Light Gatherers

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

When you were small, your cupped palms

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

                             and as you grew,

light gathered in you, two clear raindrops

in your eyes,

                            warm pearls, shy,

in the lobes of your ears, even always

the light of a smile after your tears

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

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

Mother and Child - Mary Cassatt 

Duffy is painting for us a picture of motherhood. 

It might not be universal. But being born is. 

She captures moments we cannot remember. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

We remember them. As light gathers in us.

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

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

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

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

Fragile, yet strong for others. 

Whole, when we feel broken.

Good, and forgiven forgivers.

Beloved, even when we don’t see it.

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

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

All of us have experienced childhood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John paints a picture that is perhaps shocking or surprising. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image found here

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

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

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

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

Light gatherers are to be clothed in love. 

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

It’s a love that sings. 

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

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

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

Look around today:

Behold, your mothers.

Behold, your children.

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

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

© Julie Gittoes 2023

Let it be

This is the text of a sermon preached for Patronal Festival of St Mary's Hendon: Galatians 4:4-7 and John 19:25-27 

When Paul McCartney took part in James Corden’s Carpool Karaoke, he retold the story behind writing Let it be. One night, when he was feeling anxious, he dreamt of his mother Mary: in his time of trouble, she spoke words of wisdom and peace. 

McCartney told Corden: ‘She was reassuring me, saying, ‘it’s long to be OK, just let it be’. So he wrote the song out of that positive place of reassurance. 

In trouble; in darkness. 

    Speaking words of wisdom; whispering wisdom. 

           Let it be, don’t fret. 

Be at peace. 

    All shall be well. 

        Let it be. 

But placing the name Mary alongside the phrase “let it be” conjures up a different story. The story of a young woman who says yes to God. A woman who, through troubled and perplexed, says “let it be”. 

According to God’s word. 

       In fulfilment of a promise. 

            Embodying hope. 

 In the fullness of time, the fullness of God, dwelt in her womb, birthed by this woman. 

 In this place, made by God, God was made flesh, to have a place amongst us. The priceless sacrament; the corner stone. The one without reproach; our sure foundation.

This woman bears her child so that we might be children of God. God’s very self revealed in flesh of our flesh. 

Loving the lowest and the least. 

Mixing with the marginalised. 

Healing the hurting. 

Challenging the curious. 

Infuriating the influencers.

Debating the detractors. 

Feeding the famished. 

Restoring the rejected. 

In the fullness of time, the fullness of God, was made flesh. Flesh that lived and walked and breathed. Flesh that died, was buried and raised to life. Flesh that spoke words of peace in our fear. Breathing on us the Spirit that our hearts might turn outwards: crying, Abba! Father! 

 Breathing in the Spirit of God, might we cry out: let it be. according to your word: let it be. 

And that can be hard; and it can be compelling; It can make perfect sense; using our gifts and skills; being more fully human. How are we to know what to do? Seeking what might be the loving thing in each moment. 

By saying, ‘let it be’. Being receptive to God’s word. Allowing it do dwell in our hearts. To fill our lungs. That we might speak, might whisper, words of wisdom. Let it be. 

 Let it be in my heart as it is in your will. Let it be in my heart.

Sometimes it can be hard to discern God’s word. For Mary, it was unexpected and disruptive. She asked questions; and took it to heart. She played her part. She doesn’t laugh; or test it. She trusts it, and says ‘here I am’. She says, let it be. 

She's says let it be, even though a sword will pierce her own soul too. He speaks to her and says, here is your son. She sees him; unable to comfort or console. At a wedding in Cana, she’d told others to listen to him. At a cross on Calvary, she hears words of love. 

For here, her son is drawing humanity to God’s very self. Soon he will draw his final breath; dying to destroy death. Soon he will be buried; a place on earth in a tomb. A tomb that will be emptied, as abundant life is restored. 

But for now, in his hour of darkness, Mother Mary is standing right in front of him. She stands alongside the beloved disciple; two broken hearted people. And though they will be parted, her son speaks words of wisdom; and of care. 

Here in the long labour of death, a new community is born. 

     Waters break; blood is shed. 

            We are given new birth; into a living hope. 

He says to her, here is your son; my friend; my beloved; my disciple. He says to him, here is your mother; who bore me; who said ‘let it be’. 

In this home, these two broken hearted people prayed; they prayed in this dark night clouded by death. They waited trusting that a light would still shine. For the one who had entrusted them to each other, would bring new life. Through him, mother and friend become God’s adopted children. 

