Perfect Days

 17 March 2024, Lent 5: Jeremiah 31:31-34, Hebrews 5:5-10 and John 12:20-33

Oh, it’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you.

Somewhere in downtown Tokyo, underneath the lights of the revolving Sky Tree building, Hirayama wakes up, folds the bedding away, washes, trims his moustache, mists his tree seedlings and yawns as he looks to the sky embracing a new day. 

It’s a routine which runs through Wim Wenders’  film “Perfect Days” - with minor variation in response to the people whose lives intersect with his quiet existence. Hirayama cleans toilets - with care and diligence - eats lunch in the same garden, takes a photograph - on film - of light through the canopy of trees - continues cleaning. 

Perfect Days

He goes to the same bathhouse, laundrette and cafe-bar; he listens to cassette tapes in his van, reads the books he’s bought from the bargain shelf, takes off his glasses and sleeps. He observes the mini-dramas of others -  his niece, a divorcee and colleague - quietly offering what they don’t know they need; his work renders him all but invisible, and steps aside to avoid inconveniencing those needed to use the facilities. 

Oh, it’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you.

Oh such a perfect day you just keep me hanging on.

He lives alone, without being lonely. He says little, but hears much. For him now is now, not yet is not yet.  His is an analogue world not a digital one: he lives lightly and simply, with a depth of attentiveness attuned to shifting moods: the shimmering light and shadows as leaves sway in the breeze, but also as the light and shadow of life, relationships, work and routines move around us. 

As these perfect days unfold, we see the world through Hirayama’s eyes; we glimpse something of his inner life. Despite hints of past sorrows - and occasional awkwardness, he has a sense of peace, his desires ordered to simplicity but above all contentment and a quiet joy. 

Such a perfect day.

Hirayama is inviting us to look at the world not just with our eyes but with our hearts open to its beauty. It is a way of seeing which sees the significance of the insignificant; which waits patiently for others to share the fears and sometimes takes almost foolish risks of generosity. 

Looking at the world with our hearts, and seemingly foolish risks of generosity, run through our readings today. 

In Jeremiah, we hear of a broken covenant, of God’s people being likened to an unfaithful spouse. But that is not the end of the story. God’s response to wayward human hearts and fractured relationships is to reach out again and again in love. 

There is forgiveness in the face of failure; a setting aside of the sin that separates and wounds. The covenant is renewed - renewed by the law being written on human hearts: love God with all that you are, love your neighbour as yourself. 

Oh such a perfect day you just keep me hanging on. 

You made me forget myself, I thought I was someone good.

Today's gospel begins with curiosity, seeking the good - with desire to see Jesus. We don’t know any more than that.

Are the Greeks seeking after the one who turned water into wine at Cana, bringing joy and abundance when human resources ran out? Are they seeking the one who fed thousands on a hill side and went on to describe himself as the bread of life, the true food?  

Had they heard of the stories he’d told which spoke of a radical kingdom of justice and peace - or of the conversations with individuals seeking to live out of an economy of love? Had rumours reached them that Jesus had called Lazarus out of the grave restoring him to life?

Perhaps this simple request went deeper than the desire to hang out with a celebrity - the equivalents of autographs and selfies.  Perhaps they did want to encounter the one who keeps us hanging on; who helps us forget ourselves, drawing us back to what is good and loving.

Jesus’ response in that moment is to meditate on his death - to speak in that moment of the hour that had come. Now was now. 

He names the fear and describes his life as seed falling to the ground - dying to bring life and fruit. He challenges his hearers to sit so lightly to this life - even to hate it - so that they might know eternal life. 

In “Perfect Days”, we watch as Hirayama notices a tiny sapling. The tree's seed has fallen to the ground and brought new life - but will struggle without light and nutrients. He takes it carefully from the soil, re-pots it at home and will nurture it until it can be given a place to flourish into maturity. 

