Barbenheimer

 Sunday, 30 July: 1 Kings 3:5-1-12, Romans 8:26-39 and Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

This has been a fascinating week in cinema with the simultaneous release of two films which appear to have absolutely nothing in common.

On the one hand, cinema-goers dressed in pink queued to see Barbie:  “life in plastic, it's fantastic”.

On the other, entering into the world of theoretical physics and the atomic bomb in Oppenheimer: “death destroyer of worlds”. 

Image from the Metro

To do the “Barbenheimer” - seeing both movies in one day or even one week - is intense, but not wholly contradictory. Rather, considering how they interact with one another reveals common threads.

Both deal with human frailty, potential and corruptibility; the legacies that haunt us or the problems we thought were solved.  both make us consider the kind of worlds we inhabit, imagine and create. 

As directors both Chistopher Nolan and Greta Gerwig explore power and patriarchy, ambition and arrogance, fragility and feminism, remorse and repentance. 

The sheer cheeriness of Barbieland’s candy-pink utopia only amplifies the bleakness of Oppenheimer’s dystopia of something not understood or feared until it was used.  

Barbie brings a party dancing to disco-pop to a halt as she asks “do you guys ever think about dying”; Oppenheimer, as he walks away from Einstein, knows he will never stop thinking about anything else.

There are layers of complexity in and beyond Oppenheimer the movie and Oppenheimer the man: from the clearance of Native Americans and Hispanos and Los Alamos to the unseen destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki; from the suspicion of the McCarthy era to chain reaction of an arms race and Cold War; from the personal betrayals to the weight of depression and responsibility  as campaigning becomes the pursuit of some sort of absolution.

As this plays out in screen one, in screen two we hear of a different sort of breach of stability; a different sort of fear. A membrane has ruptured, between Barbie World and reality.  The weight of human anxiety and depression, disappointment and longing for some sort of absolution seeps into the naivety of a pink plastic domain revealing a blond fragility. 

Stereotypical Barbie begins to experience the discomfort and tensions of the real world: whilst she tries to put things ‘right’, Barbie World is itself breached by Ken’s discovery of horses and patriarchy and a quest for respect which diminishes others. Neither world is ordered to enable the flourishing of all; power still operates out of the shadows. 

Yet there is a longing for liberation: not just in the acceptance of emotions but in acknowledging that we are enough, or "Kenough" as Ken puts it. But neither Barbie World nor “Kendom” are the answer - it is more complex than that.

There is a breach between the real world and the world as we long for it to be - as God calls it to be. It is a breach that Barbie cannot repair despite her longing to move from being made to making meaning.  It is a breach that God longs to repair - by not withholding his Son: for God so loved the world that he sent his Son, not to condemn but to bring hope of healing.

This is the mystery of the incarnation: God’s word made flesh, dwelling with us amidst the real tensions of human life with its power imbalances, burdens of guilt and exploitation and our longing for forgiveness; life with all the risk of intimacy, the struggle for self-acceptance and our place within systems we are subject to.

God comes into our world not through Barbie cars and roller blades, but through the labour pains of birth.  As Jesus enters adulthood, he is present at lakesides and in synagogues, on the road and at the table. He asks those whom he meets what they are looking for; breathing words of challenge, peace and dignity.

The breach between worlds is overcome in him - by his life, teaching us ways of healing; by his death, in bearing with our pain, separation and brokenness; in his resurrection, by revealing the power of love which wins, binding up hearts and gathering up lives.

In Jesus, we do not suddenly escape the contingency and complexity of our world; but we are given signs and markers of what life oriented to God’s ways might look like. 

In his parables Jesus speaks of a Kingdom - not a "Kendom" or any other humanely constructed realm. This Kingdom breaches the realms of earth and heaven, by bringing something of God’s reign to earth. 

If we listen to the words and images he uses, we notice several things. 

Image here

The first is that the stuff of this reign is small: a mustard seed, a grain of yeast. What is hidden away and barely visible will grow, changing and enriching what is around it. As a plant grows or a loaf rises, so we see the gradual process akin to the working out of God’s purposes.

We need to be patient and expectant; not losing heart or feeling disappointed. We are to trust the process that in our midst something is taking root and rising up which is beyond our expectations; hearts changing and movements of justice and mercy rising.

Such change and growth is not just for our sake, but for the sake of the world. A mustard seed produces a large enough shrub to provide nesting space for birds. Space to abide and make a home; to be safe and flourish. Yeast when combined with a proportion of flour - the most dough someone can knead - produces bread not just for some but for hundreds. It is a sign of feasting, sharing and hospitality.  

