The crest of a wave

Third Sunday before Advent: Isaiah 35: 1-10, James 5:7-10 and Matthew 11:2-11

We could begin today with reference to ballot boxes and glitter balls: of votes cast for parliamentarians or celebrities on Strictly. 

But instead, let us go to a burial ground just three miles from here  at Hampstead Parish Church,. There we will find a grave bearing the inscription ‘here lies H Stuart Moore… and his wife Evelyn’. 

Then in brackets, we read ‘daughter of Sir Arthur Underhill’. 

This woman, remembered her as wife and daughter, is actually known to us Evelyn Underhill: Christian, scholar and spiritual guide.

In the midst of the upheavals of the early twentieth-century, she was a prolific and influential writer, broadcaster and retreat conductor. Her quest for God led her to communicate - in ‘plain and untechnical language’ - how mean and women might participate in and experience the love extended by God to every human being.

In a little book on the Lord’s Prayer, she wrote this: ‘Christ announced the one and only purpose of His ministry to be the bringing in of the Kingdom of God; by the quiet action of a flawless love giving back to our lost tormented planet its place in the orchestra of heaven’.

That is an extraordinary and powerful vision: it is a vision which takes us to the very heart of the readings we have heard today. 

It is a vision which acknowledges the a deeper reality than that which we glimpse in news paper headlines and Twitter feeds.

It is a vision which invites us to embrace with she calls ‘the wide-spreading love transfiguring the whole texture of life’.

It is a vision which makes reality and hope more real.

In the midst of political upheaval and personal anxieties; in the midst of the creativity and joy, untidiness and complexity of our lives;  in the midst of the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death: we are called to prepare the highway for such a kingdom.

Today we recall one who did indeed prepare such a way. John the Baptist appears in the wilderness as a disruptive and unsettling voice; his dress is strange; his diet unappetising. And yet people folk to him to hear a message of judgement and hope. 

In preparing the way, he points beyond himself.

In preparing the way, he extends an invitation to place god at the centre of our lives. 

But the John we encounter in today is not the solitary yet charismatic figure proclaiming his message in the open spaces of the desert. 

The John we encounter today is a voice crying out from the confined space of a prison cell.

His witness cost him his liberty because King Herod would not tolerate John’s sharp critique of his abuse of power in personal and public life.

Imprisonment may have silenced his voice but it has not quenched his hope.

He speaks out of his curiosity and longing, isolation and expectation.

Are you the one? he asks, or must I wait patiently for another.

Jesus' response is ambiguous.  He doesn't say 'yes' or 'no'.

Instead he sends John's disciples back with stories.  He asks them to report to John about all that they have seen and heard. 

John has to work at making the connections and piece things together.

As Underhill also acknowledged: we aren’t given definitions or policies for the kingdom.  Instead we are given pictures and stories.

What John hears, are words the prophet Isaiah being fulfilled.

Jesus turns hope into reality.

He invites us to see beyond the signs to embrace a time of renewal.

He points to sight and hearing; to movement and life; to the power of the good news to liberate.

Sitting alone and in darkness, John hears that hope and wholeness is being poured out on those who are troubled, broken hearted and marginalised.

The very Kingdom he had made space for, is breaking in.

Today, some of us may feel that, like John: either that we are sitting a dark place; feeling fearful and despondent; or feeling that we are still waiting patiently for renewal; or indeed sensing a glimpse of new possibilities.

Wherever we find ourselves on that spectrum, we are all challenged to hold on to the vision of God’s Kingdom: committing ourselves courageously to bringing hope to others; showing determination in speaking out for compassion and justice; holding power to account and strengthing networks of friendship in out communities.

Isaiah’s words were written at a time of exile - when God’s people were far from home, literally and spiritually. 

In that place of uncertainty, the prophet speaks of God’s faithfulness. God will strengthen hearts and minds, hands and knees when we are weary and fearful.

As we draw on this strength we are to seek to reach out to the weary and fearful.

