The most precious thing

 Sunday, 6 April, Passiontide: Isaiah 43: 16-21, Philippians 3:4b-14 

and John 12:1-8

What is most precious is often most fragile.

Our world, our friendships, every human heart; like a jar of precious perfume. 

In his novel “Alabaster”, Chris Aslan reimagines the story of Mary, Martha and Lazarus. He narrates their shame and sorrow, the freedom they long for and the stigma they face. They hear rumours about a new teacher; someone who might bring hope. 

The jar of pure nard is the most expensive thing they have, but it has not brought them good fortune. When the teacher comes to stay, Maryam smashes it open. 

Her words take us into the tender and provocative moment in today’s gospel:

At the upper room I hurry inside, dripping spikenard all over the carpets, to where the teacher is reclining. Then I take one of his feet and I pour… I’ve never smelled anything like it… It’s rich and warm and a little heady…

The scent fills the room, intoxicating everyone… Spikenard spills everywhere and I pull off my headscarf to use as a mop… my hair falls around me and catches in the liquid, so I use it to wipe his feet as well. 

Spikenard might’ve been a year’s wages; a dowry perhaps. 

No wonder the reaction - assuming scandalous waste rather than abundant generosity. 

Could it not have been sold? Would not the poor have benefitted?

The air fills with fragrance, hands and  feet are drenched in perfume, skin and hair are soaked with oil. 

And Aslan’s Maryam says to the teacher:  “It’s the most precious thing we have”... it’s not enough, I know, but I want to honour you and to prepare you for what’s to come.”

Mary, like our imagined Maryam, dares to love with abundance and holds nothing back - even her own future. 

She faces criticism, scorn and censure for this show of devotion, for the waste.

Yet this outpouring is meeting a different kind of need - it's a fragrance of love which encompasses death, an embodied worship which expresses hope; which gives an unspoken glimpse of resurrection before the pain.

As Maryam holds the teacher’s feet, she thinks ahead: This body will soon be broken and destroyed like this jar. He chooses to do this for us…I start to weep. I wipe and I weep, whispering my adoration. 

Her body is communicating her longing, her worship, her gratitude; her relief, her trust, her sorrow. She sees the brokenness and anticipates burial. 

His feet are washed with oil before he washes the feet of others with water.

A jar is broken in devotion, before his body breaks to heal and restore. 

This is a holy moment: intimate and tender as oil mingles with tears; blessing and sorrow; dignity and honour and grace. 

In describing this chapter in his commenary on, David Ford says the essentials are: being loved by Jesus, loving and trusting Jesus, recognizing who Jesus is, a heart open to the suffering of others, prayer, service, life-giving signs, extravagant attention and generosity. 

We are invited to play our part in this drama of friendship with Jesus. 

Such friendship is the most beautiful thing: it is to be held in the loving gaze of God. 

Our bodies are fully part of our life with God as we offer our whole selves without shame or fear; resisting some of the harsh judgements we make about them.

Embodiment goes to the heart of the incarnation: God’s word dwells with us as we break bread and share wine, weep and find consolation in our tears. 'God's presence and his very self, and essence all divine' as the hymn puts it.

Jesus names the goodness in this moment saying that it is worthy of being remembered - not for its waste but because Mary has dobne a beautiful thing. 

She antipates Jesus’ act of self-giving love by anointing his precious body with the most precious thing she has. She’s not  being cautious or holding back; she lives beyond the metrics of calculation; of growth or exchange. It is a pure gift in response to love.

As Isaiah has promised, God will do a new thing - it springs forth and we are invited to perceive it. He writes of a new way - of fresh waters; he writes of people being formed anew - declaring their praise and adoration. 

Mary’s gift of life and love fill our senses as an act of worship, drawing our attention to God’s love in Jesus: spilling over to forgive, breaking to make whole, lifted up do draw us to Godself. 

In the Eucharist, we are drawn into the abundance of  Jesus’ act of self-giving love. In fragments of bread, a cup of wine and words of blessing, we are made welcome, forgiven, restored and made new. Drawn into communion, our bodies in one body. 

