We need joy as we need air

 15 December - Advent 3: Zephaniah 3:14-end, Philippians 4:4-7 and Luke 3:7-18

Today is what’s known as Gaudete Sunday:  a day when we are commanded to rejoice.

It’s why we light a rose-pink candle. It signals a joyous note amidst the purple of penitence and preparation. 

Gaudete in Domino semper: rejoice in the Lord always.

The prophet Zephaniah speaks of singing, shouting, exulting and rejoicing with all our heart and voice.

That might sound a bit bullish when we’re exhausted or fearful; when we’re grieving or just getting by; when our hearts break.

John the Baptist - Jacopo del Casentino

Maya Angelou wrote that: ‘we need joy as we need air. We need love as we need water. We need each other as we need the earth we share.’

Like Zephaniah and Paul, Angelou doesn’t write this out of comfort but from a place of struggle, protest and advocacy. 

They are all aware of the personal burdens and community challenges - and yet glimpse and cling onto something more.

Joy isn’t something that simply happens. It’s not the pursuit of things we think might make us happy, for a while.

We have to choose it. Or notice it. And keep choosing it. And noticing it. 

Without it we can’t breathe. Just as without love, we thirst. 

Even when those #TinyJoys are like whispers not shouts; like breath before the song.

For Zephaniah, joy comes when justice is restored.

Despite the prophet calling out people’s neglect of the commandments of God, and in the face of the trauma of exile,  the presence of God brings new life, a new future. 

Instead of judgement there is overwhelming mercy. 

God comes to us, is in the midst of us: with love. 

This is a cause of celebration - of singing and shouting.

In the face of hurt and fear there is breath and joy. 

In the face of fragmentation and alienation flow the waters of justice and love that renews.

Relationships change - people are gathered up and brought home, healed and stretched, given a future. 

There is justice in place of fear - life together in a different register: as Angelou puts it, ‘we need each other as we need the earth we share.’

Such shouts of joy stand in stark contrast to the words on John the Baptist’s lips: ‘you brood of vipers!’

They are words of judgement: harsh, shocking, blunt. 

He calls us to turn back to God’s love, to repent.

They are words which call forth change and action: to show in our lives the fruit of such repentance, of returning to love. We need such love as we need water. 

The question on the lips of the crowd makes sense: what then should we do?

How are we to live? 

If we turn towards God’s love, if we repent, how then should we live?

In the face of a changing world and when love changes us, how should we act? 

From the wilderness, a voice calls us to us. It calls us home. 

Home to God. Home to ourselves. Home to the places where we live and worship and work. 

We need each other. We are to show love and joy in those familiar places. 

It is in the ordinary habits and patterns  of our lives, that God is near to us. It is in the routine and mundane that we can make a difference. 

Two coats? Give one away.

More food than we need? Share it with others.

We can be generous now. We can be compassionate now. 

We are invited to live our lives. Now. 

John goes on to offer specific advice - to tax collectors, soldiers and religious leaders.

Don’t take more than is owed in tax; don’t use force or threats to supplement wages; don’t be arrogant because of your role or position.  

Perhaps this is what repentance looks like: generosity, justice and contentment. It’s a practical expression of our faith.

The message to the crowd that we all have gifts - gifts more than what we own, but in who we are. 

There is joy and love in this: needs met by human lives. 

This is good news. This is a cause to rejoice, to shout and sing.

All that we have and all that we are is loved and capable of showing love. 

John ends with words that the Messiah will baptise with the Holy Spirit and with fire. 

It’s another stark image. An ear of corn is made up of both the kernel of wheat and the husk of chaff. What is capable of being ground into flour to make life giving bread is gathered up; the husk is inedible, it’s burnt up. 

John and Jesus are dividing human beings against each other - they are reminding us that when we come before the fiery radiance of love. Then the one who knows all the secrets of our hearts will gather us home; and gather up the rich harvests of our attempts to love. 

We are seen and known. Going through a baptism that cleanses, forgives and restores. 

Judgement is good news; it’s an act of love and source of joy. It speaks of right perception and being seen. It speaks of holding on to what is good; of letting go of defences, fears, hurts, failings. 

