for the prophets, providing justice for widows was a  litmus test for being faithful to God’s commandments.

We know nothing of her circumstances - her age, or means - but here she stands in the public square, courageously demanding that an injustice is put right. Day after day, she makes her appeal.

Day after the judge resists her pleas and refuses to help - he owns the description of himself as having no respect for God or people by repeating in his own inner dialogue.  It seems unlikely he was concerned for his reputation by being shamed into action.

Would he give in through boredom or irritation? Maybe.  But, we are told, she is bothering him and wearing him out - to the point he feels verbally, if not literally, beaten black and blue.

When he sets up this parable, Jesus says this is about the need to pray and not lose heart. 

In saying that, it’s not that he suggests that prayer is a matter of grinding God down with our petitions and requests. Indeed, there is a basic contrast - unlike the mean-spirited and heartless judge, God desires to grant justice to those who cry out for it.

And yet, our experience of prayer can involve urgency and struggle; how do we experience God in those seasons of longing and waiting; as we wrestle and cry out; as we long for peace or healing, comfort of justice?

If we read this parable through the lens of the widow and the judge, we might find that the story is more about us and prayer. It allows space for God to disturb us - opening up our hearts as we seek justice, but also hearing the justice demanded of us.

Image

First, let’s stand in the place of the widow.  We know nothing of the details of her petition, but we can think of times when we risk losing heart: when we feel a bit rudderless or lacking in direction; when we’re wearied by the changes and changes of this fleeting world, as one prayer puts it; when the news real makes us cynical or despairing; or when we feel resigned to situations which don’t seem to change for the better.   

This  widow does not lose heart: she remains focused and determined;  her courageous advocacy shapes the rhythm of her day giving her purpose. She is also precise in tackling this one thing - the thing that is most pressing and urgent. She continues. Like many who’ve campaigned - for the release of hostages, for justice of Hillsborough or Grenfille, or more local cases needing change.

Her example reminds us that prayer is hard: especially as we look for, strive for, long for significant change. Every day she risked disappointment - but remained convinced by justice and patiently pressed into that hope.  

Prayer is also  mysterious. Sometimes the power is basically showing up - being present before God with the cries of the world in our heart; maintaining those daily habits of repetition and determination. Praying when justice seems slow, peace fragile and healing painful - that’s part of our faithfulness. Praying through the silence or frustration until something shifts and opens up.

Second, let’s stand in the place of the judge: what if it’s God being the persistent widow pleading with us?   What if part of prayer is allowing the space and time for God to knock at our door - that heart might soften; that we might respond to demands of justice; perhaps attending to  the wounded world which wounds God’s heart - and opens ours. 

Without being too hard on ourselves, it is ok to acknowledge that sometimes we feel indifferent or fed up; that we feel irritable or unsympathetic; that sometimes - out of fatigue or helplessness of being overwhelmed perhaps - our hearts sometimes turn away from the pain and brokenness of others.

Then we are called back to the multiple and various cries of scripture - finding there words of consolation and challenge. There we find the cries of human beings seeking justice; and of God crying out for them. Those cries prompt us to care enough to listen and act.  

It is a truism to say prayer changes us, but it does in ways we might not always expect. In prayer, the Spirit cries within us - changing that inner critic or judge; removing the obstacles of our own fear, prejudice, hurt; building us up when we feel exhausted or inadequate.

Leonard Cohen wrote in ‘Anthem’ that there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. Prayer is such a crack - through which the light of God works through our imperfect loves. Cohen rarely spoke about his lyrics, but on this he said: there is a crack in everything…that’s where the light gets in, and that’s where the resurrection is and that’s where the return, that’s where the repentance is.

Cries for justice and our prayers for change confront us with the brokenness of things but also with the hope of healing.  There is a crack. The light gets in. A light that shines in our hearts, that reveals the world as it is and brings a glimmer of hope and compassion and a desire to act. 

This way of praying and wrestling can be bruising!

Jacob experienced that in the long, dark hours of the night; yet at dawn, light breaks in. He persisted until the blessing of a new name and a new future were granted to him. 

Paul encourages Timothy to persist too - continuing in what has been learnt and believed; proclaiming the message of the gospel. That a message of hope and love, forgiveness and justice was to be shared whether the time was favourable or unfavourable. 

So let us pray in a what that opens us up to wrestling with God: to do so is to hold God close, as God draws near to us; it is to refuse to walk away, give up or succumb to compassion fatigue. To wrestle with prayer is the opposite of indifference, it might let more light in. 

As we wait and pray, blessings might come; our desire for justice might grow. Praying is at the heart of our action, our advocacy.  So may we run the way of God’s commandments  - open to truth, trusting in love, seeking justice. Amen. 

 

© Julie Gittoes 2022

Divine significance - a different metric

Sunday 2 October: Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4, 2 Timothy 1:1-14 and Luke 17:5-10

W. H. Auden wrote:

And still they come, new from those

nations to which the study of that 

which can be weighed and measured 

is a consuming love.

It often seems that to be human is to measure things: to quantify everything in numbers: from birth weight to height, from calories to pass marks. We know we need accurate measurements when lending money, administering medicine, constructing buildings or even baking bakes. A mistake or miscalculation has consequences ranging from the mildly inconvenient to expensive or even fatal. 