Consider for a moment the things that have sustained us when life has been painful or we’ve found ourselves in turmoil - what comforts us?  Often, it's time with those who love us; the gestures of those who care; the body language that doesn’t count the cost. 

These aren’t merely pragmatic or calculated; not empty platitudes or politeness. They are acts of kindness or creativity that resist the pain of a fragile and finite world - which capture our senses like spring flowers. 

The body language between Mary and Jesus speaks of facing  suffering and death with generosity - sharing all that we have, breaking it open; somehow finding with it a gift of beauty with a fragrance that hangs in the air. 

It is an act of resistance against the grave - death does not win, instead the sacred notes of love rise above it. 

When challenged, Jesus is not suggesting that the needs of the poor do not matter - or that we accept society's inequalities as inevitable. It invites us to worship wiht our whole heart and to be open-hearted with what we have. 

Mary reminds us to love in the moment - aware of what lies ahead for Jesus, she offers comfort and tenderness. The breaking open the jar is a breaking open of her heart with deep gratitude and love. 

We too are to love Jesus without limit; that friendship is the source of goodness, reminding us that we are from love, of love and for love; that we are also to show the same open-heartedness to those who are in need. 

Paul writes of the vindication of unconditional love. He has desecribed the way in which Jesus does not cling to power but empties himself for us. In the light of that, Paul sees his gains as fleeting, counting them as rubbish (a polite translation of the Greek!). 

There is nothing that we can do to attain our own righteousness - it is a gift in Christ by faith. He shared our embodied experience, suffering and death that we might know his resurrection.

Mary responds to the need in front of her - the one who’ll die outside a city wall and be buried in a stranger’s tomb.  She loves what is before her eyes, in her dining room, amongst friends and those who’ll deny or betray love. 

Her body language shows that it is always Jesus we serve when we love those whose need confronts us. Judas faces rebuke rather than blessing for holding back; for thinking in the abstract. 

The perfume is an anticipation of resurrection - it is a glimpse of hope, it is a reminder of beauty and goodness, of extravagance and vulnerability. It is the fragrance of love, broken open and spilling out. 

As Passiontide begins, we are gifted an image of utter generosity; of being present; Jesus between us and judgment; holding nothing back. 

The cross awaits with all its pain and abandonment; but in this moment, one woman chooses to make a gesture that fills the room with the scent of what is possible. That there will be life again. That love will triumph. 

We press on in this way of love, as friends - recognising Jesus and being open-hearted to others; in prayer, service, attention and generosity, that our bodies too might be life-giving signs, broken open in love. The spiritual writer Ignatius says this, may it be our prayer:

Lord my God, when your love spilled over into creation You throught of me. I am from love, of love, for love. Let my heart, o God, always recognize, cherish, and enjoy your goodness in all of creation. Direct all that is in me toward your praise. Teach me reverence for every person, all things. Energize me in your service. Lord God may nother ever distract me from your love. Neither health nor sickness, wealth or poverty, nhonour or dishjonour, long life nor short. May I never seek nor choose to be other than You intend or wish. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2025

A landowner, a tree and a gardener

 Sunday, 23rd March, Lent 3: Isaiah 55:1-9, 1 Corinthians 10:1-13 and Luke 13:1-9

How do we respond to life’s biggest questions?

In the 1930s, the philosopher Will Durrant wrote to 100s of figures in the arts, politics, sciences and religion challenging them to respond to the fundamental question of how they found meaning, purpose and fulfilment in their own lives.  He published the replies in a book called On the Meaning of Life.

In 2015, James Bailey finds himself sitting alone in a caravan, heartbroken and unemployed, wondering where he’d find happiness and purpose. He stumbles across Durrant’s book of collected letters and decides to repeat the exercise.  

After rejections, responses begin to arrive: one-liners or extended reflections, which gave him inspiration. 

The late Hilary Mantel talked about discovering meaning in the pursuit of it, the spiritual gold of virutes like tenacity, patience and hope.  An environmentalist wrote about preserving the planet we depend on; a holocuast suviver described goodwill and generosity in the face of brutality; a prisoner talked about respecting and appreciating life as a gift.  