The next thing we notice is that a kingdom based on God’s ways with the world is worth everything we have: a treasure or a pearl for which we will gladly sell what we have in exchange for it. 

The parables describe a whole-hearted human response to this gift of love and grace - something we seek after and find, something we dig out and uncover.  There is risk and cost and joy to this quest - but it also brings to birth a newness, a set of possibilities, which redirect our priorities. 

Finally, this kingdom is like a dragnet - drawing in everything in its path; gathering up all kinds of people and lives. In part this echos Jesus’ own way of being in the world - time spent with a wedding couple and a grieving mother; daring to touch the leper and being touched by the haemorrhaging woman;  honouring the widow and embracing the child; debating with centurions, pharisees and samaritans. 

All those lives and stories belong to God - as do the theoretical physicist and doll creator, the campaigner and the fragile, the activist and the brokenhearted. On the one hand this kingdom does not demand rash judgement or a move to exclude or cut others off. On the other hand, to hold open the possibility of hope for all does mean living with complexity and uncertainty - it does demand wisdom to seek a way forward.

This is precisely what Solomon asked for when confronted with what it meant to lead a people chosen and yet rebellious. 

He recognises that to decide between good and evil, particular actions and their consequences demanded not wealth or trappings of power. It demands a mind that could discern - discover, seek after, uncover - what is right.

As we pray for our leaders, and for ourselves, that request remains the same: the pursuit of knowledge and peace, the seeking after justice and a sustainable future, all this demands a depth of wisdom beyond our human minds. It demands that we look to an ordering of the world in God’s ways - seeking to reconcile rather than divide.

Neither Oppenheimer nor Barbie are able to put things right. Yet they do point us to ideals and opportunities, they name the cost of ideology and the possibility of change or allowing space for others - seeking the purity of love which makes hatred cease.

Nor can we put things right in our own strength. The great hope of the climax of Romans 8 is that the Spirit helps us in our weakness - praying in and through and for us. The Spirit that searches the heart of God and our human hearts. There are echoes of mercy, whispers of love: our blessed assurance.

A Spirit that seeks to work all things for God’s good purposes. Paul ends with a resounding hope in the face of death - in the face of the questions of Oppenheimer and Barbie: Nothing - not hardship, distress, rulers or powers, not death or life, can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. 

God is love: enfolding all the world in one embrace. We need to lean into that hope - a loving kindness that holds and guides us even when sin, brokenness, hurt, death and fragility haunt us.

Love is the final triumph. Meanwhile, we touch and taste and see that love in the ultimate fragility of broken bread.

Let us pray: Strengthen for service, Lord the hands that have taken holy things; may the ears which have heard your word be deaf to clamour and dispute; may the tongues which have sung your praise be free from deceit; may the eyes which have seen the tokens of your love shine with the light of hope; and may the bodies which have been fed with your body be refreshed with the fullness of your life; glory to you for ever. Amen.

[Common Worship post-communion prayer, proper 12]

© Julie Gittoes 2023

Parables and paradox

 Sunday 23 July: Isaiah 44:6-8, Romans 8:12-25 and Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

G. K. Chesterton might be best known for his fictional creation the priest-detective, Father Brown. He was also philosopher, literary critic and apologist for the Christian faith - and it was perhaps his commitment to giving an account of the hope that is in us which led to him being known as the ‘prince of paradox’.

Like St Paul, he recognised that human beings were made with the stature of being in the image of God, made to love and seek the good.  We know that in moments of joy, generosity and kindness.  And yet, the paradox of our human condition is that from Eden, we used our freedom to rebel rather than to worship, choosing self over others. 

We know the tensions in our hearts and lives - whenever we’ve experienced hurt or disappointment, when we take the easier path to protect ourselves. Every Sunday, we gather to acknowledge or confess our individual and collective acts of sin - by negligence, weakness of fault. But we also confess that there is hope - of brokenness being restored.

We are forgiven penitents. As Paul writes: we have received a spirit of adoption as children of God. This hope flows from another paradox, that of grace: the good news of the gospel announces both judgement and mercy. In Jesus, we embrace the hope of God with us, fully human and fully divine; the fullness of love we see on the cross is a paradox:  power in weakness, wisdom in foolishness, life in death.

For Chesterton as for Paul, paradox is a way of affirming that the truth of God is both knowable and mysterious: a love so deep and beyond our grasp, and yet something we can touch and taste in a wafer of bread placed in our hands.