Joy comes from this honest place of setting aside painful truths - and allowing ourselves to be embraced by love (rather than turning away). 

It’s out of this hope that Paul writes. God is near to us - set aside worries. God is near - be gentle, to others and yourself. God is near to us - pray, give thanks. God is near - rejoice. 

Here we take the fruits of the harvest - the bread from milled grain, the wine from the crushed grape. They become for us food for the journey; drawing us into communion, community. A joyful feast, a love that meets us where we are and helps us bear fruit. 

‘We need joy as we need air. We need love as we need water. We need each other as we need the earth we share.’

© Julie Gittoes 2025

Shock of hope

 1st December Advent Sunday 2024: Jeremiah 33:14-16,

1 Thessalonians 3:9-13 Luke 21:25-36

‘Nous y sommes’, here we are, said President Macron as he posted a video clip of Notre Dame. He also addressed over a thousand specialist artisans who’d worked on the restored cathedral. He said: ‘the shock of the reopening will be as great as that of the fire, but it will be a shock of hope.’

Interior of Notre Dame: image US News 

We long for a shock of hope. Jesus’ words might resonate with the newsreels: the earth in distress, heavens shaking, waters raging and people fainting in fear. 

Nous y sommes, here we are.  Jesus doesn’t invite us to look away from the disruption, pain or confusion, but to be present in it, even to seek the nearness of God in the midst of it; to find within reality the shock of hope. 

Jesus’ words convey urgency, the references sound cryptic and the scope is cosmic. He calls his hearers to attention by using startling images and rhetorical devices. In the face of chaos and uncertainty, we are to be alert, to be ready and to look.

Advent begins in the dark, it acknowledges where things fall apart - and yet draws us into life and restores hope. The promise of justice and mercy will not pass away.   There is redemption and it is near.

For all the dramatic images, we’re invited to embrace Jesus now, to encounter his love today. We are to find encouragement in this as we seek to be faithful to God in the present, in our local.

His arrival is and will be a word of hope to us. Here we are: invited into a way of living that holds some kind of common ground in the face of uncertainty. 

We are invited to dwell in the truth and that takes courage. We see the world as it is - to be honest about the pain, questions and fears. This might lead us to lament rather than cheap cheer; it might motivate us to seek after justice rather than escapism; it might move us to compassion rather than indifference. Truth seeks change, renewal; it dares to hope. 

We are invited to wait and to long for what is not yet here. We sit in darkness, longing for light. As we wait, we notice what we really want to be different; desires to see an end to loneliness and hunger.

 In the dark, things break open and grow; seeds and bulbs long buried in soil root and push new life to the surface. Perhaps we too are being remade, our longings reshaped; being obedient to God’s ways of life and love;  as we long for what is possible. 

Honest waiting is an invitation to pay attention. It is to notice the details, to see where life might be bursting forth in bud and leaf. As seasons shift, what do we glimpse in our own hearts - what is giving energy, or joy; what do we let go of? 

As we go about our lives, our work, what do we notice in our households or communities? The voices we need to hear or the needs we can meet; the opportunity to be present with another.

Nous y somme. Here we are.

Waiting. Paying attention. Honestly. Dare we imagine?

Dare we hold our longings and sorrows together with the compassion of a God who comes to us in Christ; the one who brings the shock of hope?

The one who was born in a small town on the edge of an empire long passed as brought us a sure hope, here and now. In him is justice, healing, mercy - a profound hope in the face of all that is tense and uncertain. 

It is his judgement that grounds our hope. 

The prophet Jeremiah writes of hope and consolation. He is unafraid to remind us of the consequences of failing to love God and neighbour, and reminds us that an alternative future is possible. 

Jeremiah invites us to judge those systems or patterns of life that deny justice or extinguish the possibility of compassion. A hopeful future is built on noticing what is out of kilter, critiquing it and seeking to bring change. 

We do this placing our trust in the one who is our righteousness: the Lord who was, who is and is to come. Jesus is the one who brings justice and healing - who calls us to seek a kinder, fairer, more compassionate and just society. 

