Learning to live

 Sunday, 3rd March - Lent 3: Exodus 20:1-17, 1 Corinthians 1:18-25 and John 2:13-22

At the Brits last night, Raye made history by winning six awards. Her love of music drove her to be an artist - her beginnings in a Christian home where her father placed her hands on piano keys.

She’s not unusual in finding that the course of life took her away from church, but now she hosts hymns services at home with friends. After thanking her producer, she thanked her grandmother for her prayers. 

Raye with her grandmother at the Brits: Sky News article

Elsewhere she’s talked about how grateful she is for her own faith - how it’s pulled her out of what she calls a ‘really dark place’: coping with trauma, addiction and pressure. It’s a reality she acknowledges in her song “Hard out here”. She said: there was  ‘a moment where I really found God, in the time that I really needed it and it saved my life… I really owe my life to faith, it’s kept me going and it’s kept me okay, it’s given me strength’. 

In our first reading today, we hear the words of the ten commandments which frame life in relation to God: words which emerged after a time of crisis, after a period of slavery and migration. In our Lent book Tarry Awhile Selina Stone talks about the place of movement in our journey of faith. 

For God’s people there were times of temptation and frustration in the wilderness; times when stability seemed a distant hope.   These instructions or guidance on living well emerged at a time when the community was beginning to take on a more settled form. Having owed their life to their faith, what did they now need to keep them going - to keep them ok?

The Greyhound might be the only pub in North London - if not in the city - with the text of the ten commandments on wooden panels on the wall.  

Today we have the opportunity to hear them afresh not as something life-limiting, but as something life-giving.  In the midst of the challenges of our own lives, how do  these words help us use this gift of freedom - of healing and salvation?

The commandments speak about God and human relationships and, in the middle, the need for rest.

They invite a certain kind of self-awareness - taking seriously our embodied existence. They ask us to consider how attending to the pulse of divine love might help us live wisely. 

Perhaps obedience to the commandments is one of those things which, as Rowan Williams puts it, ‘is about learning how to live in heaven by learning how to live on earth, in the body, in the moment.’

‘Learning how to live in heaven by learning how to live on earth’ might include naming what it is to be human: where are the challenges, the risk of harm, the things that overwhelm us or niggle away at us or our relationships?  

It also has to do with how we live well with freedom and desire:  not just for ourselves, but for our neighbours. There is something profoundly practical about the commandments - honouring life in various ways, setting aside the idols we create of wealth or status, looking at our relationship with work and time.

The command to rest lies at the heart of this list of guidance: it echoes the rhythm of creation - goodness poured forth, life, breath and love taking shape, and then God rested. We are invited to hold onto that space as something holy, special, consecrated, set apart and blessed. 

As God’s people moved from slavery, migration to the settled state of a home, they could find rest. However, we know how easy it is for us as human beings to have an uncritical or unhealthy relationship with the opposite of rest: our work. 

If we are tired, overworked and stressed we risk burning out and our relationship to activity and to rest become dysfunctional: holding onto the hope of a lie in or time away; becoming ill the moment we stop; or missing those moments to delight in life as it happens around us.

To think of the balance between work and rest looks shifts across our lives: the pressures of work and parenting, the domestic labour we juggle and long hours or multiple jobs; our self-worth impacted by seasons of illness where we are unable to work, or times when we are unable to find the work we’d love to or need to do; the years of retirement which itself might have seasons of being occupied with volunteering, family, service and the things which bring pleasure. 

In all this rest might elude us - sleeplessness, worry or loneliness. Rest might elude us as we strive for the things that command our attention which become idols: from wealth and possessions, to social media and status.  

The problem with idols is that not only do they demand our focus but they can also demand a high price in terms of well-being, addiction, envy and dissatisfaction. All of which negatively impacts on our relationships - and displaces that first call to love God, to know ourselves as beloved by God, and to allow that love to shape how we live. 

The purpose of the commandments was to create and support a community: helping us to learn to live well, on earth, in our bodies. They still have a relevance - challenging us when we stop honouring each other in our primary households, parent and child, partner and friend; inviting us to be faithful in work, rest and relationships; reminding us that there is more to life than exchange and consumption. Inviting us to shape our lives around a pulse of love.

When Rowan talks about learning to live in the body, in the moment he is inviting us to see faith as a deeply natural rhythm - it’s not just about our minds, but our whole reality.  If the commandments point out some of the pitfalls in life, imagination and relationship, he points reminds us that ‘this is the sort of challenge and transformation that trust in Christ is likely to open up for you, and this is how you can guard against losing the plot’ - or being consumed by the dark places as Raye puts it. 