As Underhill puts it: ‘to look with real desire for the coming of the Kingdom means crossing over to God’s side; dedicating our powers, whatever they may be, to the triumph of His purpose’.  

We are to dedicate our time, money and position to the service of this kingdom. This is a call to distinctiveness - rooted in prayer and flowing out in active service. It might be the call to advocacy for the weak or the call of accountability to the powerful. 

As Jesus acknowledges that people didn't flock to the wilderness to see the expected - reeds blowing in the wind; a person blending into the background. Nor did they flock to someone robed in finery and the trappings of this world.  Rather they found someone who had a consistent character.  Someone full of conviction; someone utterly committed to the ways of God.  

John looks forwards to the fulfilment of God's kingdom, embodied and given meaning by Jesus.  We too are called to be people who speak and act for freedom and justice; for a world made whole; never ceasing to speak out for what is true; naming all that devalues and exploits; and pointing to another way.  This is a commitment to radical reform; reform which is rooted in the work of the Holy Spirit in us.

Isaiah gives us a remarkable range of images for this kingdom: parched desert land becomes fruitful; blossoms appear with abundance and there is joy and singing; the glory and majesty of earthy dominions pale in significance with the glory and majesty of  God's reign.  

We hear words of comfort and courage to those who are weak and fearful; we are assured of God's faithfulness to us.  God is not indifferent to our human cries - but his recompense is transformative.  Jesus identifies himself as the one who brings healing and salvation by echoing Isaiah's expression of hope.

Underhill is under no illusion that a programme which challenges oppression and inequality demands much of us: such faith and hope and charity and much courage too. 

Elsewhere in James’ letter, he places emphasis on works of justice and charity as the fruit of faith; he also condemns a culture of deference to the rich and powerful. He also advises the church to be prepared to watch and wait. This is not a call to indifference; but it does give us a fresh perspective on time. In the current age, we are to seek justice in awareness that God will come in glory to bring judgement. 

The one who comes to be our judge is the one who has taken flesh of our flesh. Here at the Eucharist God’s Spirit is poured out on ordinary bread and wine, things of sustenance and joy; they become Christ's body and blood; and we who extend our hands to receive them become  God's people. 

Underhill describes the Eucharist as ‘the crest of a great wave; a total sacramental disclosure of the dealings of the Transcendent God’ with human beings. It is the crest of a wave, as the culmination of the meals Jesus shared and the food he gave; as he makes himself known in broken bread. 

But waves break and burst out along the shoreline. We who share this bread are to be that wave  giving concrete and social expression to the vision of God’s Kingdom we glimpse each Eucharist. When the mass is ended, let us go to seek justice with mercy; hope with realism; joy with friendship; generosity with responsibility.  Amen. 

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Remembrance and Re-membering

A sermon preached at St Mary's Hendon on Remembrance Sunday. 

The readings were: Job 19: 23-27a, 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17 and Luke 20:27-38

We opened the doors of the little chapel… [the priest] beckoned me to kneel with him in the front of the altar… I did not understand the precise meaning of what he was saying, but I could hear the compassion in his voice… He placed a wafer on my tongue and offered me the cup. He then placed this had on my head and prayed… it did not feel like a man’s hand but something much more powerful and profound, radiating energy… filling me with love.

These words are written by trauma surgeon David Nott in his memoir War Doctor detailing his voluntary work on front lines from Sarajevo to Syria. 

It encapsulates everything about the brutality of war: all that we remember today. It encapsulates the tragedy of lives lost; and moment of grace where lives are restored or re-membered.

Today and tomorrow, there will be moments when we fall silent and remember. 

Our silence speaks of our longing for peace and its cost.

We remember those who have seen active service in the theatre of war: those whose experience of conflict has cost them their lives; those who return suffering mental or physical trauma; those who mourn their friends. 

We remember men and women in danger this day as a result of war and terror:  the service personnel from commanding officers to the medics, the ground crew to special forces; the chaplains serving alongside them; the civilians, volunteers, humanitarians and peacekeepers.