Perhaps his way of living - in relation to his work, to creation, to others - is the kind of life giving subversion of life that Jesus is talking about. Hating the pace of a digital world; hating the rush to consume and exploit. Instead life is lived by noticing and responding: noticing where life can be nurtured, in the face of desires and worries; in the face of what we don’t know and even death itself.

On these perfect days… Lou Reed's refrain sounds more hopeful: you’re gonna reap just what you sow. Life, joy, compassion; the world seen through a heart inscribed with the covenant of love. 

Jesus speaks of his own death as a point of gathering all people together - people of all nations and languages. We are gathered not out of our choice but because of our need for love and healing; we are gathered because of God’s will and choice and being is to love us first. 

Jesus will be lifted up on a wooden cross that will become for us the tree of life: in the coming weeks, we will keep our own vigil around the cross - walking in its path - gathering around the agony and glory, the depth of God’s love for us, the ultimate communion. It is a song of love unknown - love to the loveless shown; our dear friend, who in our need, his life doth spend.

All that wounds us - all the world’s pain, hatred and indifference - is drawn into Jesus’ body: a sacrifice of love which dies like a seed, in order to bring life and replenish the earth. Here the fullness of God comes near to us, is made visible to us, in all that is overwhelming, frightening and alienating. As Hebrews expresses it, his prayers, cries are tears unite with ours; his suffering brings life and healing, calling us into obedience. Here God sees us - comes to us in our longing and loves us. 

Here, God reaps what God sows: drawing us to love and life with a compelling and mysterious power. It is strange. It is holy. Here we are drawn together in communion - bread of our basic needs, wine of the most joyous feast. Here our many bodies are united in one body - with the one who keeps us hanging on. 

As we shape perfect days - days of living lightly and intensely, of paying deep attention to the world and each other, may we remember it is for love. May we see with our hearts. May we love quietly, using words when we have to. May we plant seeds of hope, knowing what might have to die - in us and around us - for life to come.

Or, in the words of Laura Jean Turman, a queer writer and preacher from Atlanta:

Keep my anger 

from becoming meanness.

Keep my sorrow 

from collapsing into self-pity.

Keep my heart

soft enough to keep breaking.

Keep my anger 

turned towards justice,

not cruelty.

Remind me that all of this,

every bit of it,

is for love.

Keep me fiercely kind.

© Julie Gittoes 2024

Breathing the words of Mary

 A sermon preached at our patronal with prayers for Her Late Majesty: Isaiah 61:1-11, Galatians 4:4-7 & Luke 1:46-55 

Standing in front of our Vicars’ board is a humbling and poignant thing: the dates  connect us to past generations, eras and circumstances. They mark out times of  conquest, plague and reformation; of settlements, civil war and restoration; of  empire, industrialisation and commonwealth; of the blitz and the welfare state, state  funerals and accession. 

Most of the names are unremembered apart from being said out loud by the  current incumbent wondering how they navigated change, how they, in the power  of the Spirit, shared God’s word and witnessed to Christ. 

They baptised at the font we use today; they, like us, took bread and wine saying  take and eat do this in remembrance of me; we are united with them in every ‘our  Father’. We laugh and weep like them; we comfort and seek consolation like them.  

We come as T. S. Eliot expresses it: ‘you are not here to verify, instruct yourself, or  inform curiosity or carry report. You are here to kneel where prayer has been valid’. 

Amidst the changes and chances of this fleeting world, we continue this rhythm of  worship and witness; dwelling in the eternal pulse of love, the fullness of God. Our  lives are but small things held within this overarching story of God’s love for the  world. 

Madonna of the Dispossessed by Mary C Farrenkopf

We trust in a God who works through small things: through one woman’s “yes”  God’s Son is made flesh; immensity cloister’d in [her] dear womb. It is through the  child-bearing of blessed Mary that we receive adoption as children of God, and if  children then also heirs.  