The letter to the Thessalonians reminds us that such hope is rooted in the pursuit of peace, joy and love; for those qualities to be made known within the reality of human lives in community. 

In a time of waiting, Paul sees the Christian community in that place as a source of joy as well as hope. Even in the face of affliction, they had sought to live in peace, prompting each other to acts of goodness. 

As he prays for them, Paul asks that love might increase and abound in them.  Love is the source of our hope, the well-spring of joy and the grounds of peace. It is the greatest gift - the character of God reflected in human lives. 

To echo another letter, such love is patient, generous and kind. Love is not stubborn, selfish or rude. Love hopes all things.  Love is the shock of hope - loving each other, being able to accept we are loved. It is a shock of hope - loving the world in its pain and confusion, its contradictions and beauty. 

Nous y sommes. Here we are. 

Advent is a rich season: it reminds us to look with honesty at the world, and invites us to wait with courage and imagination, with patience and longing. When hearts are fearful and the earth is distressed - Jesus reminds us of the shock of hope. 

A hope not simply in a restored cathedral, but in the building up of a body committed to courageous love. To be present in the world as it is because it is precisely here that God dwells with us. To see the depth and the darkness and notice what is growing, slowly. To yearn for it and to imagine it - something beautiful, something that heals the world, is waiting to be born. 

© Julie Gittoes 2024

Divine possibility

 24 December, Advent 4: 2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16, Romans 16:25-end and Luke 1: 26-38

Wham may have made it to Christmas number one (39 years after they debuted ‘Last Christmas’), but Mariah Carey has been repeatedly accorded the title “Queen of Christmas”. 

On the one hand she’s attempted to trademark the monika and been denied; on the other she’s said that she’s neither created nor wanted the title, that that was other people. She told Zoe Ball on BBC Radio 2, that Mary is the “Queen of Christmas”.

Image here

For someone who started making music out of necessity - to survive and to express herself - Mariah Carey says that creativity not only gave her a sense of worth, but also taught her that ‘all things are possible with God.’

Divine possibility. 

That is where we find ourselves on this final day, in the final hours of Advent. 

There is the possibility of life where there was none.

In the ordinary, there is an unexpected greeting.

In the face of confusion, do not fear.

But it doesn’t begin there and it doesn’t end there either.

It begins with God’s love for the world: calling into life with creativity, freedom and possibility; choosing a people, inviting obedience, recalling to mercy.

David longed to build a house of cedar as a temple for the Lord. But a wandering people had trusted in a God who was with them, behind and before. 

So instead, he was to build up a people in his name, establishing a kingdom. 

Included in this household and lineage of rebellion and blessing, of exile and hope, was Joseph.

And into the life of his beloved Mary to whom he was betrothed, there comes a moment of divine possibility.  

The God who had dwelt and moved amongst a people now dwells with us, pitching a tent, tabernacling with us in our flesh.

We know the story so well that the remarkable risks sounding inevitable: the greeting, the doubt, the plan, the questions, the reassurance, the consent. 

Possibility hovers in the gaps in the story - humanity had waited in time for our Lord and Saviour; the eternal one waits for Mary’s “yes”.

We rush to crown her “Queen of Christmas” rather than letting the divine possibility unsettle us a little. 

First, Mary is greeted as “favoured one”.  She is perplexed; she turns the words over in her mind. 

She is told not to be afraid; that she has found favour with God. Why? Because she will conceive a son who fulfils the hopes of David’s line. 

And yet, for all the hope of an everlasting kingdom, for this young woman such favoured status meant risking everything: her marriage, her reputation, her community, her life. At the very least she would be shamed and shunned, accused and abandoned. 

There’s a carol, popular at school services, called “Mary did you know?” It asks if she knows that the child she will deliver, will soon deliver her.

To answer those questions with a “yes” holds together the angel’s words with an inner conviction, trust, imagination and vision: the stuff of her heart and the stuff of the divine possibility formed by scriptures, history, prayers and hopes. 

That “yes” was courageous: from first trimester to pangs of labour; from Jesus' first sign at a wedding in Cana to the scandal of the cross he carried; from his last breath and burial to his risen body breathing peace.