Others mentioned friends, being fully present; responding to failure and tragedy. The palliative care consultant Kathryn Manix talks about what matters in the face of death - connection, relationship and love, not weath or success or more stuff. She sees this as the beginning of wisdom, of simplicity, of loving kindness. 

All a work in progress right until our final breath - when we come know the fullness God's loving-mercy, even as we are fully known.

And often the question ‘why’ will remain on our lips, particularly when we want to make sense of the world as it is; especially in the face of personal or collective suffering or loss. 

Jesus is confronted with a version of a ‘why’ question in today’s gospel. Some of the people around him approach to tell him of a violent and traumatic event. We don’t have to imagine very hard - every day, words and images rapidly convey the brutality of leaders slaughtering civilians; of lives lost when buildings collapse. 

There is so much pain in the world, we ask ‘why’ there is pain, cruelty and suffering. Jesus somehow shifts things to ask deep and wise questions; questions that somehow hold open the possibility of meaning and purpose in life. 

Yet our human instinct is sometimes to seek after the proverbial ‘theory of everything’ that makes sense of the senseless; of the bad that happens in a beautiful world. We try to square God’s goodness and power with the reality of suffering. 

Those addressing Jesus are telling him the horrendous news with a rationale already formed in their mind: somehow, they want to suggest that those who have been killed by Herod have done something to deserve it. Jesus undoes their logic. Suffering is not evidence of or punishment for sin. 

Our society has its own inner  logic too: it might be judgements about lifestyle or background; it might be implying that others have it worst; of even that suffering shapes our character. 

All of those ways of thinking about suffering set us apart from those enduring it. We miss our common humanity; the sheer risk and vulnerability of our lives. Jesus in a radical way is challenging the assumptions behind those logics and instead draws us into the reality of an other’s pain. 

He invites us to own the brokenness and hurt of our own lives and to repent. He is inviting us to ask a different question - one which draws us back to God and each other. There’s depth and risk, vulnerability and closeness in turning around. 

In setting aside the ‘why’ Jesus doesn’t offer a strategy or an answer. Instead, he tells a story. A story about a gardener, a landowner and a fig tree. A story full of frustration, perceived waste and lack, but also a story of patience, resources and possibility.  

Image from Bible Art

It’s an odd story - whether or not you know anything about growing fig trees. It doesn’t seem to be a direct answer to the ‘why’ questions about the reality of suffering. It might echo the ideas about finding meaning in life shared with Bailey and Durrent before him in their own perplexity and isolation. 

Are we seeking after the "spiritual gold" of life’s meaning - preserving something for others, fostering goodwill in difficult circumstances or appreciating life as a gift; seeking after connection, relationship and love; finding a simplicity that makes loving kindness possible. All this, even in the face of death,

In the story, the landowner seems to be pretty absent: swooping in to check for fruit but not getting involved; seeing only emptiness and scarcity; offering instructions or making judgments which take no account of potential or patience. Cut it down he says - there’s no life. He quits. He walks away from generosity and preservation, because he sees only failure. He doesn’t reframe it with tenacity and hope. He writes off any potential, meaning or fruitfulness. 

The tree is perhaps stressed by the conditions of soil or weather; under nourished and unable to offer fruit to others. In this seemingly barren state, it needs tender care; to flourish, things need to change. To thrive there needs to be time and attention given to what’s not working well. For us in this Lenten season, there are echoes of that space to look at and amend our lives, to do the heart and soul business we need to do before God. 

The gardener though is intimately and practically involved with this tree. Where others see only uselessness and death, he sees possibility. He is prepared to work hard - labouring with the soil and manure. He puts in the effort even when the odds of a better outcome seem low. Maybe we too can not only hope for change but give our time and effort and love to the cause of possibility - in this crisis, or suffering or in justice. 

The landlord, tree and gardener undo the 'why': they give us more life-giving options and also remind us that we need to be involved. The story doesn’t open up philosophies of living in the face of terrible pain or injustice. Instead, it gives us a spade and manure - weeping with the sorrowful; giving a bit of energy to the future we want to see; nurturing a beautiful thing. Being gardeners who can take on the graft of hopeful, patient tending. 