We remember them with respect and with gratitude: our remembering calls forth from us a spirit of commitment. A commitment to the cause of peace and justice in the face on the anger and hatred of humanity.

From his place of brokenness our silence holds out this defiant hope.

Such hope isn’t mere optimism; it’s the refusal to allow death the final word.

It is a hope reflected in today’s readings. 

Such hope is expressed with conviction by Job.  Even in bitter pain, protest and lament, Job remembers God. The one who is with him; who transforms his flesh; who his eyes shall behold.

I know that my Redeemer lives.

Job places his trust in God - believing that ultimately God has the final word; that human beings are called into life. 

In a debate about the possibility of life beyond death, Jesus rejects the literalism inherent within this hypothetical scenario; and moves us beyond earthly limitations to reveal promise of new a creation that does not whither or decay.

God is the one who says “I am”; the Lord of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob: the one who God of the living, not the dead; for to him all are made alive. 

This is a God who re-members.

Remembering all that has been and allowing nothing to separate us from love.

It is a remembering that brings together the broken and separated members of the human race.

God draws near to us in flesh of our flesh in Jesus: like us, his body aches and moves and touches and bleeds.

God draws near to us in broken bread: inviting us to touch and taste and see and remember.

And in this act we are remembered too: our divisions are brought together; our differences are diminished.

Because of what Jesus did in our past, we remember in the present and choose a new future.

We are gathered together in Christ, our living redeemer.

A wafer on our tongues; a cup offered; a hand laid on our head.

In these small things the powerful, profound and radiating energy of God’s love fills us.

As we remember in silence, we can choose to listen; to understand; to love.

In our silent remembering, may the Spirit be at work in us calling us to seek what is just and true.

As we remember, we stand firm, making Paul’s prayer for the Thessalonians our own: Now may our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and through grace gave us eternal comfort and good hope, comfort your hearts and strengthen them in every good work and word.

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Receiving life in our fragile bodies

This is a sermon preached at the Cathedral on Sunday 29 July. The texts were 2 Kings 4:42-44, Ephesians 3:14-21 and John 6:1-21. 

The two things which underpinned it's inspiration: the headlines about stockpiling food; a poem by Malcolm Guite called "Love's Choice". Particularly the line about the lightness of bread 'a wafer-thin sensation'; yet in this sensation we encounter the fullness of Christ. 

I was also struck by a comment made on Twitter by Dr Ayla Lepine about a painting by Eularia Clarke called "The Five Thousand", she described it as 'holiness in the everyday everywhere". 

John's Gospel tells of an episode which is more than simply a miraculous feeding - and we hear it in a context where there is ongoing anxiety about our ability to feed our nation. 

Aunty Credwyn’s afternoon tea is one of the legendary memories of my childhood: the table seemed to heave under the weight of cakes and sandwiches. Plates were emptied and replenished; our eyes boggled at the plenty. 

Elijah’s words could have been her motto: They shall eat and have some left.

If you were to venture Credwyn’s larder, you’d have found an abundance of a different sort: boxes and boxes of washing powder, bags and bags of flour, tins and tins of fruit.

Her capacity for hospitality may well have been shaped by the experience of wartime rationing.

It seems inconceivable that today we read newspaper headlines such as “Hoarding food now seems the only sensible thing to do”.

The Swedish government has issued advice to households on how to cope in situations of ‘major strain’; when services are disrupted by crises from a cyber attack to terrorism. The leaflet suggested stocking up on non-perishables.

Jean Vanier, in his commentary on John’s Gospel, writes: We human beings do not possess life; we receive life in our fragile bodies.

We receive life via a food supply chain reliant on imports and structured on a system of “just in time” deliveries.  All of us depend on physical nourishment; for some that dependence is more precarious than others. 