Heirs of a promise of a kingdom. Archbishop Fisher, who gave Her Late Majesty a  book of devotions as she prepared for her coronation, said: ‘The Christian lives in  two worlds at once; the world of Christ’s completed kingdom… and the world of  continued conflict against the powers of evil’.  

In some ways, Mary’s song - the familiar words of the Magnificat - is one which  shapes how we live between these two kingdoms.

Mary’s whole being is caught up in praise of God, the assurance of grace: she  embodies the words of Isaiah as mind, body, soul and Spirit are caught up in the  fullest expression rejoicing and exultation. She also calls us into service of God’s  kingdom on earth. 

On Friday, Bishop Sarah said: ‘A life lived in the service of others is a rare jewel. It is  a jewel that Her Late Majesty The Queen wore as a crown.’ Isaiah speaks of a rich  crown too - of jewel and garland, garnets and robes. These were no mere earthy  vesture but speak of God’s salvation and righteousness. 

Salvation being God’s power to heal, restore and make whole. Righteousness being  the quality of God’s faithfulness and loving mercy. Through Jesus, salvation is for  any and for all - the greatest and the least. Mary speaks of this promise, remembered  across all generations. 

In Jesus, the powers of evil are undone: though his presence in the world, through  his death and descent to the very depths of alienation and despair, though glorious  hope of resurrection. As Rowan Williams puts it: ‘he comes to his new and risen life,  his universal kingship by searching out all the forgotten and failed members of the  human family’.  

This is the stuff of the world of Christ’s completed kingdom. This is our hope. 

Mary names the conflict and struggle of this world. She gives thanks for what God  has done in faithfulness, blessing and generosity. She speaks of the consequences  for the world.  

The one whose name is holy will make known mercy from one generation to  another. And mercy is revealed in deliverance from poverty, exploitation and  domination.  

As this courageous, joyful, obedient and determined young woman makes the voice  of the prophets her own, God’s own Son is being knit together in her womb. Her  words look forward to the start of his public ministry: the poor lifted up, the rich  sent away; the hungry filled, the powerful challenged.  

She declares the work of salvation and righteousness in relational terms: human community  transformed, resources redeployed and imaginations enlarged. This is a song through which  we too are called to embody God’s compassion, love and mercy; through which we seek  all that makes for the flourishing of humanity and all creation. 

Today, we hold in mind the life and words of one who, as a young woman, made  vows and promises which she spent a lifetime inhabiting. Her Late Majesty was  greeted in an Abbey with great pomp and ceremony; but she also knelt, laying aside  regal robes and jewels, to be anointed.  

The Queen - photographed by Cecil Beaton to commemorate her coronation in 1953

In her book of devotions, Archbishop Fisher had invited her to ponder this moment  - anointed God’s servant until her dying day, drawing on resources of divine grace  with a heart, mind and hands to do his will. The words Fisher gave the young  queen were, ’in answer to God’s call and consecration, I dare to breathe the Virgin  Mary’s words: “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy  word”.’ 

We too as adopted children and heirs are invited to breathe Mary’s words as we live  trusting in God’s Kingdom amidst the real conflicts and challenges of the earthly  realm.  

Suc works are often about small things. Like seeds planted in hope - germinating  unseen - brings forth shoots from the earth; small things out of which new life and  hope springs up.  Bringing the margins to the centre is not the preserve of the new Prince and Princess of Wales alone; it is the work of all of us, members of Christ’s body; people who breathe in Mary’s words. 

God’s righteousness and salvation is enfleshed in Mary’s womb; from this small  God’s power and love is made perfect in human weakness. This power breaks  through in us too - as we break bread in remembrance of our living Lord; as the  Spirit breathes through us, strengthen us for service. 

In a small thing - a fragile wafer - we are fed, restored, strengthened by Christ’s  body; we become his body, receiving dignity and purpose as adopted children  and heirs.  