Yet there is so much we don’t know - that we can’t make sense of. We live courageously somehow trusting that in the tensions of the both-and God. Trusting that when we don’t know, God does; hoping that there will be a more beautiful way forward as we wait for more wisdom and insight.

"The Wheat & The Tares" by Jeffrey Smith here

In today’s gospel we hear Jesus telling a story which invites us to practise this paradox of hopeful waiting.  It is a parable of potential goodness and abundance - the sowing of good seeds. It is also a parable of deceitful and destructive behaviour - the deliberate sowing of poisonous weeds. It shows us the reality of human impatience - the servants want to tear the weeds out immediately. It shows us the nature of divine patience - of waiting until harvest to separate weeds and wheat, avoiding the loss of both.

The parable reminds us of what we already know. The first is the tension that even amidst what is good, purposeful and full of potential, there can be things which are unjust, painful and harmful. Alongside that is the tension between patience and impatience when confronted with those things which are cruel or evil: how do we act well and wisely in showing restraint, whilst also acknowledging the reality of the situation. 

In relation to the ‘weeds’ sown amongst us, Jesus doesn’t shy away from naming those things which cause intentional harm ‘evil’. The motivations of the one who sows such seeds are loveless and harmful - the look of the young plants mimic that of good, healthy and nourishing grain. But they’re darnel, a toxic false wheat.

There is nothing to be gained by denying the reality of the weeds amongst the wheat. We know that our life is as mixed as the field in the parable. Our lives, communities and world contain the good and fruitful blessing of the wheat; but they also contain the bad and destructive harm of the weeds.  We live in this reality - and we also believe and trust in Jesus. 

He does not leave us without hope or consolation because as he shares and unpacks the parable, he makes it clear that evil is brought to an end: all causes of sin and harmful intent are bundled up and burnt away. 

It is a vivid image - it is a way of amplifying God’s promise to us that there will be freedom for those who are downtrodden, oppressed, wounded, marginalised For the love we preach is a love which comes to refine and purify. It is a love which brings justice as well as compassion; a love that restores all things to  wholeness; a love which shows mercy and has the final word.

This is the hope: injustice will end; oppression will cease. As our anthem puts it, it is and will be well with our soul because despite the sorrows and  trials of this life, there is the blest assurance that Christ hath shed his own blood for us.

This is our hope: the causes of hurt - to us and to creation -  will be exposed and burnt away. Because God loves the world, those things which exploit, break, harm or diminish will fade away.. All those causes in others, and in ourselves; those causes which are systemic or personal; those causes we campaign against, and those we don’t see. 

Meanwhile, we are perhaps like the servants in the parable: we are eager to see a quick harvest; we are impatient about the weeds and want them gone. The servants are self-confident in thinking that they know what is good and bad, wheat and weeds. However, when it is the owner who has the wisdom and humility to see that it is more complicated than that - roots are entangles, the plants are young, it’s hard to tell the difference.

The same is perhaps true in what we might call ‘ethical gardening’: we can never fully know the secrets and motivations of our own hearts, let alone that of others. There is a time to wait with patience and to show restraint; to know the wisdom of humility. Otherwise we risk harming not only the weeds but the wheat - and showing in ourselves an arrogant judgmentalism rather than loving mercy. 

However long we’ve walked this path of faith, whenever the seed of the gospel of hope was planted in our hearts, the truth is we are still growing. Our roots are delicate, our stems are tender, the graining beginning to ripen. Fruitful maturity takes every breath of our lifetime.

So how do we live well in this in-between time? How do we navigate the paradox of good and bad, patience and impatience?  It begins by praying to see that change in ourselves and by being the change we want to see.

As the prophet Isaiah reminds us God says to us:  Do not fear, or be afraid; have I not told you from of old and declared it?  We are witnesses to God’s faithful and redeeming love. 

In part it is by choosing what to bless and nurture, choosing what to challenge and resist - in ourselves, in our communities and in our world.

In part it is about trusting that God holds us safe in good soil and will bring all things to harvest. By drawing deeply on the core of abundant life, love and mercy we see flowing from the Eucharist.

It is by, in the words of Pope Francis [in Laudato Si’], considering how we strengthen the conviction that ‘we are one single human family’ with the earth as ‘our collective good’. When we see the use and abuse of the goods with which God has endowed the earth, he invites us to be responsible protectors of creation - seeing the interconnection between human goods and the goods for the earth.