Second, Mary asks a question - how? How can this be? - before she gives her consent - letting it be, according to God’s word. 

Annunciation

In a moment depicted by artists whose paintings hang in galleries and are reproduced on Christmas cards, time stands still: weighty, spacious, the epitome of a pregnant pause, the possibility of life where there was none.

We too  imagine her body language: eyes down cast or turning towards the door or closing slightly; hands clasped or holding a book, beckoning or silencing; leaning into the doorframe or a chair taking her weight. Eternity in that moment crowns her queen; but painters give her time to think, refuse, reconsider just as the angel gives freedom to consent.

The Holy Spirit moves in those moments - overshadowing, conceiving the holy; the creator created within her womb. Did she know, the child would be the great I am? Yes, just as divine possibility had brought life out of Elizabeth’s barrenness.

Nothing is impossible. All things are possible. With God.

But then the angel departs as she utters her yes, here I am: servant, handmaid of the Lord; espoused, expectant mother.

This  is where we find ourselves on this final day, in the final hours of Advent. 

The possibility of life where there was none.

Did she know that her baby would save us? 

She certainly knew enough: enough to keep saying ‘yes’ to God; to sing her own song, to pray for a changed world; to labour to bring God’s speechless word to birth. 

The mystery has only just begun. 

Kept secret for long ages and now disclosed; told by the prophets and made known to us gentiles.

Mary, Queen of Christmas models obedience of faith.  Teaching us what we want for Christmas, the one thing we need - our great salvation in Jesus Christ.

She teaches us to say ‘yes’; to sing our songs of justice; to pray for a changed world; to labour in love for a lasting peace. In the power of the Spirit, to seek the everlasting kingdom of Christ. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2023

Comfort?

 10 December 2023 - Advent 2: Isaiah 40:1-11, 2 Peter 3:8-15a and Mark 1:1-8

Image: a still from the sound of music YouTube

Maria famously begins her list of favourite things with: Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with strings.

Her list goes on: ponies and strudels, doorbells and snowflakes.

In the film, the song occurs in a scene with the children afraid of a thunderstorm; in the original, it’s sung as Maria prepares to leave Mother Abbess to join the Von Trapps.

In both cases, Maria is looking for comfort in ways that are familiar to us.

How many of us had - or still have - that favourite teddy, soft toy or blanket?

Or perhaps it was a favourite story - a piece of music or a film? 

Maybe there’s a place we go to find consolation: the hills or coast, a particular cafe or comfy chair.

Or we reach out to a friend, mentor or someone who gets us.

All these things bring comfort in their own way

Psychologists refer to “comforters” as transitional objects - bridging the gap between dependence on a parent to being about to soothe or settle and comfort ourselves. 

We might outgrow them over time, but we don’t outgrow the need for comfort. When life ‘stings’ or when we feel sad, thinking of our favourite things can be comforting; then, as Maria puts it, we don’t feel so bad. 

Today’s readings are full of cries and comfort. 

Words of reassurance are  met with a voice that cries out; a voice that calls us to ‘cry out’; and the content of such cries do not sound comfortable.

In our Advent waiting comfort is sought in a wilderness place: a place where the glory of the Lord will be revealed, but so too is our human frailty like withered grass and a faded flower.

Isaiah, like prophets before and after him, knew that the wilderness could be a place of captivity, exile or journey. He and they also knew that wilderness was an experience of loss, trauma or hardship;  trust betrayed, justice denied, compassion withheld, penalty paid.

It is in this place that God speaks with tenderness.

It is in such a place that a way is prepared for the Lord.

And the promise of consolation comes: comfort, O comfort my people!

These words come not in the midst of a thunderstorm, or moving from the convent to the world, but to those who are under occupation. 

Whether it’s the Babylon of Isaiah or the Rome of John, pleas for comfort are heard in the wilderness places, where human rule and power limit freedoms and flourishing. 

We’re invited to go there in Advent: what might we find in the wilderness? Are there hidden joys - or hearts redirected to comfort others?

There is something about the wilderness that strips away our illusions of self-reliance; we’re freed from the dazzling worldly prizes which consume us, or the securities that insulate or separate us from the other : there is a level of vulnerability and risk; we have to wait on God, watching for signs of God’s presence.

