Until the day dawns

This sermon was very hard to write let alone preach, coming as it did the day after the news about Jean Vanier. I included within this sermon caveat that what I said was difficult; that we needed to check in with ourselves; that some of us might want to talk to someone (including our safeguarding officer). 

Yes, the world is charged with the grandeur of God; there is a fragile beauty. There is also the reality of toil and heartache; harm caused by abuses of power; bewilderment at our fallen heroes; and the reality of our mixed motives. This is an attempt, however partial, to name some of that complexity; a complexity that is  still infused with grace and hope. 

The texts for Sunday, 23rd  February were Exodus 24: 12-18; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17: 1-9

Sunrise from my (former) kitchen window

There are over 65 millions posts on Instagram which include the #sunrise all of them seeking to capture the colour and light of the dawn.

What is it about the breaking in of a new day that gladdens our hearts? 

Darkness is pushed back; there is a fragile beauty. 

The world is, in the words of the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, charged with the grandeur of God.

The world is awakening. For night owls, insomniacs, and early risers this moment is unbidden: glimpsing it a rarity for some, a source of energy or anxiety for others. 

We treasure this grandeur with hope perhaps, or gratitude; a moments peace or the cue to press snooze: as the poem continues, it will flame out, like the shining from shook foil; /It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil / Crushed.

The grandeur of God.

Unbidden, never spent; brooding over us.

And yet, alongside this there are the things over which we labour; the toil of hands and lives.  The things we struggle with; those things which mar God’s image in us; or scare the landscape of our world, diminishing its greatness. 

There is hope and grandeur, yes; but there are also the dark places where light needs to shine. 

Today, God’s grandeur and light and glory, is seen in flesh and blood: This is my Son, my Beloved, with whom I am well pleased. Listen to him.

Today, amidst the mess of this beautiful and challenging world, we are also told: You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your heart.

Two things to hold on to:

My beloved Son.  Listen to him.

Be attentive. As to a lamp shining in a dark place.

Transfiguration gives us a glimpse of light and glory on the cusp of Lent.

Transfiguration - Alexander Andreyevich Ivanov (1824)

We see God’s grandeur , the breaking in of a new dawn, in Jesus Christ: this hope is particularly poignant.

Yesterday morning, a report was published about one of my theological inspirations the late Jean Vanier. 

A man whose commentary on John’s Gospel explored the challenge and beauty of God’s love; love revealed in Word made flesh, dwelling with us.

A man who founded a network of communities serving adults with mental and physical disabilities; treating them as equals, as children of God.

This same man has been accused of manipulative sexual relationships with colleagues; women have spoken out about the emotional and spiritual abuse they experienced.

This news is heartbreaking for it revealed the harm done when there is power and influence, without accountability.  It was shattering because we want our heroes to be perfect; we make them saints. We fail to acknowledge, that they, like us, are flawed, with mixed motives. 

It has also painfully revealed to us the damage that uncritical human regard and admiration can do. As Sr Catherine Wybourne reflects in her blog, when she heard Vanier speak, she half expected someone to genuflect before him. No-one did; but nor did anyone ‘challenge anything he said, either. Every word was received as incontrovertible wisdom.’

It does indeed feel as if we are in a dark place; what then are we to do; who then can we trust?

We are to trust in Jesus; God’s beloved Son. We are to listen to him. We are to be attentive to him in the dark places of our world and of our lives.

This listening begins with prayer:

We pray for the women who’ve carried the cost of their stories, the weight of a hidden truth, the pain of not being believed. For they have spoken and been heard.

We pray for the  L’Arche communities; for wisdom and strength as they create safe spaces where all can flourish; for that work to not be discredited.

As we pray for forgiveness of Jean Vanier, we also pray for ourselves and all who’ve been inspired by him.  For when our trust is undermined or when a hero falls from grace; when we see the suffering caused, we are also confronted with the reality of our human condition.

We are all flawed with mixed motivations: we are capable of doing good, but also of causing harm. We wrestle with our own desires and vulnerabilities; with temptations to take advantage or pursue selfish ends. 

Lent brings this into sharp focus.  What we call sin is the reality of things that distort God’s image in us; that we are capable of being wounded and wounding others. So we pray that God will reshape our wills, hearts and lives that we might love goodness.

We do not do this alone. At the very heart of the Christian life is the immense courage needed to be compassionate to others; it is risky and demanding. It is why, in our life together, we remain accountable to one another. 