Social media responded to Dominic Raab’s assurances about ‘adequate food’ with pictures of Spam; but it was the food writer Jack Monroe who pointed out that mass panic and stockpiling hurts those least able to buy: ‘those living hand to mouth, paycheque to paycheque, food bank trip to food bank trip’.

Today’s readings weave together very real physical concerns with deeper questions about the kind of community God calls us to be.  Jesus himself is concerned for life in our fragile bodies:  Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?

Those of us who’ve enjoyed the excitement of going along to a festival or carnival, might conjure up a vivid image of a crowd caught up in an event. There’s a momentum all of its own; but at some point people get hungry. 

Jesus notices this: those drawn there by the desire to hear his words and to see signs of healing now needed to be fed. He asks out loud, where are we to by bread?

Philip responds by commenting on the impracticality of the question: they can’t afford enough bread. Andrew’s pragmatism is tinged with a realistic sense of scarcity and inadequacy.

Jesus’ response reveals God’s compassion; his actions are directed to our welfare: sit and eat, he says; rest here a while. He gives thanks and distributes food. Nothing is held back; all are satisfied. Nothing is lost; fragments are gathered up. 

As Vanier reminds us, this is not simply a miracle of multiplying food but also of creating and building a caring community where people are concerned for one another. 

This is a foretaste of heaven in ordinary. The twentieth century painter Eularia Clarke captures this brilliantly in her depiction of the feeding of the 5000: bicycles and handbags are set down, fish and chips are spread out; babies rest in their carrycots, children quench their thirst, adults eat without guarding what is theirs; strangers notice the needs of others, perhaps for the first time. 

Eularia Clarke - The 5000 (1962)

In Jesus we see the fullness of God with us. A fullness which loves abundantly in order that we may learn how to live like that too. In Paul’s words of prayer to the Ephesians, we are to be filled with the fullness of God - in order that God’s power at work in us may accomplish more than we dare to ask or imagine. 

This is not a vision of competition or rivalry; it’s not life ordered by self-protection or lack. It is an invitation to be liberated from selfishness to become self-giving. Our Gospel reminds us of how costly and challenging it is to live in this way.

The crowds want to claim Jesus as a leader who will satisfy their physical needs for ever; but he wants to lead them into a deeper dependence on God who’ll reshape our attitudes and actions. 

Jesus disappears: he takes his rest and prays. To give out does not mean we must burn out. To be in community with others, we need also to be alone.  To nourish others - emotionally, physically, mentally and intellectually - we need to nourish ourselves. 

This lesson in sustaining life in all its fullness confuses the disciples. Perhaps they had hoped to hold on to the success of this feast; to enjoy the exultation and admiration of the crowd. 

As Jesus goes up the mountain, they walk back down to the lake and wait. They wait until it gets dark. And still he has not returned to them; so they return to Capernum.

Their impatience turns to fear when the storm rises up. Their journey is not merely physical; it is also spiritual. They, like us, long to abide forever on the sun-kissed mountain top where our longings are satisfied; where our fragile bodies are fed; where we know life in its fullness as an equitable harmony, where all is gathered up.

They, like us, return to a world which is fraught with lack, fear and complexity. We face storms which are beyond our control: uncertainty about the future; the fading hopes of our wishful thinking; cycles of anxiety and addiction We do not possess life; we receive it in fragile bodies. Bodies which are dependent on others; bodies which have the capacity to nourish others.

Jesus meets the disciples and us with words of assurance: It is I; do not be afraid. 

Paul prays that the Ephesians, may know this fearless assurance of Christ might dwelling in them. Today’s collect echoes his supplication: ‘open our hearts to the riches of your grace, that we might bring forth the fruit of the Spirit in love and joy and peace’. 

At this cathedral we long to be open hearted - open to God and open to all. To fulfil that hope, in this Eucharist, we bow our knees before our heavenly Father; we are strengthened in our inner being through his Spirit; Christ dwells in our hearts in faith. Our fragile bodies are spiritually fed. As we take fragments of bread, we are being rooted and grounded in love. We receive in what is wafer thin, the fullness of God.