We receive this gift not just for ourselves but for the world. Here, even in our grief  we sing songs of hope and praise, vision and protest. Here, we commit to the  pursuit of justice, compassion and peace; to courageous advocacy for the powerless  and marginalized. Here, we like Mary, and all who dare to breathe her words,  commit afresh to acts of service as a nation mourns Her Late Majesty who shares  with us the inheritance of God’s kingdom. 

We sing Mary’s song in places of vulnerability and fear; we breathe her words in  solidarity with suffering and anxious. As members of Christ’s body we do small  things which bring healing and hope; bringing the margins to the centre, seeking  justice and peace. 

The day before her coronation, an archbishop invited a young queen to ponder this  peace in these words: ’But above all God has taken me into his peace and I praise for  his being what he is, for his goodness, his enabling power, the certainty of his  unfailing love’.  

As she takes our rest, may we continue in our service: may God be in my head in  our thinking, speaking and at our departing. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2022

Holy Tears

The texts of reflections from this morning's worship in Hendon. Sadly, the church wifi went down towards the end of this part of the service. 

Sinai: from creative commons

They journeyed. They entered the wilderness. There they camped. 

A place of escape; but not the destination. Open space; open skies.  Guided by cloud in the heat of the day; by fire in the cool of the night. 

And did the remember what God had promised Abraham? That they’d be blessed; that they’d be numerous than the stars; more numerous than the sand. Blessed to be a blessing. 

Sinai: wikipedia

They journeyed. They camped.  Freedom was uncomfortable in this strange land. They longed for the tastes of Egypt; of garlic and melons, fish and cucumbers. And yet, in this strange landscape, their needs were met with manna and quail. Freedom meant having enough.   

As they camped there before the mountain, did they know that that covenant would be renewed? 

Image: Yoram Raanan

Moses was one who led them: he’d demanded their freedom; he'd heard their grumbles; and still he spoke for them. He knew the wilderness. He’d learnt to turn aside once before.

In a wilderness like this, he’d dared to look; he’d stood on holy ground. Where the presence of love burned in the world and did not consume it. There in flame I AM spoke. The one who was, and is and is to come. 

Image: Rae Chichilnitsky

And I AM will touch his heart again; I AM will give voice to commandments and renew this covenant.  Obey and keep says the voice of I AM; guide these people through the wilderness that they may know a way of promise and peace.  

And will they honour the name of I AM; will they honour each other? For way back when, when Abram said ‘yes’ and Sarah laughed, a promise was made.  A people  grew like sand and stars; brothers dreamed and brothers parted; plenty turned to slavery; and yet God said, there is way of love.

Image: Richard McBee

Moses went up the mountain. The Lord called to him. I AM speaks and Moses listens. This is neither a burning bush nor an overshadowing cloud. It is just him. On this mountain. In this wilderness. Waiting. Breathing. Listening. But he must also speak.

Image: Lisa Fahey

He must speak of I AM who carried this people on eagles’ wings. I AM is like this majestic bird; carrying them from a place of bondage; preventing them from falling; drawing them home to Godself.

But fledglings must learn to fly. Before wings grow strong, the mother eagle swoops down and carries them up. Higher, this time. Until they grow accustomed to the air currents; and the beating of their own wings.  

Image: Ercole de' Roberti

The same is true for God’s people. We must listen to the voice of love, and obey it; we must adjust to the breath of love, and take flight on it this vortex of air. Keep it, this way of promise and peace.

Image: Nasa

For God loves the whole world.  This orb of life. Fragile. Diverse. Full of beauty and creativity, gifted freedom; yet consumed with the desire to acquire and control. I AM says they whole world is mine. Yet, with you I make a covenant out of all peoples; blessed to be a blessing; a light to lighten the nations. 

Image

More treasured than keepsakes, mementos and souvenirs; even more precious than the heirloom, or gift or childhood toy. This is how God looks on his chosen people; precious and beloved. Called to obey God’s voice and keep the covenant in order to draw others back to Godself.