That place of vulnerability and risk might also turn our hearts away from selfishness and back towards our first loves. To love God with all that we are - but also to love our neighbour with the love we ourselves are held in.  

That turning back is what we mean by repentance: watching and waiting in the wilderness - be it a place or a season - draws us near to the comfort and consolation of God. As we acknowledge what is in our hearts, we are moved to sorrow, penitence and the desire for change which embodies hope.

The wilderness is a place of grappling with all that separates us from God and each other - what in shorthand we call sin. We are confronted with the pain of what that separation, selfishness and sin does to us and to others.

As God draws near to comfort us in that place, knowing the cost and the harm, but also reminding us that we cannot fix this on our own. Our watching and waiting in the wilderness might be a place where we can confess our need and be made whole: delivered from what oppresses us, free from what preoccupies us, forgiven for what burdens us, healed of what harms us..

The wilderness is a ‘levelling place’: we glimpse a different kind of landscape.  Isaiah speaks of valleys being lifted up and hills made low; of the uneven and rough places made smooth; the crooked path made straight. 

Isaish paints a picture which allows us to reimagine the landscape of the world: not to take away its beauty, awe and wonder, but to enable us to see where we stand - to see what the world could be like. It is on this even highway that all flesh shall see God; all flesh be restored, healed, saved.

Voices cry out where there is inequality, oppression and injustice; voices cry out at our human frailty. Voices also cry out for justice, righteousness, healing, freedom, renewal; for penitence, faithfulness, loving mercy, forgiveness and a new hope.

Philip Kolin’s poem describes John as a prophet of fire and repentance. His voice is a flame igniting something in us -  the waters he stood in, waves engraved with grace. Sin and woe are plunged into the darkness of those waters where life is rebirthed towards the light. Each honeyed syllable of his message opens hearts and unburdens souls.

Yet he knew that he was preparing the way for the one who was coming into the world: the one who fulfilled the hopes of the prophets - a light to lighten all nations. 

In Jesus, God draws near to us in the wilderness, when life stings; when we feel sad and need comfort. In flesh of our flesh, he is our comforter, coming to feed us; gather us up and carry us; leading us out of a wilderness to a more level place.

This is the good news with which Mark chooses to open his gospel: this good news is a regime change amidst all the empires, powers and dominions of this world.

In his poem “The British”, the late Benjamin Zephaniah spoke about the sheer difference and blended life of our nation. Leaving those ingredients to simmer, he spoke of how, as they mix, languages flourish, binding them together with English. 

He allows for cooling time and suggests we add some unity, understanding and respect for the future, serve with justice and enjoy. He notes all ingredients are equally important - to treat one as better leaves a bitter taste. He offers us a warning too - which might be a wilderness levelling place - but also a comforter of what is possible there.

Warning: an unequal spread of 

justice will damage the people 

and cause pain. Give justice and equality 

to all. 

May this Advent be one where we find comfort in the desert, for the sake of God's kingdom.

©  Julie Gittoes 2023

Wachet Auf - awake!

 Advent Sunday 2022: Isaiah 2:1-5, Romans 3:11-end and Matthew 24:36-44

In a poem which we will hear in full this evening, entitled ‘Advent Calendar’, Rowan Williams explores this holy season of expectation, in earthy terms.

He will come like last leaf’s fall - with flayed trees and shrouds of leaves; like frost tracing its icy beauty; like dark - with the bursting red December sun before the night sky envelops us. 

Today marks the beginning of  a holy season: one which is startling, not sentimental.  He will come, will come, / will come like crying in the night writes Rowan in the final stanza.

He will come like child yes; he comes like blood, like breaking as Mary labours to give birth. 

Image my own

This child comes, like every new born, disrupting rhythms and routines; this child breaks us open too, bringing the promise of new life to this death-bound world, marked with winds and mist and the star-snowed fields of sky.

In the cantata we’ll hear tonight, Bach draws us into a midnight hour: where maidens wait with lamps lit; where voices from watchtowers call us to awake from sleep and arise to meet the one who will come, will come, will come. 