Here in broken bread and poured out wine, we touch and taste and see what is the breadth and length and height and depth of love. Love that surpasses all knowledge. Love that was manifested in compassion as crowds were fed on a hill side. Love that was manifested in peace as disciples clung to their boat.  

This love is cosmic in scope: it creates, redeems and sustains. This love is inexhaustible and yet known in intimate indwelling of us.  We gather to share this meal with the household of God, for the sake of God’s Kingdom. 

Here God’s love chooses to be emptied into us that we might accomplish more than we can imagine. In a world which is struggling with uncertainty about the future; where fragile bodies need to be fed,  let us pray that we may receive and give life, across all generations and forever: in the food we share, the compassion we show, the support we give. 

© Julie Gittoes 2018

Sheep and goats

Yesterday we celebrated the Feast of Christ the King. As I was preparing to preach - including reading a Saturday paper - I was struck by the ways in which political cartoons seek to provoke and persuade in a world of turmoil.  I wondered if parables served a similar purpose - engaging our imaginations to challenge our attitudes or behaviours.  

In his commentary on Matthew, the theologian Stanley Hauerwas points out that there are those who ‘claim to need power to do good but in fact just need power’. Our shepherd-king reveals the fallacy of that; and uses the parable of sheep and goats to enable us to reflect on our place in God's Kingdom.  The texts were:  Ezekiel 34:11-6, 20-24; Ephesians 1:15-end; Matthew 25: 31-end

Political cartoonists have an uncanny knack of distilling complex news stories and political agendas into a single image. 

In The Telegraph, “Nature Notes” combined Brexit negotiations and animal sentience with caricatures of Boris Johnson and Michael Gove as ‘infant puppies’ which ‘whilst exuding great charm, are just agony’.

Meanwhile, The Guardian’s Martin Rowson depicts those same politicians in the Workhouse  of ‘Sovereign Penury” alongside Theresa May in leopardskin kitten-heels: the graffiti on the walls reads ‘Give up all hope’, ‘The wages of sin is stagnant’ and ‘Eternal Austerity’.

Cartoons provoke and persuade. To understand them, we need to interpret the exaggerated symbolism, alongside the captions and characters; we pay attention to the details, allusions and the use of irony. They make sense within the context of a wider narrative or set of situations. The same is true of parables - Jesus uses images and allusions to prompt us to think and act as God’s people.

What might your favourite cartoonist make of today’s parable: nations under judgement, acts of mercy and the division of the blessed and accursed. Who would “Nature Notes” depict as sheep and goats? How would Rowson express eternal life and eternal punishment alongside eternal austerity?

Such musing aren’t out of place. For we, like the disciples, live within the same matrix of earthly loyalties, international upheavals and domestic uncertainties. Like them, we need to learn how to live well in the face of change and adversity, by placing our trust in God’s faithfulness.

Wenceslaus Hollar: Goats, sheep and mole

The story of the sheep and goats is the last in a series of parables which Jesus deployed in response to the disciples’ admiration of the grandeur of the Temple.  As Canon Paul reminded us, Jesus named the transience of worldly powers and impressive buildings; emboldening them - and us - to seek God’s kingdom.  

Parables - like cartoons - shed light on our motives, desires and the consequences of our action or inaction. They provoke and persuade us by engaging our imagination - to live without fear, bringing hope to others and acting with mercy.  To speak of sheep and goats reveals the impulses of our hearts, our priorities and divisions. 

To speak of sheep would evoke passages like those from the prophet Ezekiel: passages which depict God as the chief shepherd of the people: searching and seeking; rescuing and gathering; feeding and binding up; strengthening and judging. 

Anton Mauve: Shepherd and Sheep

Ezekiel’s words resonate with the human condition. We live in a world where peoples are scattered; where greed, ambition and self-service distorts the responsibility of leadership. His words names our hopes - for a place of rest and safety in our life together. He also names the ways in which we can become divided amongst ourselves - the weak are bullied, the strong exploit their position. 