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This is a holy nation: drawing near to the refining fire of God’s love; this is a kingdom of priests mediating something of God’s justice. And yes, the people embrace this call; and yet we know that for centuries the prophets continued to challenge and recall them to God’s ways of mercy and compassion.

Yet here in the wilderness there is a willingness to trust and obey; a willingness to listen and act; to receive a promise in order to bring hope; to embrace a covenant in order to bring light in darkness; to receive a blessing in order to bless.

The grace of this convent - this way of promise and peace - is a sign to the world of God’s love of humanity. 

We are heirs in faith; heirs of the promise of this kingdom. In Jesus, this promise and peace is extended to all.  So their answer is on our lips: everything that the Lord has spoken we will do. 

Will we seek after the lost sheep; will we go into the harvest?

Be bold and be brave in the way of promise and peace; bringing good news and raising others up.

Stock image

Jesus left the wilderness and came to his own. He walked amongst them. He went about in their towns and cities; we walked the land, step by step. 

He taught in synagogues: opening the scroll, declaring liberation for all held captive. He proclaimed good news: in him the kingdom of heaven drew near, touching earth and transforming lives. 

Image: unknown

There was something attractive and compelling about these words.  In Jesus the holy one, the great I AM had come near. He came alongside us in our suffering and sorrows; he came to the places of loneliness and despair and was in solidarity with us. 

Jesus loved. In him the heart of God spoke. In him, the love spoke and acted, living out the answer to our deepest longings. In him, this way of promise and peace is extended to all; we walk as members of Christ’s body, we are Spirit-led in making this love visible in the world. 

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And crowds were curious. They were drawn to the life and love they saw in Jesus. They were attracted to this good news of freedom and hope, of peace and healing. And yet, they were vulnerable.  They were harassed and helpless.

Icon found here

And Jesus looked on them - and we see in him emotional at the very dept of his being; a physical sensation that leads him to act. We are to look on the world as Jesus looked on the crowd: to be moved with gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, all-consuming love. We are to be jolted out of complacency or disconnection - and to see them with love.

These sheep - God’s flock - were harassed and helpless; scattered, stressed, vulnerable; crying out with hurt and longing.  In need of compassion and hope. We are to see each other differently, with the eyes of Christ; to respond differently with the love of Christ. 

There is longing and the season is ripe. Jesus responds to the crowd at the level of authentic human response; he will pour out love for them and us, going to the very depths of suffering and death to bring new life. 

Jesus sees their need and also calls others to pay attention. To see what is happening - and to listen to human cries and to obey God’s call. 

Image found here

And they followed him; and he called them.  And as we hear their names, we know that they like us are not perfect. There is humility in this list - we know some of the details of their lives: they were stubborn and argumentative; they were ambitious and misunderstood; they denied and betrayed. 

Yet these flawed human beings, like us, are capable of extending great love in our gestures - small, persistent and effective. And yet, they too are sent: they are sent to share the same space as Jesus. They too are to walk the land; they share is vulnerability and poverty; they share the journey and the resting places. They will face opposition and will raise others up.

They go and they make known a kingdom. Not only do they speak words of love and kindle hopes for justice; they bring the kingdom near. 

There are tangible signs of release as people are restored to dignity; as of healing breaks in. There are tangible signs of promise, as mercy is extended to those who have suffered; signs of hope as penitence is met with forgiveness. 

What will it take for the kingdom to come near today?

Image: The Artist's Tears - Jimmy C (James Cochran)

Do we see those holy tears? 

Tears of how racism has impacted on the identity of individuals; or how as whole we are less than we might be because of the exclusion of some. Tears of social and economic inequality - which means some bear the disproportionate impact of lockdown; which means as a society we suffer. 

Tears of repentance as we seek to learn, to listen to understand and to be better stewards of this kingdom. A kingdom which speaks, in the empty, desolate and vulnerable places of promise; a kingdom which speaks in the corridors of power and the places of plenty, of justice and peace. 