For, as Paul wrote, we caught up in the labour pains of waiting with the whole of creation: hoping with patience for what we do not yet see.  It is well. It is well with my soul.

Julie Gittoes 2023 ©

Listening to the children

A sermon preached at St Mary's and Christ Church, Hendon on Sunday 22 September: Yes, I was watching Strictly  last night- the glitz and glamour; and perhaps that's how we like our parables. Today's story is more complex however - a bit like taking lessons from The Aprrentice. Yet the image that really resonated was that of listening to the chlldren of this age - quite literally the children striking for climate action. That also chimed with Amos's prophetic message; and Paul's plea to pray for what is good and right. The texts were:  Amos 8.4-7; 1 Timothy 2.1-7; Luke 16.1-13

BBC image

It’s that time of year when celebs are ‘strictlified’: from a vlogger to a viscountess, from a comedian to a CBBC presenter. There’s a surfeit of sequins and spray tans; kicks, flicks, chassis and swivels.  

And perhaps that’s how we like our parables too: nice, comfortable and familiar; the biblical equivalent to cosy Saturday night TV.

We may think that today’s parable is more like expecting to develop our ethical code from the boardroom shenanigans of the next season of The Apprentice. 

The swagger and desperation of their deals to the ruthlessness on show in the board room finds an echo in the story of the rich man and the manager: there’s evidence shrewdness, decisive self-interest, dishonesty and squandering money; there’s a quick fire reckoning but no time to answer before a judgment gets made.

You’re Fired!

Share TV image

It’s possible to imagine the manager sitting in the Apprentice cafe sullenly stirring his tea as he contemplates his future without a job; without access to a millionaire’s cash.

How do we enter into this parable? 

When we hear the words ‘rich man’, do we assume that Jesus is building up to a rebuke based on wealth?

When we hear of the manager being sent away, do we think that his attitude to squandering money will change as it did for the prodigal son?

As with any parable, it’s not always helpful to try to tidy it up in order to present one neat moral message. If we do, we risk reducing the challenge to one of being ‘nice’.

The story Jesus tells is uncomfortable. 

It is a worldly tale which frames recognisable concerns about wealth and fear of destitution; of pride and dishonesty; of self-interest and gaming the system. 

Judgements and decisions are made quickly, yet the motivations are complicated.

The rich man doesn’t investigate the rumour he’s heard; he doesn’t give the manager time to account for himself; he’s dismissed on the spot.

The manager has to secure a living and find friends: he uses economic dealings to win hospitality.   The speed with which he acts could be more indicative of self-interest than compassion - and yet is not cancelling interest and aliening debt a sign of mercy?

The welcome he might receive is set on ambiguous terms - are his new friends embracing him out of gratitude or because of his capacity to defraud?

Yes, this is uncomfortable stuff.

Jesus is interrogating our values; not condoning dishonesty.

Our values are often interrogated publicly and collectively: for example, Archbishop Justin’s condemnation of pay day lenders was followed by the revelation that the church held shares in Wonga, which led to a review of the investment portfolio and a campaign to seek justice for those facing debt burdens.

Or we might think of Occupy London protesting against the wealth of the 1% in the church yard around St Paul’s in 2011. For some, it served as a modern day parable; a defining moment highlighting the need to reform financial structures, seeking a more sustainable future. For others there’s a legacy of hurt and anger; or concerns that by focusing on the cathedral, the protest lost sight of its primary concern.

Photograph: Ben Stansall/AFP/Getty Images

A year later, Dean David talked about the need for ongoing reflection on the morality, integrity, and regulation of the financial sector. He also stressed the need to interrogate the values at the heart of the Christian faith; learning to navigate some of the challenges and projections; building stronger partnerships for the common good; seeking to communicate clearly and listen carefully.

How we address the vital issues facing our country and our world includes examining how we acted in the past - and what we will do in the future. 

And perhaps its a concern for the future that lies within today’s uncomfortable parable.

An American Pastor says that Luke’s account of Jesus’ parables ‘provides an acknowledgement that there is a proper use of wealth that is entirely antithetical to the behaviour of his own one percent: Give a banquet, not a private feast; live in community, not separation; and promote human flourishing, not personalised profit.’

This is about acting now in a way which echos God’s Kingdom.

How does what we are faithful to on earth reflect the treasure of heaven?

The manager has stewardship of the rich man’s business. We don’t know how honest or competent he was. But we do know that in the face of dismissal, he looks to his future. 