Before we begin our lenten journey of prayer, fasting and generosity, we are given a glimpse of the light of Christ to give us hope for the journey.

At this moment of transfiguration, Jesus is revealed in majesty before he suffered death on the cross. Our collect for today not only asks that we, like the disciples, may see that glory; but that also we might be strengthened and changed. 

We are to be attentive to this light shining in a dark place: strengthened when we suffer and changed that we might reflect more of God’s loving goodness. 

Todays’ readings are full of promise and give us a glimpse of that goodness.

There are echoes and parallels in what we’ve heard read today: words of commandments carved in stone; words of that same love poured out in human flesh. 

Moses and Elijah remind us of God’s call to freedom and to faithfulness; to the commandant of love and the prophetic work of justice. 

We hear words of glory reflected in Moses’ human face, a brightness which faded over time; we hear of that same glory reflected radiating in all its fullness in God’s beloved Son; it does not fade, it is who he is.

What we see in our Gospel, is not a change in Jesus but a change in the disciples’ understanding of who he was.  Peter, quite understandably wants to hold on to this experience; to make it permanent. 

Yet this is just the beginning of a journey: for this body, glimpsed in all its divine radiance, is a body which will suffer and die for us. This body will carry the weight of human violence and defeat its power. For this body will rise again.

The dying and rising of this body, gives hope to our bodies. It gives hope to the whole of creation - infused with God’s grandeur but also harmed by greed and carelessness. Frail bodies and bruised creation will be restored, transfigured, redeemed and made whole.

As he writes of this experience, Peter does so knowing it only made sense in all its fullness after Jesus’ death; this glory is only shared when resurrection life has broken the bonds of death. 

As he writes, this experience becomes a gift to us; an image of God’s presence with us in Jesus which is to be a light in dark places. He gifts us this image that we might listen and pay attention - not to cleverly divided myths and untruths - but to the love that casts out fear.

We are to hold onto this light as we walk in the way of vulnerability and compassion; being courageous yes, but not alone. Sustained by the words of scripture and the grace of the sacrament. Before we depart today that we who’ve gathered at this table might reflect the life and light of Christ in word and deed. Knowing that it is not human fame and honour that saves, but only the power of God who can bring changes us. For it is only this light that can drive our darkness.

Transfiguration - Armando Alemdar Ara

The world is charged with the grandeur of God; and for all the toil and sorrow, Manley Hopkins gives us hope:

And for all this, nature is never spent;

    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

©  Julie Gittoes 2020

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

Embrace

The text of a sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral on Sunday 17th January. In the midst of Epiphanytide, we focused our attention on the wedding at Cana - a celebration of human love and commitment; the first of Jesus' signs recorded by John.  Preaching on this theme in the context of Primates2016 was challenging and I am very much aware that I am on a journey in relation to how we live in Communion.  Recognising we're called by the one Spirit, to witness to the love of God made manifest in Jesus Christ, yet worshipping and living in radically different contexts. I find myself drawn to a hopeful, challenging, irenic place.  That's costly. It expresses both a range of loves and relationships; it risks a bigger vision of God's Kingdom.  I keep thinking of my late supervisor Dan Hardy - renowned for saying 'it's more complicated than that'.  However, at this point I cannot give up hope for reconcilation, deepening trust and mutual affection. The readings were 1 Corinthians 12:1-11; John 2:1-11. The conversation afterwards was stimulating, honest and somehow  oriented to God's future.

The opening airport scene of Love Actually is full of moments of loving recognition: Regardless of age, gender, ethnicity, sexuality, health or status human love is poured out in hugs, kisses, embraces. From Heathrow to Guildford Station, we've all been there: waiting, scanning the crowd, glimpsing love.

The Prime Minister, played by Hugh Grant, says: 'Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere.  Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there...'

To embrace expresses the risk and vulnerability of love - you stand, arms flung wide; waiting and hoping that the other will respond. You embrace, enfolded for a moment in wordless affection. That's but the beginning. For embrace then means letting go, stepping back, moving on. Embracing whatever might unfold.

Embrace risks openness to the other: the lonely, ostracised and busy; the self-sufficient, judgemental and weary. As a Communion, we face most acutely the hope and  pain of being in relationship: the desire to maintain conversation and build trust, the deep hurt  of alienation and the depth of our difference.  Today's  Gospel  of overwhelming abundance meets us in this broken middle.