Image found here

But we have this treasure in clay jars: the frailty of our human nature demands a constant recalling to the claims of the gospel for creation; for the raising up of others to new life; and a gentleness in understanding ourselves and others. We have a gospel to proclaim; a way to walk in; a kingdom that is near to us. 

Miriam Therese Winter:

Be bold in the claiming of the gospel for the whole creation. 

Be brave in the lifting up of the life of God in every place.

Be firm in carrying the holy name of Jesus Christ into the place of worldly power.

Be gentle in the understanding of ourselves and one another. 

And may songs of the Creator sound with love in all the earth,

the tenderness of Christ Jesus cover the wounds of the people

and the truth of the Holy Spirit rise free in every age. Amen. 

© Julie Gittoes 2020

Lessons from Catfish Row

On the Feast of St Simon and St Jude, I found myself grappling with Isaiah's challenge to place our trust in God rather than making lies and falsehood our refuge. It seemed so pertinent especially when heard in the context of Jesus' words about the world's hatred.  

But as I was writing this sermon, news of the attack in Pittsburgh unfolded. I am grateful to Paula Gooder who shared words from the Talmud on Twitter. How do we resist the hatred manifest in antisemitism? How to we testify to God's reconciling love in world which seems to intent on deathly falsehoods?  In part, by refusing to be daunted by the world's grief and showing mercy, now.

In that sense, Porgy and Bess might seem like an opening which sounds a lighter note: but this unlikely pairing echo Simon and Jude's commitment to a better world in resistance, kindness and refusing to see the other as a lost cause. There are lessons from Catfish Row.

Preaching today felt like an intense exercise of the poverty of my speaking. 

The texts were: Isaiah 28:14-16, Ephesians 2:19-end and John 15:17-end .

Porgy and Bess at the ENO

Summertime, 

And the livin’ is easy

So begins one of the most famous opening songs of any opera or musical: we hear a mother swaying to the bluesy melody.  

So hush little baby

Don’t you cry.

Around her couples sway with each other in sultry dance. It’s hot; it’s airless. The day’s long; the night’s beginning. Dice roll; money’s won and lost; tension rises. This mother keeps on singing; it’s a lullaby of parental protection.

There’s a’nothing can harm you

With your daddy and mammy standing by.

For the residents of Catfish Row such harm comes in several guises. They face the divisions of race and whiteness; livelihoods are threatened by storms; violence, addiction and exploitation are near the surface. 

And yet, on Catfish Row there’s a depth of solidarity and resistance. It’s a community which pulls together; which mourns and laughs together.  It’s a community which calls boldly on the name of Jesus; where cynicism about religion is chastised. 

It’s a world where people rise up singing. 

Then you’ll spread your wings

And you’ll take to the sky.

This lullaby is no whimsical folk song; it’s a call to struggle, liberation and hope. 

This is the world, if you’d not guessed it already, of Porgy and Bess. 

Review The Telegraph CREDIT: ROBBIE JACK#CORBIS/CORBIS ENTERTAINMENT

When Bess’s drunk and aggressive partner abandons her, it’s Porgy the crippled beggar who shows her human kindness. It’s he who protects her and gives her shelter. Together, they find happiness within community. Even when the darkness of Bess’s past haunts their present, Porgy’s love determines not to let her go.

We don’t know the end of the story but Porgy and Bess leaves us with broken silences: there story is an operatic cry for justice. Decades before campaigns such as #MeToo or #BlackLivesMatter, the songs they sing rise up against sexual abuse and racism. Through their eyes we see the ways in which human agency and dignity can be diminished; and we glimpse, albeit fleetingly, the power of love. 

Porgy refuses to write Bess off as a lost cause.

Today we celebrate the witness of a different pairing: Simon and Jude. Though we know little about them, like our operatic duo, they teach us something about both prophetic resistance to oppression and the refusal to see people or situations  as irredeemable.

Something in Jesus’ words and actions resonated with them: the challenge he represented to the powerful, his preferential treatment of those on the margins, his teaching about self-giving love, the way in which his touch brought healing, restored dignity and formed community.