This is the backdrop to Jesus’ parable: a narrative of God’s faithfulness - of a love reaching out towards us, bringing us home. And that love isn’t abstract. Nor is it the cry of ancient prophets alone. This love is revealed in one who is heir of David; the shoot from the stock of Jesse; the one on whom the Spirt of the Lord shall rest. He is Emmanuel.

Tree of Jesse with the Madonna and Child (Schrenberg Psalter)

Baden State Library, Germany

He taught the crowds on the mountainside and brought healing to those in sickness or distress.  Children have been blessed and the rich invited to store up heavenly treasure;  matters of divorce, taxation, hospitality and forgiveness have been debated.  

Now as we hear the parable of sheep and goats, our generation stands among the nations.  We face righteous judgement - standing before the loving gaze of one who is both shepherd and sheep; the king and the one in need.

This parable also sets before us a vision of God’s Kingdom which is marked by showing mercy, loving justice and walking with humility.  Jesus words hold leaders to account, but he also calls our attention to ordinary acts of feeding, clothing, welcoming, visiting and caring for others. 

Curiously, neither the sheep nor the goats know that in ministering - or failing to do so - that it was Jesus before their eyes. Perhaps our cartoonist would have given them expressions of surprise, shock, joy or embarrassment. Perhaps they too would have added the drama of hell fire versus heavenly bliss to spell out the seriousness of the situation. 

The Parable of the Good Shepherd Separating Sheep from the Goats

Sixth Century, Byzantine School 

The consequences of our action or inaction having enduring impact - on ourselves and others; we can strengthen or scatter, bind up or wound. In this parable, the eyes of our hearts are enlightened. We know the hope to which we are called; the inheritance of faith and love we are to share. 

That’s because in these moments, we see and are seen at a level of authentic human engagement; it’s compassion which frees the host and the guest. In going beyond the realm of duty, we see God. In the least of these, we see the Imago Dei, the image of God. 

That likeness is embodied and enacted - in face to face intimacy as we counsel the distressed, comfort the anxious and sit with the broken hearted. 

This likeness is performed in participation with others in networks which feed, cloth and visit; using gifts to support economic transformation, sustainability and fair trade; in supporting and praying for those who work in immigration centres, prisons and shelters for the homeless or victims of domestic abuse. 

The dignity of the Imago Dei is restored as lives and systems are transformed.

Learning to live like this when the future is uncertain is to endure upheaval with our hearts fixed on the victory of the shepherd-king, Emmanuel.  

The disciples learn a tough lesson. And so do we. For the one who is God with us, is the least of these. He is stripped of clothing and agency; dignity is crushed, his face smeared with blood and spittle. Hail, king of the Jews!  

Rembrandt: The Three Crosses

This king embraced the pain and suffering of humanity in his broken body; his outstretched arms reconciled us to God and each other. In him God’s power is at work - healing, forgiving, challenging, inspiring. As we hear in Ephesians, God’s power raised him from the dead. burst from the tomb, in the silence of the night, to renew our hope that life and death leads to risen life. 

Now the one who reigns above all rulers, authority and power,  pours out his Spirit on us that we might be united in a bond of peace. 

Christ King of Kings (Greece, sixteenth century)

And the most remarkable thing is this: we are members of his body. 

We are ‘the fullness of him who fills all in all’. Our agency, our bodies, our breath, our wealth: all this can express the fullness of God’s love in unremarkable yet significant moments. 

Here we are fed by that fullness. Here we are called.

Bread broken. Fragments shared. Hands outstretched. Fullness tasted.

A body given that we might be that body.

Then we depart in peace with assurance, hope and challenge of today's communion motet*:

Christ conquers,

Christ reigns,

Christ commands. Alleluia!

* A setting of Christus Vincit by James MacMillan

© Julie Gittoes 2017

Prayer and Rage?