This is a deeper story that flows from a different set of questions; dispensing with the logic of why allows us to imagine lives lived out of a more meaningful answer. 

Repenting - turning - is an act of mind, heart, will and body.  It signals our need for grace as we seek to do what is right.  As we turn, God is already moving towards us in Jesus to forgive. He bears the weight of the suffering and pain in his body, even death itself. He undoes its power, turning hurt and failure to life and fruitfulness that we might be who we’re called to be. 

Likewise, we too towards our hurt and brokenness Noticing the hurt and going towards it  in the hope that there will be the fruit of new life.  Patiently, the Spirit is doing a new thing with us; nurturing gift and virtue.

There is an echo in Jesus’ story of the promises of Isaiah: reminding us that communion with God will bring a full life, of meaning and purpose. In the passage we heard today, this satisfaction takes physical form - wine, milk, rich food to delight in when we are thirsty, hungry and empty handed. 

Isaiah offers a vision of a restored world which is at odds with those things in our world that do not satisfy our deepest longing: the way conflict and economic systms can drive scarcity and exploitation. His words prompt us to look for a time when our poverty is exchanged for abundance and joy. 

As we are nourished at an earthly table, with bread and wine, we anticipate the promise of that heavenly feast, a peaceable kingdom. We are also invited to witness to such mercy, pardon, life and joy here on earth; to bring comfort to the afflicted and sorrowful in acts of loving kindness. 

This calling to engage with others in love runs through Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. He spends some time retelling the stoires of freedom from salvey and the struggles of the wilderness. In doing so, he offers a teaching exercise. Yes, in Christ, we are drawn into the covenant of God’s love; but we’re human and will face temptations to fulfil our self-ish desires and neglect God’s goodness to us. 

Paul offers a model of radical hospitality as a way of reflecting God’s faithfulness. It does not mean a life free of temptation, struggle or sorrow, but it does give a way thorugh it. A way of love that we see in Jesus. 

On the cross his love overcomes death; and opens up for us new life full of meaning; marked by what is just and merciful. Even in the face of difficulty, we hold each other in this radical love - reflected in patience, compassion, kindness; in simplicity and being fully present in the struggle until a new day dawns. 

© Julie Gittoes 2025

The human heart - so delicate, so robust

 16 February 2025: 3rd before Lent - Jeremiah 17:5-10, 1 Corinthians 15:12-20 and Luke 6: 17-26

In Letter to my Daughter, Maya Angelou writes that: ‘The human heart is so delicate and sensitive that it always needs some tangible encouragement to prevent it from faltering in its labor. The human heart is so robust, so tough, that once encouraged it beats its rhythm with a loud unswerving insistency.’

Our hearts soar and break, flutter and ache. One moment we might be downhearted; the next our hearts are racing.

Research conducted by Professor David Paterson in Oxford explores the neurons around our heart enable it to work in tandem with the brain. The way we generate and process our thoughts and feelings is embodied, heart and emotions informing each other. 

So sensitive, yet so robust: yet neither our own experience nor scientific knowledge can fully understand it. The prophet Jeremiah speaks of the way in which God tests and searches the heart, knowing its struggles, its secrets. 

Devious and perverse are strong words for the prophet to use. Like Angelou, he knows too well how we might falter in our labour towards what is good.  What will be the heart’s greatest love and surest hope? In what will it trust? 

Jeremiah’s words find the ways of the Lord to be the surest source of encouragement for the hearts ‘loud unswerving insistency’. Our thoughts and actions reveal our heart’s desire and resting place. 

Our hearts beat: full or empty, tender or cold. We find blessing in trusting the Lord’s commandments of love. As trees rooted by streams of water, there is no fear or anxiety but a rich fruitfulness. 

Jeremiah contrasts that with the curse or woe to be found when we place our trust in mere mortals alone. Turning away from our creator and sustainer leaves us in a parched place. Is there an equivalent of arrhythmia in a spiritual desert?