Mary and the beloved disciples are drawn into a deeper fellowship. They are united in a unity of love; of communion and of blessing. This place, their home, was made by God. A place where they cold grow in trust and compassion. 

Our places of worship too, made by human hands, are sacramental signs too; reminding us that God dwells with us on earth. But our bodies too are places where God chooses to dwell. Though we are many, our bodies are one in Christ’s body. And through the work of our hands, we bear Christ in the world. 

We labour in love; labour for God’s Kingdom. In our churches and our homes, we are bound together not just be physical or digital connection: we have a spiritual communion. Although we are parted, and though we sometimes feel broken hearted, light still shines; our lives become whispers of wisdom; as we say, let it be in my hearts according to God’s word. 

Let it be, as we pray for the Spirit to bring: 

     peace to the broken-hearted; 

            patience in our relationships; 

                     joy and gentleness and kindness in our work. 

Let us pray for one another, adopted children in God’s family: 

     For pastors in medicine, childcare, and social care; 

         For prophets seeking justice in public service, business and volunteering; 

                 For wise stewards in accountancy, tech industries and administration; 

                         For imaginative witnesses in the arts, education and hospitality. 

                                 For calls to ordination and leadership in church and world. 

For a deepening of our fellowship in Christ; that in the power of the Spirit we may witness to God’s healing love. Let it be in your hearts, according to God’s world. Broken hearted; let it be.

© Julie Gittoes 2020

Water and love

A sermon preached on the third Sunday in Lent - mindful of +Sarah's letter about loving our neighbour and strengthening networks of support amidst the impact of the Coronavirus. The texts were: Exodus 17:1-7, Romans 5:1-11, John 4:5-42

Image JGI/Jamie Grill/Getty

The cover of Friday’s New Statesman, like many newspapers and magazines, focused on the effect of the coronavirus; it carried one headline: ‘how the world is closing down’.  As guidelines and advice change daily, how do we as a Christian community seek to respond?

So much of our life together is bound up into habits of social proximity: our faith is rooted in the reality of the Word made flesh; of grace conveyed in what we touch and taste.  Without losing the power of that, we are having to inhabit our life together within a framework of social distancing. 

It’s that question that +Bishop Sarah addresses in her pastoral letter. She offers some practical advice for ongoing pastoral care, and we will be developing our own networks too. She ends: So with clean hands, and clear thoughts, let us love our neighbours with open hearts.

Today’s readings reflect on human concerns for living well in the midst of crisis, anxiety and exclusion. They speak of our vulnerability, yes; but also of our networks of interdependence. They express something of God’s faithfulness, and the way in which we can sustain fruitful modes of encounter which sustain our networks in the midst of isolation. 

Water and love flow through our readings. 

Love that reconciles.

Water that witnesses.

In Exodus we are told of collective fear and anxiety.  It’s an all too human scenario. People are tired, thirsty, irritable and quick to pick a quarrel. 

They’d been journeying by stages; perhaps there was a familiar routine of walking so many miles, pitching camp; some perhaps lighting fires, others seeking a water source. 

On this occasion, patience was wearing thin; the people wanted water immediately and their complaints escalate.  

Quarrelling over practicalities quickly became an expression of testing God’s faithfulness. 

As a leader, Moses cries out to the Lord with brutal honesty. 

He names the rising tensions which made him feel threatened; and in the face of his frustrations he takes responsibility - what am I to do with this people? And all this is couched in prayer.

Moses was a reluctant leader: perhaps that heightens his sense of dependance on God and on others in the fulfilment of the task entrusted to him. 

The answer to Moses’ lament is full of assurance: he’s reminded of God’s faithfulness from the flight from Egypt onwards. God will be with him - and will act through him.  

This time, he isn’t enabling escape through water, but the provision of water. And in all this he does not ‘go it alone’; he goes with the elders, with a company of wise and trusted people. 

Water flows. 

Water witnesses to God’s faithful love.

But the naming of place doesn’t gloss over the difficulties. 

Massah and Meribah:  Is the Lord among us or not?

That question takes us to the heart of human suffering, loneliness and fear.

And yet, being human, there are ways in which can continue to bring hope and compassion to others: it might mean reverting to old-school forms of communication; it might mean offering to collect groceries.  