Yet in other ways perhaps we over rely on numbers to make things real or to make good judgements: interpreting data to quantify performance, health and growth. Even the church is not immune from the study of that which can be measured - counting Sunday attendance at certain times of the year. 

Yet, what we are call to is a consuming love - not of that which can be weighed and recorded, but an alternative metric of value and purpose: for example, the sincerity of faith shared across the generations by Lois, Eunice and Timothy. A faith that is quantified by life lived with love and thanksgiving, not by works alone.

And yet, in today’s Gospel we hear the apostles saying to Jesus: "Increase our faith!" 

In the verses before they express this longing or request, Jesus has shared with his followers words of demanding teaching: he has presented the challenge and responsibility of guiding others; he’s spoken of  broken relationships, and the patterns of repentance and forgiveness. 

In response, it’s perhaps unsurprising that the disciples want ‘more faith’. They aren’t seeking short cuts or an easy life - but somehow wanting more, wanting to measure up, or to quantify that they’re up to it.

This can’t be weighed in numbers or quantity, but perhaps we too want to know if we have faith that is genuine or sufficient.

Commenting on today’s Gospel Pope Francis says: Jesus explains this by indicating what the measure of faith is: service.

Jesus’s response might seem strange, dramatic or impatient; he deploys bold or exaggerated imagery to make a point. The smallest seed is enough to follow him in ways we feel are impossible.  For as Paul reminds Timothy, we need not fear or be ashamed because we trust in the power of God - and the help of the Holy Spirit.

Jesus doesn’t end there: he continues with a parable which grates and disturbs us - it presents an overbearing or perhaps indifferent master - and ends with a line inviting us to see ourselves as worthless slaves.

Elizabeth Johnson writes that the master-slave relationship, now totally abhorrent in human society [is] no longer suitable as a metaphor for relationship with God. 

It’s an image which might remind the wealthy and powerful of their privilege and remind them of the need for humility; but for others, for whom the present experience of servitude or the legacy of slavery is real, it sounds as if that denial of dignity is being locked in. 

To our ears, the questions and responses jar. Yet Jesus is leading us to a point of acknowledging that however small or great our achievements, we are ultimately dependent on God, fulfilling obligations of love. 

To recognise the offence of the imagery, reminds us that we are not the centre of the world. Somehow, we find freedom in this duty to live with a consuming love we cannot measure or quantify. 

Recognising the risk and offence of the imagery, Pope Francis leans into the attitude of being willing to serve. He says: Jesus wishes to say that this is how people of faith are with regard to God: they completely give themselves over to his will, without calculations or pretexts. 

More faith then is not a matter of what we want - something manipulative or dramatic; it isn’t a matter of removing all doubts or fears; or even having all the answers to challenging questions. It is not something that we can quantify, weigh, measure or count - there is no ‘more’, ‘better’ or ‘stronger’ in this life of faith. 

Rather, faith is a way of life. It’s an attitude, a posture, an alignment of wills in love and trust. It’s a matter of engagement and hope - something that we live out in our lives. Something which brings strength and blessing in the sharing of this consuming love. 

Small is significant. Every word and gesture; the dignity of every human person. In the words taken from a linocut by a New Zealand priest, Divine significance usually looks like insignificance. 

Images by the Rev'd Sarah West can be found here

As Paul reminds Timothy, faith is  a matter of turning to Jesus. Coming to him in hope and trust - leaning into his mercy and love and goodness; finding justice and mercy and challenge; bringing to Jesus the pain, vulnerability and risk. 

Jesus is telling them that they have faith - in relation to him. There isn’t more to be measured out or bought. 

Faith as trust and relationship. 

Faith as living out what we have encountered.

Ordinariness of loving and forgiving, serving and caring. 

As straightforward, intuitive or committed as when someone pulls a pint, fulfils a day’s teaching, comes to the end of a shift in hospital or in the supermarket, or feeds a  child, bakes a cake or walks the dog.

Faith is the business of living out not so much an employment contact but a covenant of love. 

Even against the backdrop of destruction, violence, strive and contention, the prophet Habakkuk reminds us that we are to live by faith: we stand at our watch posts seeing what is happening, the Spirit crying within us for an end to wrongdoing; we stand at our watch posts, rekindling the gift of God that is within us.

As Paul reminds Timothy, this rekindling is the basis of daily living. Embracing the gift - committing to habits, to the discipline of this consuming love. 

Resting in the assurance of God’s creative and recreative love; and taking that into our lives. Faith is being who we are and doing what we do - inspired, equipped, sustained by love.

This love was revealed in Jesus - the one who through the cross abolished death and brought life. We can trust in him - in faith and love - with the help of the Holy Spirit. 

 

Having faith is to trust in and lean on God: there will be struggles, doubts and worries; there will be questions and moments when things don’t make sense.  Yet, we continue to walk this way - seeking God’s ways and knowing God seeks after us. 

Faith deepens as we live it; lean into it. We give much of it away in love - rather than clinging on to it ourselves in the hope of increase we can weigh and measure. As we are fed by a wafer of bread, we receive and become Christ’s body - living and breathing, walking and serving in the world.

God comes to us in a way that looks insignificant; God comes in an overwhelming love in small things; Divine significance usually looks like insignificance. And there is ultimate value in that.