A parched heart cannot bear fruit. It’s only a full heart that can empty itself. In the words of Jan Richardson’s poem Blessing That Becomes Empty As it Goes, this heart keeps ‘nothing for itself’. Its voice echoes and in emptying ‘it simply desires / to have room enough / to welcome / what comes.’

When it feels as if we have too much to do and too little time, Richardson suggests that we lay down the weight and instead lift our voices in laughter and in weeping. She says this in the face of weight and responsibility that we think is only ours to carry. 

The weight of a world where we are fed and comfortable, and responsibility to feed those who go hungry now; the weight of grief and tears that are shed in silent unseen hours and the responsibility to bring comfort and joy. 

There is something that stings about today’s gospel of blessings and woes. There are no soft corners to hide in. The delicate nature of faltering hearts is laid bare before the precarity of human lives.A tough beating heart breaks and aches and yet is to be unswerving as it moves from fullness to overflow, emptying to fill others.  

It is demanding. Woe to those rich and full - our consolation has come, we will weep and hunger. Blessed are the poor, hungry and sorrowful - there will be laughter and plenty; God’s ways, God’s kingdom, is already with you. 

Luke tells us that Jesus has come down to a level place. Immediately before this moment, he’d been alone all night, praying on the mountainside. At day break, he calls the 12 disciples and they immediately find themselves by a heaving crowd. A multitude in number and in need. 

They come to hear and to be healed, the troubled seeking his touch. Jesus’ power pulses through the people: a word, a gesture bringing life and wholeness. 

Then he pauses and looks up. He meets the eyes of his disciples and tells them of a world reordered. Did their hearts skip a beat or beat faster? Perhaps they, like us, tried to edit or smooth out the challenge; to soften the sting.

Jesus breaks the assumption that wealth, privilege and comfort is a sign of God’s blessing. In Matthew’s gospel, we hear of hunger and hungering for what is righteous. Here, Luke reveals the significance of that imperative for change by showing us where God’s heart is. 

God’s heart goes to the point beyond material safety net. It goes to the ache of grief, and hunger and poverty; it goes to need and margins, to where life is precarious. God’s heart goes there and promises more.

So how do we respond?  Do our human hearts falter in guilt or soar with hope? 

This is why context matters, everything that Jesus has just done speaks of healing, freedom, abundance and joy. He heals. What he goes on to say is spoken from the heart of God which extends to all. 

Rather than judging he paints a picture when might stir our hearts - so that they might beat with God’s rhythm of a loud unswerving instency for justice and mercy, compassion and kindness. 

That change of heart might begin with an awareness of the consolations we receive in life: the friendships, stability, comfort or enjoyment we find. Our hearts might begin to notice what they ache for: the pains or sorrows we carry, the things that aren’t sitting right with us, the change we want to see. 

As we become aware of the grace we have received with thanks and also the grace we need be it patience or forgiveness, then our hearts are inclined to turn outwards: to see beyond the limitations of our comfort or the snares of our fears. 

Jesus is helping us to grasp something of God’s priorities - and the hope of God’s promises. He invites us to pay attention - to go beyond our circumstances and to find in each other something we might need to learn. 

The blessings we have keep nothing for itself - we are another’s comfort and they might be our joy. 

Letting go of the weight of the things which become woes - to be reminded that no one is forsaken, or forgotten; to receive from others the truth that we have nothing but God’s love.  To trust not in mortals - or wealth - but in the Lord who desires us, who grafts us into his heart. 

This letting go is also a making way. Only when we know in the hollow or our heart what true blessing and woe is, can we truly live.

Paul reminds us of that in his letter to the Corinthians: our bodies are connected to each other in Christ’s broken and risen body. He is the first fruits of new, abundant and eternal life; the one who defeats death and draws to Godself all that is. 

Until that moment when God is all in all, we remain connected as bodies within the Body. We break bread in thanksgiving, drawn into communion around one table to serve one world. 

Our bodies and lives are deeply intertwined - living and departed, visible and invisible. Love breaks and dies and lives. The bread we break and taste gets inside of us; it feeds us with a love that pulses through our veins and beats in our hearts. 