Recently it seems as if the lectionary is bowling me some challenging text: it's just the way the preaching rota falls, of course! Yet, combined with the undercurrents of protest, political uncertainty and powerful acts of compassion within communities, the complexity of Scripture in speaking into that is accurately evident. Today's readings at the Eucharist were: Jeremiah 20:7-13; Romans 6:1-11; Matthew 10:24-39.  As human beings, events provoke strong reactions in us - including anger at injustice and events which are cataclysmic. How do we pay attention to that rage in prayer, action and deeper engagement with our communities and structures. After all, there is no 'us' and 'them' but only us. 

This is a personal grappling - it's not a definitive homiletic answer. As I wrestle with this, I am very grateful to a post by Mike Higton which named the discomfort around prayer versus rage.

One of the things which puzzled me was Jesus talk of proclaiming what we hear whispered and telling things in the light. At the back of my mind as I wrote this sermon as a series of Facebook threads in response to posts by Linda Woodhead about the report 'An Abuses of Faith', produced by the Independent Peter Ball Review. It painfully sets out how far short we have fallen in our institutional faithfulness to the Gospel. When authority colludes with the abuser, we have failed to hear the cries of the most vulnerable. Prayer and rage are responses which become the impetus for change.

On Wednesday, the hottest day of the year, hundreds of protestors marched from west London to Downing Street to protest in support of Grenfell Tower survivors: an event billed as a ‘day of rage’.

On Wednesday, the hottest day of the year, an impromptu prayer meeting was held at Kensington Temple to intercede for a city rocked by terror attacks and fire: an event billed as a ‘day of prayer’.

Both events were motivated by the devastating consequences of a ravaging fire, by anger and compassion.

Both events expressed fierce emotions in cries of lament, cries for justice, for change, and yes, of rage. 

In discussions on social media - and face to face - there was much discussion about the relationship between the two - and the appropriateness of ‘rage’. Some Christians came down on the side of ‘day of prayer’.  Others felt that we should be angry - and that now was time of going beyond heavenward piety towards practicing righteous or prophetic anger 

Is it such a stark dichotomy - directing our emotions to God, perhaps, rather than expressing them in a march along our streets?  Or is it a delicate balancing of both/and - of us learning to lament well, learning to acknowledge, and harness, the depth of anger without tipping into hatred?

Do we channel our emotions into prayer, express them in protest or explore how they go together? 

As Christians we need to pay deep attention to our emotions and reaction, to that which is provoked in us. 

When we face heart-break and grief, we might cry in despair: we express those things before God - but we also seek to console and be consoled.

When we receive wonderful news, something wells up within us; we want to talk about it, celebrate it, relish it; but we also give thanks to God. 

When we are elated, hurting, exhausted, fearful or joyful, we do something with those emotions: we act on them - and as Christians we bring them to God in prayer. 

Our prayer is a response to tragedy, part of our public witness; it also enables us to align our actions with God’s  will and purposes for us and for creation.  

If our faith has everything to do with justice - and the structuring of our society - then there is more for us to do in exploring how prayer relates to anger, prophecy to action.  As a friend of mine put it: ‘it’s complex. Anger is not the opposite of peace or love’. 

Each of us will know that we fight against things which hurt those we love. Today’s readings invite us to grapple with what that might mean.  They are honest and raw; hopeful and inspiring; demanding and reassuring. They are difficult. But they are also about love - in prayer and protest.

The laments of the psalms reveal brutal honesty before God; the passionate voices of the prophets cry name abuse and neglect. Those voices teach us to challenge the ways of the world - and to seek a kingdom of peace and mercy for widow, refugee and orphan. Those voices are full of love, prayer and rage -  they name oppression, self-seeking and the neglect of the commandments.  

When Jeremiah laments, he is angry with God - he’s become a laughing stock; he’s derided and mocked for the cries of his rage against those who exploit the poor and needy. It’s not popular. Even his close friends seem to be waiting for him to stumble.