Whether he was a cheat and scoundrel or a compassionate radical, he acts with foresight. A child of this age has the ingenuity to challenge the children of light.

We also have a vision of the future, albeit with different values. 

As Dean David reflected, we are to use whatever wealth or influence or power we have to make friends; to cultivate partnerships; to build strong relationships.

We are to seek, anticipate, build and reflect the values of God’s Kingdom. 

And there perhaps release from debt or unjust dismissal stands alongside Jesus concern for the feasting with the poor and marginalised. 

If we cannot service God and wealth, were do we place our primary allegiance: are we children of this age or do we reflect another Kingdom?

Over recent weeks, the phrase ‘children of this age’ has a different ring to it.

Greta Thunberg strikes outside the Swedish parliament last summer. Photograph: Michael Campanella/The Guardian

On Friday, from Tavula to New York, millions protested over climate change; yesterday’s headlines called it ‘The day the world took to the streets’.  One of the most iconic photos over this movement to speak and act is Greta Thunberg - pictured sitting alone outside the Swedish Parliament last August; this week she was pictured shaking hands with Barak Obama who called her ‘one of our planet’s greatest activists’. 

Link to The Guardian video

Such protests embody something of concerns expressed by the prophet Amos. He challenged the self-interest, profiteering and ruthlessness of those in power. In trampling the needy and ruining the poor they shied away from being accountable for their actions. 

There would be a reckoning, however. His ability to look towards a future judgement and to name the consequences of injustice was part of his prophetic leverage. Revealing the worst case scenario and consequences of their actions was an encouragement to change. 

Acting with foresight and interrogating our values can transform our world.

Such foresight beings with prayer: when we come before God with the concerns of our hearts - out hopes and fears, our burdens and longings - we are changed. 

As we stand in the presence of a loving God, we increase our capacity to act with love; aligning our wills with God’s wills; allowing the values of God’s kingdom to shape our actions and priorities. 

Paul also exhorts us to pray for everyone: asking, thanking, petitioning, interceding. He names the particular call to pray for those in high positions. And as we pray, we set our worldly reality in the context of God’s peaceable kingdom. 

Prayer reminds us and strengthens us to seek all that is good and right and acceptable; it names the dignity of rich and poor; it acknowledges our capacity for change; to foster justice rather than hatred.

Prayer places our current situation of climate protests and political debate within the broader context of God’s story. It changes our frame of reference and gives us courage to refuse the status quo.

Dare we listen to our children? We will allow them to interrogate our values?

It is Christ who is the mediator between God and humankind; Christ who gave himself for all. Christ who gives himself to us afresh in bread and wine.

Our hope is that this truth will turn hearts and minds. That our lifestyles and actions will reflect the values of justice and compassion. Let us pray that we might trust in this ultimate reality. 

In the power of the Spirit, may we live and work with confidence, compassion and creativity for a kingdom of justice and peace. We do this for the sake of our children and of our planet.

© Julie Gittoes 2019

A cinematic parable

A sermon preached at Mattins at Guildford Cathedral on 23 October, which marked the celebration of our Cathedral Singers' 30 anniversary.  Philip Moore composed a setting of Jubilate Deo for the occaision. The texts were Isaiah 59:9-20; Luke 14:1-14. Although this was a (rightly) joyous occaision, I couldn't overlook the parallels and challenges of Jesus' parables and Ken Loach's film I, Daniel Blake.

Today we gather in the house of the Lord with gladness: praising God, giving thanks for our Cathedral Singers, for the dedication and enthusiasm of successive generations of musicians; in their singing of the Te Deum, we hear praise the God of our redemption, and pray for grace and mercy; after this service we will celebrate with them in hospitality and fellowship. However, first we pay attention, together, to the parables of social life lived before God which Jesus sets before us.

Ken Loach has been described by the film critic Peter Bradshaw as 'the John Bunyan of cinema; a bringer of parables'.  In  I, Daniel Blake he returns to a narrative of 'social outrage'; a parable of power and kindness of bureaucracy and dignity. Daniel Blake is witty and wise; a respected tradesman, proud of his craft; he's honest and resilient, making no attempt to play the system.

A heart attack leaves Dan caught between following the advice of his consultant that he cannot return to work yet; and the judgements made by so-called 'medical practitioners' and the remote 'Decision Maker' which deem him fit for work. As walk with him, we too long for the justice and righteousness and truth which echoes throughout Isaiah's plea to God.