We are in the words of Richardson, to: ‘do this / until you can feel / the hollow in your heart / where something / is letting go, / where something / is making way.’

May that “something” strengthen faltering hearts in our labours of love; and soften hardened hearts to beat to the rhythm of a world renewed by God’s justice and mercy. May that divine loud unswerving insistency defeat devious hearts, comfort grieving hearts, turning them back to love. 

© Julie Gittoes 2025

Imagine Paradise - O Dust, arise!

 Sunday, 23rd February - 2nd before Lent: Genesis 2:4b-9, 15-end, Revelation 4 

and Luke 8: 22-25

Do you long for the refreshment and space of the natural world? The labour of your own garden or allotment; finding beauty in the changing seasons; trees and hills, vast open spaces and familiar parks. 

Are you drawn to the movement of water and waves? The hypnotic ebb and flow of tides; rush of waterfalls and coolness of shallow pools; the serene beauty of reflected skies; its overwhelming power and force. 

Do you crave the bright lights and creative energy of urban life? Streets full of people - commuters, shoppers, tourists; cultures, households, faiths; the restlessness, loneliness, and longing for stability; vibrant, tense, unequal.

Richard Powers' Playground - taking us to the depths of the sea and much more

Today we dwell in all three: moving from garden to lake to city.

Divine goodness combines with the work of our hands. 

Life comes forth from water; water puts life in danger.

The creator’s love, with us in Christ, speaks peace, casts out fear.

Dazzling brightness, thunder and lightning combine with songs of praise.

Our hope is cast in earth and sea, stone and human hearts.

In the words of the poet, farmer and essayist Wendell Berry, we might:

Imagine Paradise.

O Dust, arise!

Today, a garden is tended and made fruitful, and a stormy sea is calmed, fears subside. We find ourselves caught up in the story of God’s ways with the world. 

We are also given a glimpse of our destiny as a dazzling, noisy city is consumed with praise.

We imagine paradise.

Genesis takes us to the beginning. Dust arises as breath brings life to clay. 

The world teams with creaturely diversity and a pleasing fruitfulness. It is good and sustainable. 

This is a world bound together in a delicate eco-system. 

Yes, humanity is blessed by delight; but we are also entrusted with responsibility. 

In this world, it is not good to be alone. We need helpmates.

The creature does not just depend on the creator and creation.

There is a fresh creative act: companionship emerges from flesh and blood. 

There is goodness - in support for each other in the creative work of tending the earth.

Side-by-side, face-to-face, we learn joy and tenderness, compassion and patience.

The biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann expands our interpretation beyond marriage to how we live together. He writes that ‘the place of the garden is for this covenanted human community of solidarity, trust and well being. They are one! That is, in covenant. The garden exists as a context for the human community.’

All this is gifted freely to us: human companionship - the sharing of life and work, responsibility and creativity.

Such freedom is risky.  

Life and knowledge lie on a tree that is out of our reach.

We lay claim to it nevertheless: testing and twisting the limits, going beyond what we need to seize what we want.

Goodness is distorted as we trade faithfulness for willfulness, trust for disobedience, other for self, interdependence for fragmentation. 

When we take the mysteries of life and knowledge into our own hands - apart from our maker and sustainer - our freedom to act and interact becomes the desire to coerce and control.

As hearts turn inwards, we no longer labour side-by-side: our nakedness and vulnerability become a source of shame.  

We exchange a garden paradise for stormy seas. 

In his novel Playground, Richard Powers talks about curiosity and creativity but also power and coercion. He describes the  impact of story, imagination, memory and song and the ways in which human exceptionalism consumes. He explores the richness of friendships, compromise and forgiveness and the new empires of wealth and influence driving isolation and otherness. 

He takes us to the depths of the wonder of this world - in oceans and emotions - and opens up the risk of how we escape it through the risk of social media and an increasingly gamified life. 

Humanity has played games - cards, chess, and the open-ended go. Now he says: ‘mobile games that consisted of little more than tapping on the screen when a box popped up were destroying people’s lives’.