When we are confronted with the tangible effects of panic and anxiety, we can collude with that; or we can be practical and determined in building up trust and reaching out to others. 

That begins by  trusting not in God - and supporting people in prayer when they are not with us; but also means trusting each other and building on the depth and quality of our relationships. 

When it seems as if our social fabric is fragile, we have an opportunity to strengthen it.  For we are a people made one by sharing in broken bread; bread that gives life to the world.

We are to show love to the bored and fearful by reaching out to them in practical acts of kindness; we are to show love to the vulnerable by being mindful of our responsibilities - good hygiene is an example of water preserving life and health. 

In keeping our distance, as appropriate, we are not distancing ourselves; the bond of friendship we have in Christ has capacity to be stretched, and the capacity to serve: sharing news and stories, dropping off shopping or posting letters. 

In washing our hands for the sake of health and service, we can give love to those who’re worried; so that anxiety will not triumph or overwhelm us.

Water flows in love.

Love that witnesses.

Love is answer to the  all that wreaks havoc in our lives. Water flows into action; resilience flows through networks of care. Anxiety is turned to compassion; fear to witness; darkness to light.  

Water flows. 

Water witnesses to love.

Today we draw near to an ancient well, in the glare of the midday sun, and there we hear of living water.

It is a moment of social distancing: a woman who is on the margins of social life.

Water offered, received and welling up.

John draws us into an encounter which is full of depth and intensity; vulnerability and disclosure. 

The Samaritan woman is part of a minority group. She was seen as spiritually ‘other,  politically powerless, and socially marginalised. Her identity was marked by fragmented relationships; by rejection, failure and fragile self-image. Alone, she goes to the well.

She needs water.

She longs for love.

Chester Cathedral 

‘Give me a drink’, say Jesus. He thirsts. He thirsts for God’s people to come together. He reaches out across the multiple divisions named by the woman herself. 

He asks for water.

He embodies love.

We hear a conversation unfold: a relationship is created which restores trust, goodness and esteem. Perhaps as Jesus holds her gaze, shame becomes dignity. 

Water drawn with a bucket. Thirst is quenched in practical compassion.

This is not enough: out attention shifts towards a deeper well. The wellspring of living water. Water with the power to sustain us. It’s an expression of everlasting life. It cannot be contained. Through the power of the Spirit it wells up in us. 

Jesus reveals that if we drink from the fountain of God’s love and compassion, we too become a source of love and compassion. He offers living water. He reveals himself as God with us: ‘I am he’ he says; I am the one is was and is and is to come. I am: the creator of all things, the Word made flesh, the life giving Spirit. 

The moment is disrupted by the disciples blundering in with their own preoccupations and questions. The moment breaks into a fresh movement of witness. ‘Come and see’ says the woman.

Her empty water jar is left behind because she is already living out of the deep well of living water. Her heart is full. She is desperate to share with others what she has received.

Water flows.

Love is revealed.

Witness wells up.

And what of us?

Like the people of Israel, we live with our own narratives of anxiety: when solutions aren’t obvious; when it feels as if disaster has struck; when are plans are disrupted.

Yet like Moses, love must be expressed in personal prayer the wise leadership of a community.  We are are called into creative and determined acts of trust and care which strengthen community.

Like the woman at the well, we experience hopes and concerns: when we feel excluded and ignored; when relationships are broken; when we get chance to explore the meaning of life and faith; when we discover our calling to love and witness. 

Yet each of us, as witnesses, become agents of reconciliation speaking joyfully of the life and forgiveness we’ve received. 

Water. Love. Witness. 

Like Paul, we are to speak of grace and faith; peace and glory. He speaks of suffering, endurance, character and hope - not to justify any form of human cruelty, hatred or violence, but to remind us that these to no have the last word. Love is the last word. Love revealed in Jesus’ life, death and resurrection; love which restores us, restores broken and sinful humanity.

This sacred place is where we encounter Christ that our lives also be transformed by the holy and healing Spirit. May we who’ve received new life in waters of baptism, witness to God restoring all things in Christ. May God bless our labours at home, amongst colleagues, in our communities.

Water and love flow through our readings today.

Reconciling love.

Loving witness.

Let us pray:

Keep us, good Lord,

under the shadow of your mercy,

in this time of uncertainty and distress.

Sustain and support the anxious and fearful,

and lift up all who are brought low;

that we may rejoice in your comfort

knowing that nothing can separate us from your love

in Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

© Julie Gittoes

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