Light Gatherers

 Mothering Sunday: 1 Samuel 1:20-end, Colossians 3:12-17 and John 19:25b-27 - Carol Ann Duffy's poem "The Light Gatherers" can be found here.

When you were small, your cupped palms

each held a candleworth under the skin, enough light to begin,

                             and as you grew,

light gathered in you, two clear raindrops

in your eyes,

                            warm pearls, shy,

in the lobes of your ears, even always

the light of a smile after your tears

So begins Carol Ann Duffy’s poem ‘The Light Gatherer’.

She describes kissed feet that glowed and a bowed head spotlit; when language came it glittered like a river; and sleep, when it came, had the whole moon for a night light. 

Mother and Child - Mary Cassatt 

Duffy is painting for us a picture of motherhood. 

It might not be universal. But being born is. 

She captures moments we cannot remember. 

The beginning of another human being. A spark of light and life.

When we were very small: the infancy of first breath and being held; the infancy of the awkward tenderness of cradling a newborn life. 

She captures childhood moments we cannot remember. And some that we do. 

Playing on our own; games with others. Learning. Falling.

The slow time of waiting, which goes too fast for adults.

We grow. We become more ourselves. Bound to others, to those who nurture us.

We remember them. As light gathers in us.

Duffy ends her poem with life opening out at the end of a tunnel of years. - through adolescence and into adulthood. 

We might see in Duffy’s poem a glimpse of how God sees us.

We are light gatherers - even when the light of a smile comes after our tears.

To be formed in the likeness of God is to be a child of light. 

Fragile, yet strong for others. 

Whole, when we feel broken.

Good, and forgiven forgivers.

Beloved, even when we don’t see it.

Our readings give us three pictures of what our life together is or could be like.

First, Hannah. Some of us, like her, will long for a child of our own.

All of us have experienced childhood.

Some of you have remained with children to nurse and wean them.

All of us have stood at a school gate: one side of it or another.

Part of the story of parent and child is that kind of letting go.

Letting go so that we can have the space and time to be who we are: called as human, blessed with personality and interests, taking that into work and relationships, to embrace or let go.

In all that, light gathers in us: the people who love us, care for us, teach us; those who make us laugh, bring us comfort, restore our confidence. 

Those who let go and never stop praying for us: holding us before God in love.

The second picture reminds us that parenting, nurture, motherhood and friendship exist within a wider network: a community.

John paints a picture that is perhaps shocking or surprising. 

God’s love made flesh in Jesus has been present at a wedding and late night conversations, in story telling and sharing bread. 

Now as his head bows on the cross, he looks at his own mother and closest friend and asks them to form a new household.

In their grief light gathers in them: just enough light to care for each other. 

Maybe carrying just a candleworth in their hands; enough warmth; even a light of a smile after their tears. 

This love made flesh is still at work: dead, buried and risen, and still rising in us. A love that doesn’t let us go.

Love like a night light: just enough to reassure us in the promises we make, the ripples of grief, the wild dreams of possibility and the small gestures of hope.

Image found here

As our third reading paints an image of life lived when we are looked on with love: a beloved community with enough light to begin and to grow.

In the smallness of our cupped palms there is light and love and joy: there is enough when we are fed with life in bread; when we are seen and blessed.

Light gathers in us when there is compassion and kindness; humility and patience. 

It gathers when we bear with one another: the patient work that mothers and friends, granddads and siblings, teachers and carers know. 

Light gatherers are to be clothed in love. 

Love which binds us together when it is hard; that breathes peace into broken hearts. Love which gives thanks; that calls out unhealthy habits; which forgives and allows that truth to take root. 

It’s a love that sings. 

With happiness, yes, of course; but a love that keeps on singing when we’re sorrowful. 

Whatever you do - in words and deeds - do it in Jesus’ name. In love.

Be the light, the love, the peace you want to see. Do it knowing there’s just enough in the palm of your hands; in the expanse of your hearts; your smiles, your tears, your embrace. 

Look around today:

Behold, your mothers.

Behold, your children.

You are God’s chosen ones. Light gatherers. Beloved. 

May God’s love dwell in you richly. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2023

Human life: more than getting to the top of the mountain

Sunday before Lent: Exodus 24:12-18, 2 Peter 1:16-21 and Matthew 17:1-9

Sir Edmund Hilary was one of the most famous explorers and mountaineers - receiving a coronation medal for his ascent of Everest 70 years ago. 

He was honest about some of the misery of high altitude climbing and the dangers that went with  it. He spoke of being sensible, prepared as well as the  compulsion and thrill . He saw adventure as something open to the ordinary, the mediocre and the fearful. 

Image of Sir Edmund Hilary

Perhaps the perspective of his experience says something about today’s readings. However challenging or modest the climb, you cannot stay at the summit forever. Mountaineers, hikers and walkers all have to descend; but as they do so, they bring with them what they have seen. Hilary said:  ‘Human life is far more important than just getting to the top of a mountain’. 