The plot of Playground names the wonder and the beauty, the playfulness and the hope, the sheer abundance of life; but also the greed and exploitation, the rifts that open up between us, the sadness.

‘We make things that we hope will be bigger than us’, he writes, ‘and then we’re desolate when that’s what they become.’ 

No wonder the prophets cried out for justice and mercy when we struggled to know how to live well together; no wonder they called us back to the commandments to love God and our neighbours as ourselves. 

The struggle of how to live well needs a new act of solidarity: but the creator draws alongside as a helpmate, refusing to refuse love and choosing to dwell with us.

Powers writes, ‘Your sea is so great and our craft so small, O Lord.’

Jesus knows the greatness of the seas - not just the depth of the oceans but the depths of our anxieties and fears; not just the richness of the creatures but our capacity for selfishness and self-protection; the greatness of the eco-systems and their fragility and our smallness.

Our craft feels so small: we wound and want to heal, we are wounded and want to be healed.

In today’s gospel, Jesus steps into that small craft - that ordinary boat - to be with us. He gives in to his need for rest. He is like that first helpmate, flesh of our flesh. But he is also God’s Word, abiding in the Father’s heart in peace.

Storms when they arise from the depths are ferocious, surging waters threaten to overwhelm both boat and crew.  Disaster looms, fear rises, Jesus sleeps.

He only awakens to the cries of humanity.

His rebuke clams the waves and subdues the wind. 

Jesus has mastery over creation.

Who then is this?

This is love, casting out fear. 

This is breath, bringing peace.

Here is God in the storms we most dread: grief and fear, loss and betrayal; in the games we cannot win and the times where faith waves.

God is with us. 

God is acting for us. 

God is loving us. Still. 

The one who said ‘dust, arise’ in the creation of Adam becomes one of us. The one who made a helpmate out of bone, comes to us in flesh and blood. 

His body heals, touches, feeds and teaches. 

His body is anointed, spat at, wept over and buried. 

His hands break bread with us as his body breaks for us. 

In his body, we are drawn into a new kinship. Here, though we are many we are one body. As we share in fragments of bread, we are called by name. We begin to imagine paradise as we share this bread of heaven, on earth.

As we participate in this Eucharist we are led through stormy seas from a garden to a city, from creation to new creation. We share in the song of heaven - holy, holy, holy. We come near to the refining power of God’s love - the one who was and is and is to come.

We long for that place beyond darkness and dazzling, of one equal light as John Donne puts it. A place beyond fears and hopes, ends and beginnings; of oneness and joy.

To long for it is not an escape into an artificial world or alternative reality: it is instead to embrace the renewal of the covenant of love. As that happens, we are invited not only to find delight and beauty, pleasure and satisfaction - but to seek to labour for a fruitful garden and help others navigate stormy seas. 

In a world of chaos, noise and pain, we are to be people whose hearts turn outwards towards the other: breathing peace, acting with compassion, giving with generosity. 

In a world of contention, exploitation and gamification, we are to be creative; to be fearless in seeking equity and justice; to be committed to the earth’s sustainability. 

Stormy seas might be crossed or be calmed. We might find in our urban lives places where gardens grow.

It might be the care we show to our churchyards and grounds; it might be encouraging others into green spaces or helping all ages connect with nature. It might be helping with Hendon’s own Tiny Orchard - sandwiched between the pharmacy and alms houses on Church Road.  

As we do so, our work turns grief to joy; our work is joined to heaven’s gift. In hope, we imagine paradise, as dust arises. 

Wendell Berry’s “Sabbath Poem VII” might become our prayer:

The clearing rests in song and shade.

It is a creature made

By old light held in soil and leaf,

By human joy and grief,

By human work,

Fidelity of sight and stroke,

By rain, by water on

The parent stone.

We join our work to Heaven's gift,

Our hope to what is left,

That field and woods at last agree

In an economy

Of widest worth.

High Heaven's Kingdom come on earth.

Imagine Paradise.

O Dust, arise!

© Julie Gittoes 2025