He will come like a bridegroom; like one who has tenderly sought after his beloved. He will come like one bringing graceful strength and gentle judgement; like one inviting us to share in joy and gladness at a feast. 

The music stretches our imaginations with an emotional pull and a spiritual longing: oh to open our hearts and be alert to embrace the wonder of God; a God who calls us beloved. 

May lamps burn bright to embrace the one who comes: be alert, be prepared; wake from sleep, the Lord comes and will not delay.

In Christ, there is hope for more: not a confidence in the glittering prizes and illusions of this world; the lesser hopes destined to disappoint. This is a hope in victory over death, in loving and merciful judgement, in  new and abundant life. 

It is the kind of hope which gives us courage in the face of present struggles and worries.  He will come, will come, will come; saying beloved, I am here.

Yet our Gospel reading speaks not of labour pains or the cries of childbirth; nor does it speak of lamps, bridegrooms and wedding feasts. 

Instead, we are given a disturbing image of a household being broken into; of the distribution of a stealthy intruder, damage and loss. It challenges our peace and security. 

In part this is the scandal of Christ’s coming - like leaf fall, frost or darkness. He will come in a way that is unexpected. He comes like a child - born to wake us from sleep, to bring life out of death. 

If Bach takes up the imagery of well-trimmed lamps and the foresight to provide extra oil; he also wakes us up - calling us into a season which we do not embrace lightly or selfishly; but with vigilance and faithfulness. 

We are to keep awake; to notice what is going on in our hearts, communities and world. We are to be prepared, responsive, ready. We are to be rested yet alert; trusting in God.

So perhaps the shock of today’s gospel is a challenge to us in a couple of ways.

Are we if not literally asleep, then sleepwalking through life. Are we caught up in busyness or the mundane that we miss the urgency of the moment - moments to console or rejoice, support or love. Wachet auf - sleepers awake - pay attention to what matters.

Jesus doesn’t come in the way we expect - like a child, like a bridegroom and even with stealth. Perhaps we might take that as an invitation to let go of our assumptions and embrace Jesus with joy; knowing that there is no place, no circumstance that is too insignificant, ordinary, complex for God’s love to dwell there.

As we open our hearts in that way - letting go of the pressure to have every detail worked out - we make space for a God who calls us beloved. Sometimes, we have to let go of persistent fears, even the fear of death itself; and the heavy burdens, the many distractions of life or entrenched attitudes about ourselves or others. Those things which get in the way the beauty of God’s desire for us; which stop us loving our neighbours as ourselves. 

If the imagery of being robbed is a startling and disturbing one, perhaps in this way we can set it alongside the new life promised and how we make that present in our interactions now. 

For Paul, living in God’s daylight meant laying aside - being robbed of - what he calls the works of darkness: from quarrelling to drunkenness, debauchery to jealousy. In doing so we begin to make space for God’s ways of peace. We are called to awaken from the rest and refreshment of sleep to be active in offering hospitality and consolation. 

He will come, will come, will come: like leaf’s fall, frost and darkness; he will come like a child, bridegroom and beloved. 

He comes wanting us to be prepared for - and to prepare the way for - a transformed world: today we come to God’s banquet and joyful feast where in bread and wine we are called to light and joy, consolation and love.

Here, and at every Eucharist,  we are taught God’s ways; ways that we might walk in. Ultimately God will come as arbiter and judge over human hearts and between the nations. We pray now that the Spirit, our advocate and guide, will help us begin that work of turning swords into ploughshares, spears into pruning hooks. Laying aside all that does us harm.

Wachet Auf!

Awake!

Be vigilant and faithful!

Be prepared - with lamps brightly lit!

He will come - drawing us into a holy season. 

A season which is startling, not sentimental.

He will come with a birth that leads us through life and death to new life.

Live lightly and intensely, with purpose and love, before we let go of this life; trusting in a greater hope.

This child comes, like every new born, disrupting rhythms and routines; this child breaks us open too, bringing the promise of new life to this death-bound world, marked with winds and mist and the star-snowed fields of sky.

(C) Julie Gittoes 2022