Jean Vanier in his poetic and prophetic commentary on John, describes marriage as a covenant of love a 'sign of sacred union, enfolded in love, that enables people to grow in forgiveness, tenderness, kindness and compassion'.  Having recently contributed a chapter to a book that seeks to think again about marriage, the fruitfulness of such exclusive intimacy is, I think, important precisely because it looks beyond the bonding of human sexuality.

Jean Vanier: Drawn into the Mystery of Jesus through the Gospel of John 

That bonding becomes a sign of a love that is radically "more than".  Marriage is a public and inclusive relationship which can be a sign of the abundance of love that cannot be possessed but only given.  The paradox is that as two become one, space is created for a third - and for many others - in hospitality, compassion, generosity. Things extend beyond the couple into a multiplication of love.

Cana is about wine in abundance.  Vast quantities of water are transformed.  The ordinary becomes excellent.  It is enjoyed when the guests have already had plenty to drink.  But this generosity and abundance comes from a place of lack.

The party is in full swing, noone is paying attention to the potential crisis of grumbling guests and an embarrassed couple. One person does notice. It is Mary who pays attention. It is Mary who trusts Jesus. Their exchange is opaque. But perhaps it alerts us to the deep awareness that what is about to happen is not merely the alleviation of a potential social disaster; rather it is sign of the breadth and depth of love, actually.

Yes, this is about abundance of life and joy, which increases our capacity to receive, and therefore give, even more love.

Yes, it is a glimpse of our ultimate reality when God's love will be all in all.

Yes, it reveals our deepest desires to be known and loved.

But, when does this abundance manifest itself?

When the wine runs out, when there is nothing left, transformation occurs.

When we are most vulnerable, most wounded, most broken, most fearful, love is there.

When we lack everything, when hopes are crushed, in the face of terrible loneliness, the anguish of exclusion, even there is love.

When others seek to dominate or control, when the vanities of power, ambition or moral superiority come to the fore, when fragmentation seems all but inevitable; may be love is there.

When walking together seems impossible and mutual affection inexpressible; perhaps love is especially there.

When the cost of our loving is painful, when those who love face prejudice and violence, and when our own lack of love falls short: there, most generously, is love.

None of us can be written out of this story of abundant love.

To return to Jean Vanier, 'our desire for love is not a hoax, awakening in us a thirst for an unattainable, infinite, eternal love that can be quickly crushed by the limits and brokenness in us all. We are not cheated of love; love is possible'.

If this is our ultimate hope, how do we move forward when at a human or institutional level we feel cheated?

In part the answer lies in the moment we see Mary with her son our saviour in the final chapters of John. Jesus' hour has come. The consumption of excellent wine at a wedding reveals the abundance of God's love; the water and blood flowing from his pierced side, reveals the depth and cost of that love.

This is glory: the refusal to refuse to love.

At this Eucharist we are caught up in that - continuing to break bread; continuing to partake of one cup.  We do so in a fearless hope that this is not the end. Just as water was turned into rich wine, so the poverty of our human nature is transformed by the riches of his grace. It is only in the renewal of our lives that God's glory breaks through. And not in the renewal of our  lives alone, but those of our brothers and sisters in America, Pakistan, Nigeria, Australia and Mexico.

On Friday, Michael, the Presiding Bishop of The Episcopal Church said: 'The pain for many will be real. But God is greater than anything. I love Jesus and I love the church. I am a Christian in the Anglican way. And like you, as we have said in this meeting, I am committed to 'walking together' with you as fellow Primates in the Anglican family'.

May we remain committed to walk together, bearing the pain, hope and bewilderment.  May we walk together because the marginalised need the prophetic; the persecuted need visionaries; the proud need the humble. As in marriage, so in the church, love is abundant. The more it gives, the more it receives, in order to give.

Radical love cannot be an exclusive club; it has to be an inclusive witness.

In washing feet, the Primates stayed together.  Perhaps what Archbishop Justin has risked in reconciliation, is the possibility of the transformation of the Anglican Communion - where fear and rejection will be replaced by trust and affection, where reproach will be transfigured by grace.

Paul reminded the fragile and fractious Corinthian church  'No one can say "Jesus is Lord" except by the Holy Spirit'. More than ever, we need the affirmation of the varieties of gifts, service and activity; of wisdom, knowledge and healing.


©  Julie Gittoes 2016