Today we are taken to the summit - to a place regarded as holy, where heaven touches earth. But we are also drawn into the reality of human life, touched by Jesus, before returning to the valley. 

Six days before he was led up a mountain by Jesus along with James and John, Peter had declared that Jesus was the Messiah, the Son of the living God. Peter had also challenged and resisted when Jesus explained that he must suffer, die and be raised to life. 

Now, echoing Moses' experience of waiting on a cloud covered mountain, the glory of God was revealed on the seventh day. Now, that inheritance of the law, given for instruction, is transformed in Christ. As Elijah too joins Moses, the legacy of the prophets, calling people back to ways of love, mercy and justice, is also transformed. 

This is a moment of glory, of dazzling brightness, a radiant darkness: something spectacular, overwhelming; a moment infused with the grandeur of God. 

No wonder Peter embraces this with eagerness - declaring that it is good to be there and longing to create dwelling places there. He kinda gets it - he is far more inspired by this experience of glory than Jesus' words of suffering and passion. 

Before he even gets all the words out, he’s stopped in his tracks. Now is a time to listen. 

Image of the transfiguration found here

Listen to the one who is beloved, the Lord who is the servant; listen to the beloved Son, the servant who is also Lord. 

Listen. For God comes to us in Jesus in humility and vulnerability, in flesh of our flesh. God comes to us and shares our human experience - the joys, adventures and wonder; the isolation, pain and sorrows.

It is good to be here, for this is the glory which assures us that the home of God is among mortals; that there will be a time when tears will be wiped away, and death will be no more. It is a glory which points towards a creation renewed. 

It is good to be here, but this is the glory of the one who both commands the waves and shares bread with the crowds, who sees the humanity of the widow and tax collector and restores the sick and overburdened.  

It is good to be here on the mountain top: to contemplate and gaze on glory; to inhabit the wonder of a world transfigured. But we cannot stay. We cannot confine, secure or domesticate the wild and unpredictable spirit of God’s presence. 

The disciples fell to the ground overcome by fear when they heard a voice telling them to listen to God’s beloved Son. 

It is then that the beloved Son reaches out and touches them; he says, do not be afraid. Jesus knows that there is something more important than getting to the top of the mountain.  He knows that that means descending to the valley where human life unfolds.

Jesus knows that Peter and the others will not only listen to him - his teaching, the stories, the debates - but they will also follow. They will walk this way of loving sacrifice, of costly generosity, of self-giving care. 

He knows their fear - that suffering is harder than glory. And he places his hand on their shoulder. He allows the warmth and weight of that to be felt. He is with them - quieting their hearts and stilling their minds.

Listen. Do not be afraid. He leads them back to the rhythms and routines of everyday life. He invites them to live out the commands to love God and neighbour - given for our instruction. To do that may not be spectacular; but that is the way of life we’re called to, step by step.

Today we do not climb out to a literal summit; but we do have the opportunity to draw near to the source of life. To extend our hands - to touch, taste and see how gracious the Lord is. To be fed, blessed, loved; to be strengthened and changed, to find reassurance in our fear. 

For here in our worship - in word and sacrament, music and fellowship - we glimpse a holy light. We might hear a reassuring word - human and divine; we might receive a hand on the shoulder, the courage to have no fear.

We stand beyond the moment when the disciples had to keep their silence about their vision. They were given a glimpse of glorious majesty before he suffered on the cross. But  Christ has been raised from the dead.  It is good to be here. To be attentive to the glory - to be attentive to this ‘as to a lamp in dark places until the day dawns and the morning start arises in our hearts’, as Peter puts it. 

It is a light which confirms a prophetic message; which opens us up to the breath and movement of the Spirit in us. A Spirit which nurtures acts of faithful listening in goodness and self-control, in kindness and patience, in generosity and mutual affection. 

Such ways of living and loving are kindled as we come to the Eucharist, our summit and source, in cross-light. But human life is more than getting to the top of the mountain, we go out into the world and see God’s light reflected in a band of colour. We out to bring a touch of love which dispels fear; a word of comfort that restores hope.

© Julie Gittoes 2023

For God so loved

 Second Sunday of Lent: Genesis 12:1-4a, Romans 4:1-5, 13-17 and John 3:1-17

Conversation: a word which sums up the way in which we share thoughts and opinions, feelings and experiences, the mundane and significant. 

Conversation: that two-way process of building relationships; the way we manage our lives; or express who we are. 

Some are life-changing, soul-searching, eye-opening, heart-wrenching.

Whether it’s with a parent or sibling, friend or partner, how many of those conversations happen after sundown? 