The Prophet Jeremiah is a painting by Michelangelo

Yet he perseveres knowing that those who are against will not prevail; that the unrighteous will face shame not success. He hands over judgement to God - who knows our hearts and minds. His rage becomes a prayer of praise to the Lord: ‘For he has delivered the life of the needed from the hands of the evildoers.’

In Jesus Christ, God reaches out our broken and fragile world by dwelling with us. What we see in him is a refusal of revenge and the breaking of cycles of violence. And yet, we must be wary of smoothing out the challenge - the one who cast out the money changes and turned over tables - a radical and disruptive act - also breathed on his disciples at his resurrection, saying ‘peace be with you’.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus describes the cost of our witness to the love of God: a love which brings healing, and stands against injustice. It takes us to the heart of prayer and rage. We hear of fractured families, the reality of persecution and the challenge of being ‘like’ Christ Jesus our teacher in hostile conditions. And yet, in the midst of this prophetic lament, Jesus defuses our fear, saying: So have no fear of them; Do not fear; So do not be afraid.

Grappling with the text again this morning during our weekly time of Lectio Divina, drew out the complexity of a text full of challenge and paradox. What is it that we are called to proclaim and make known in the light? What does Jesus mean when he says, ‘I did not come to bring peace by a sword’?

Dietrich Bonhoeffer answers this by saying: ‘The cross is God’s sword on this earth. It creates division… all for the sake of God’s kingdom and its peace - that is the work of Christ on earth!’  Or as our opening hymn puts it:

Let in the light; all sin expose

to Christ, who life no darkness knows.

Before his cross for guidance kneel;

his light will judge and, judging heal.

On the cross, God’s love for people goes to the very depth of weakness, despair, sin and abandonment. Naming division, it destroys it; the challenge of the cross is that such peace demands a bigger vision.  

It is a love that shifts our focus from the priority of biological kinship to a more radical concern for the created order.  The Kingdom that has come near in Christ Jesus is one which challenges violence, abuse and exploitation - within church and society. 

It will cost us to love those who are broken-hearted, dispossessed and vulnerable as we work for a Kingdom where there is equity and dignity.  

It will cost us to love those who are in positions of power as we bring to the light abuses of authority; we proclaim a message of repentance, a radical change of heart and practice. 

It will cost us to articulate a vision for the NHS, taxation, Brexit and social care which protects the weak, fosters interdependence, encourages enterprise and condemns greed.

Prayer and rage can express this love: God’s love for all people is reflected in the cross and resurrection; it summons us to discipleship and life in its fullness - life not as possession, but as gift for our world.

Here in this Eucharist we are invited to name the things which assail us in the present, focusing our prayers and shaping our actions. Here we are drawn back to the memory of God’s faithfulness - recalling that we die and rise with Christ; knowing that we are no longer enslaved to sin - that we are to live in him.

When Paul writes to the Roman Christians in this way, this is both a powerful vision of the world being reconciled to Godself though his Son; it is also a compelling challenge to walk in newness of life.  Here in this Eucharist we glimpse God’s Kingdom and allow our future to be reimagined.

Do we stop praying and raging? No. For God’s love makes possible a confidence that drives out fear: the God who loves the sparrows - counts the hairs of our head. Sometimes confession our faith in Jesus will make us stand out; sometimes responding to the good news will disrupt our life.

Flock of birds flying over Wesselburen

The theologian Bill Cavanaugh writes: The church, as the body of Christ, is called to be an alternative to the atomisation of [US] society promoted by individualism, the market, and the state. As an alternative social body, the church realises the eucharistic imperative to be what we receive, to become the body of Christ and allow others to feed on us.’  

We are to be faithful to the task that God has given us - in prayers of raw lament, in acts of compassion, in understanding our rage and, in the power of the Spirit, directing it to build God’s Kingdom.

Awake and rise, like people renewed,

and with the Spirit’s power endued,

the light of life in us will glow,

and fruits of truth and goodness show.

© Julie Gittoes 2017