Simon and Jude

Neither Porgy and Bess nor Simon and Jude are under any illusion about the impact of the choices we make on ability to flourish and grow in trust.  

Isaiah makes this contrast in stark terms: when we collude with falsehood and lies, we sign a contract with death. Lies which tell us who to blame, who to mistrust, who is drain on the system; falsehoods about quick wins - staking our futures on the role of the dice.

Isaiah cries out that we are to place our trust in sure foundation; to walk in God’s ways; to chose moment by moment that which makes for peace; to align our wills with justice and compassion. 

A theme picked up by Paul as he writes to the Ephesians. If falsehoods set up a series of divisions and lies generate hostility, God, in Jesus, points us to a different path. He is the cornerstone; the one in whom we trust. In Christ, we move from being strangers and aliens to citizens. 

We literally have a place. 

We have value and dignity as God’s beloved. 

Jesus’ words also remind us of our belonging in God, to each other. To become a disciples and friend and follower of Jesus is to take to heart the call to love one another. And to do that we are called out of the world - the world of falsehood, exploitation and illusions; and yet we are sent into that world, to be a presence of relentless and purposeful love.

The world is loved by God - in all its fragility and beauty. Yet within our world there are places where love is not present; where fragility is exploited and beauty ruined. Our relentless consumption of plastics causes harm within the ecosystem; our enslavement to arms continues to destroy and oppress; our hatreds and fears lead to death. But this is not the end of the story. 

The world is loved by God - in all its fragility and beauty. And the light of the world stepped down into darkness; the word of God spoke truth to power. Jesus gave his life totally in order that through his death we might have the fullness of life.  

Love wins.

Our lives, dedicated to him, are likewise given for truth and justice; to love and cast out fear.  Jesus warn this disciples that the relentless pursuit of love will mean that they too face opposition, misunderstanding and suffering. And yet, the song of that love rises up through us. Even in our smallness and weakness, life breaks in. 

The first disciples, among them Simon and Jude, said “no” to lies, oppression, injustice and abuse; they said “yes” to freedom, truth, compassion and self-giving. 

Jean Vanier, the founder of the L’Arche Community, continues to challenge and inspire us to live together in ways which embody this Christ-like love. It is not easy. 

In what he describes as the martyrdom of daily pinpricks we will sometimes be rejected or misunderstood; regarded as a threat or pushed aside; the hatred of indifference or inconvenience. 

Sometimes those pinpricks arise not from outright hostility but because the Gospel is not understood.  We must continue testify God’s love in our institutions which shape the fabric of our common life - the welfare of the poor, wisdom in education, compassion for the sick, justice for the victim, restoration for the guilty, dignity for the dying.

It would be tempting to risk compromise with a culture that erodes these values or marginalises the weakest. As Vanier says: We are fearful of speaking out about Jesus or about justice and truth. We are afraid to rock the boat. We are frightened of what people might think or do to us if we disturb them or the cultural order. So we water down faith and the gospel message. 

Our witness is not dependent on our own strength but on the gift of the Spirit: our Advocate and guide; the power of God’s love at work in us. Through the Spirit we are to testify to the truth in the name of Jesus. We are to be lights in our world. 

In the face of human prejudices, ambition and loneliness, we are to use the gifts entrusted to us to speak and act for the ultimate values of God’s Kingdom.

As we do so, we are being built on the foundations of Simon, Jude and all the apostles; Christ is our cornerstone, bearing the weight. 

In a world where a gun man attacks members of the Jewish community gathering in the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh: how does our testimony condemn anti-semitism; how does our witness strive to choose life, to grant others dignity?  

As we are built up as members of God’s household, words from the Talmud, the central text of Rabbinic Judaism:

Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.

Do justly, now.

Love mercy, now.

Walk humbly now.

You are not obligated to complete the work, 

but neither are you free to abandon it. 

© Julie Gittoes 2018