Image: Christ and Nicodemus on the Rooftop

Perhaps it should be no surprise that Nicodemus approached Jesus at night - at that time when it’s possible for exchange of words to take a deeper, more relational turn.

Evening hours have fewer interruptions.

We’re not pressed for time; we can be fully present. 

We’ve had a chance to decompress; organise our thoughts about the day.

There’s space.

We’re more relaxed and receptive. 

The setting sun allows the comfort of night to enfold us. 

The busy world is hushed; the fever of life slows for a while. 

A hot chocolate or a glass of wine; a comfy chair or perched on the end of a bed. 

In that space, we can dare to go deeper, to ask the questions that matter most to us; to share uncertainties and hopes, memories and experiences; to tell stories or ask questions; less judgement, the possibility of healing. 

Then sleep, when it comes, is a little easier: tiredness, yes; less weight on our shoulders, maybe; the shift in relating, or understanding, certainly.

Nicodemus begins with what he knows; the word on the street. The signs he and others have witnessed point to the presence of God, to a teacher from God.

Jesus responds with statements about the kingdom - about birth and life, about heaven touching earth.

How? Says Nicodemus. He goes for the literal. Can one be re-birthed?

Jesus dives into metaphors and symbols, stretching imagination with talk of water and Spirit, flesh and wind, movement and life. 

How? Says Nicodemus again. 

Jesus speaks of understanding, of testimony and of belief. 

We’re beyond the realm of opinion now; this is the arena of love. We’re exploring what it is that we treasure or hold dear; what we invest in and cherish; what we place our trust in - what we love with all our heart.

We, like Nicodemus, can do that because Jesus has opened up the heart of God to us. 

In him, that love stoops to earth and earth raised to heaven. 

Jesus tells a story which reveals who he is; he roots it in a story that the teacher before him already knows. He honours his identity and learning.

For this conversation is  life-changing, soul-searching, eye-opening, heart-wrenching.

Moses had lifted up a serpent in the wilderness to bring healing.

Image: Craigie Aitchison

Jesus would be lifted up  - in the wilderness of our world and our lives - to bring healing that opens up new, abundant and eternal life. 

For God so loved.

Loved the world.

That he gave his Son. Of the Father’s heart begotten. Flesh of our flesh, in love.

So that we might believe. So that we might love. 

So that we might not die. So that we might live.

For God so loved.

God’s love dwelt among us.

Love came into the world, not to condemn. 

Love came so that we might be saved, healed, restored, forgiven, made whole.

Nicodemus’ how? is met with the invitation to believe, to love, to trust Jesus with his life. 

In a way, that was like being a newborn: to be hungry, vulnerable and longing to receive love and respond to the world differently.

Did this conversation run from sunset to break of day? We don’t know. 

But we do know that that life-changing, soul-searching, eye-opening and heart-wrenching journey had begun.

The next time we encounter Nicodemus is when he lovingly helps to bear loves’ body to the tomb. He lowers the one who had been lifted up into the ground. And waits for love to rise again. 

Our world is longing for such love to rise up again; for there to be hope and good news to believe in. 

For this is the heart of the gospel: the reality of grace in the face of suffering, risen life in the face of death; to lay hold of the promise of blessing which is the union of our humanity and creation with the living and loving God.

In Romans, Paul writes of this love which gives life to the dead and calls things into existence. He speaks of us as descendents of Abraham by faith and grace alone - that we might be blessed to be a blessing to the world. 

This is a glimpse of a Spirit led life: for the Spirit is ‘boundless and free’ as my friend Tom Greggs puts it - ‘freeing the human to love and to live the humanity’ to which we are called. 

This Spirit - this overflow of love from the heart of God - is known in creation and in blessing. It is known in the one lifted up on the cross for us; the love that wins over death.

This Spirit is glimpsed in those movements which animate acts of compassion in support of young and old; which stirs up the desire for the other’s well being such that we swap indifference for solidarity; which prompts advocacy for the vulnerable, lonely and voiceless; which dares to hunger for and seek after social renewal.

For God’s love for the world is a deep and dangerous truth: for the overflow of such love is attractive and changes us. It hopes for the best for all peoples and brings a new life not of condemnation but of healing. 

The Spirit’s breath in and around us draws us into a bigger conversation. A conversation that is life-changing, soul-searching, eye-opening, heart-wrenching.

We see the world not only as it is, but as it might be; and, seeing that ultimate significance, we are called to live out of a belief of being loved.

For God so loved the world.

That he gave his Son. Of the Father’s heart begotten. Flesh of our flesh, in love.

So that we might believe. So that we might love. 

So that we might not die. So that we might live.

For God so loved that Godself dwelt with us; and by the Spirit breathes through us breath by breath.   

Love came into the world, not to condemn. 

Love came so that we might be saved, healed, restored, forgiven, made whole.

© Julie Gittoes 2023