We watch Dan, who is 'pencil by default', navigate a world which is 'digital by default'.  Like Bunyan's pilgrim Christian, Dan faces his own 'Slough of Despond': doubts, fears, temptations and guilt and shame. He tries to maintain his dignity and honesty in the face of a system of punitive sanctions. When he's forced to sell furniture and carpets to pay a final electricity demand, he keeps his tools; he hopes he'll get back to his trade.

As with Pilgrim's Progress, Dan meets characters like Hopeful, Ignorance and Little Faith along the way: those who exploit and demean; those with entrepreneurial flare; those who reveal a depth of compassion in ordinary things: in libraries, supermarkets, job centres, food banks and building sites. We wonder if his appeal will be heard - a glimpse, perhaps, of the Celestial City on earth.

Loach paints dignity and shame and humanity in vivid colours: there's an uncompromising seriousness about what he wants to say.  Like the prophet, he rages against oppression and the uttering of falsehood: We roar all like bears, and mourn sore like doves. There are parallels with the way in which Luke recounts Jesus' parables. He tells us of crafty stewards, harsh masters, unjust judges and persistent widows; of proud religious leaders and humble tax collectors; of the rich man and Lazarus.

Today we are drawn into a set of socially subversive parables about community, conduct and generosity. Jesus is under scrutiny - those in positions of power are watching him. He goes to eat a meal - and in the face of the silence of his host and guests - he brings healing. He restores the marginalised to community. In that moment he reveals that we cannot add value to people; rather we are to treat them as being valuable. God made us with intrinsic worth.

God gives us value: yet worldly dynamics of power undercuts that with questions of who we count as the 'deserving' poor. Even within the realm of hospitality Jesus is aware of our human desire to 'get on' to be viewed in the 'right way'; of our pride and ambition; our concern for status and false humility.  Jesus' teaching recognises that our that fear of social embarrassment or disgrace can motivate us to do the right thing. If we raise ourselves up, we will be humbled; the humble will be honoured.

In these parables, he invites us to consider our conduct and to extend our vision of community.  Jesus breaks open the closed circles of reciprocal invitations which are as deeply engrained in our own social conventions as they were 2000 years ago. He shatters a pattern reliant on wealth, aspiration, obligations and the people we like.  If we affirm that relationships of mutual affection and friendship are part of our common life; here, Jesus is taking what we know, value and understand and inviting us to stretch our habits of hospitality.

At our public lecture on Thursday night, Dr Margaret Adam reminded us that food and meals can become the means of powerful ethical choices. It's precisely the ordinariness of eating that enables it to be a conduit of grace. Those moments exist when we invite those who cannot or would not offer us what the Authorised Version calls recompense, what we might call payment, by inviting us back.

Those moments exist, when we offer a sandwich to a person who is hungry; when our donation to a food bank enables others to be fed, or allows them the dignity of sanitary products; those moments exist when we sit with someone on the fringes, when we take risks in relationship: welcoming the one who is not yet a friend, but who is our kin, valued by God. That circle is kept open, deliberately, when children who've endured more than we can imagine arrive to take refuge.

I, Daniel Blake takes us to the heart of graced hospitality. When Dan meets Katie, he sees beyond his own circumstances to befriend her in vulnerability; to become to her children Daisy and Dylan reassuring quasi-grandfather. When she's sanctioned, he buys some food. He dignifies her by eating what she offers, knowing the cost of that to her.

He walks with her to the food bank; he comforts her and gives value when her desperation is humiliating. He cooks for the family knowing they can't afford to entertain him. There is no recompenses or repayment; but there is relationship and mutual love, value and dignity; in his isolation and illness, it's the ten year old Daisy who hammers at the door, who won't walk away; who brings him couscous she's made.

At the end of his review, Bradshaw quotes a line from Dickens' Bleak House: 'what the poor are to the poor is little known, excepting to themselves and God'.  If Loach's cinematic parable has expanded that knowledge, then our worship restores of vision of God's will for us and what is demanded of us.

Our longing for God's kingdom resounds through all that we say and sing and pray; we rejoice in God's forgiveness and loving-kindness; we come into the house of the Lord with gladness; we seek after peace and plenteousness. In the words of the Jubilate Deo, composed by Philip Moore for this occasion: 'the Lord is gracious, his mercy is everlasting; and his truth endureth from generation to generation'. In that mercy, grace and truth  we are sent out in his Spirit, to witness to and embody God's love made manifest in Jesus Christ.

© Julie Gittoes 2016