In today’s gospel we witness Jesus inviting us to honour holy places - as places of sanctuary and inspiration, as places holding us safely as we share the depths of our loves, hopes and faith.  But he goes beyond that in pointing to his body as the palace where God chooses to dwell - God’s goodness in the flesh. 

That body would live and die and rise again: with the unstoppable power of God’s love and breath.  It’s a way of seeing bodies as sites of the sacred - in need of rest and honour, because they are loved by God.  If that is true of our bodies, what of the bodies around us. If we value our bodies as places where God’s grace and delight are made known, then we are called to value the bodies of those who’re exploited, suffering, addicted, lonely. 

Jesus moves in a few verses from concern to compassion, anger to action when he sees the loving commandments of a loving God being broken: he reveals the power of love to act and to deepen relationships - with compassion and justice. 

Paul reminds the Corinthians that the message of the cross - the place where God’s goodness and love in Christ goes to the depths of human pain, darkness and alienation - is power rather than foolishness, strength not weakness. His death carries the weight of our restlessness and disobedience and allows us to find peace and renews our obedience in love. 

Sometimes we see power as foolishness and weakness as strength in the world around us. Alexei Navalny’s death and funeral have attracted as much attention as his political campaign and arrest. What is being talked about more is his conversion to Christianity following Putin’s attempt to kill him in 2020. 

The following year he told a court: ‘the fact is that I am a Christian, which usually rather sets me up as an example for constant ridicule in the Anti-Corruption Foundation, because most of our people are atheist and I was once quite a militant atheist myself.’ He went on to describe how his faith gave him clarity and focus in grim circumstances.

We might not win Brit awards or face persecution for our religious or political convictions, but we are called to live with a radical new awareness of how we belong to each other: a depth of connection between us and creation, between all that is and a loving God. 

We can sit a bit lighter to material satisfactions - and go beyond the surface of things; we find that our inclination to selfishness is transformed into selflessness; our failures forgiven. We are invited into an economy of gift rather than exchange - and find here, in song and word, silence and peace, blessing and bread all that helps us to ‘learn how to live in heaven by learning how to live on earth, in the body, in the moment.’

© Julie Gittoes 2024

Selina Stone: Tarry Awhile - Archbishop's Lent Book 2024

Rowan Williams: "We learn to live in heaven by learning to live on earth', Catholic Herald Feb 20204

I say a little prayer for you

The text of two reflections shared at our online worship via zoom.

Reflection One

The moment I wake up

Before I put on my makeup

I say a little prayer for you.

The words of Aretha Franklin’s song resonate; because in one way prayer is the most natural instinct when we love another person. When we care about our communities; when we hear the cries of the world. The moment we wake up - before we put on our makeup or get dressed - we say a little prayer.

At a human level, Aretha’s words are full of longing: she expresses the intimacy of the one she loves having a place in her heart; the sense that love transcends space and time; and the honesty that separation brings heartache. 

Prayer is something we are exploring and making our own in familiar and perhaps new ways in this lockdown. Finding habits, places and words to say a little prayer. 

Prayer is holding all our love; and abiding in love.

It’s a way of being that is honest, tender, hesitant, raw.

Prayer is an act of resistance: lament, praise, protest, gratitude.

It comes from our heart and changes our hearts.

Jesus prays

And today we hear Jesus praying. Praying for those he loves. Praying to his Father. Praying with the disciples. 

Jesus had washed their feet and shared a meal; he had encouraged them to believe and to trust; he’d promised them an advocate and guide and counsellor, the Spirit who’d lead them in truth and send them out as witnesses. He invites them to abide in love, just as he abides in his Father’s love.  

He prays for them - they are drawn into the intimacy he shares with his Father. 

Forever and ever, you’ll stay in my heart

And I will love you.

Perhaps the disciples hold in their hearts the hope that they’d never part; echoing Franklin’s little prayer, that:

To live without you

Would only mean heartache for me.

Ascension - Laila Shawa

With the lives of his disciples on his mind, Jesus also prays for himself.

He speaks of glory and life. He asks the Father to glorify him; using his death to give eternal life. 

This glory reveals the depths of God’s love for the world; this glory reveals the cost of love that reaches out, arms outstretched on the cross, to draw us back to Godself.

This glory is revealed in a love that overcomes death to restore life. Life that is full of mercy and forgiveness and compassion. 

And this is eternal life, abundant and full: it is to know God.

It is to come near; to rest in the intimacy and wonder of that; to know the joy of being belovéd and precious. 

This life: to know that whatever our flaws and frailties, dreams and desires we are held in love. As we breath, God says:

Forever and ever, you’ll stay in my heart

And I will love you.

What must it have felt like to have overheard those words; to be prayed for with such tenderness and concern.

To be prayed for isn’t to be talked about: it is to be known, taken seriously and held. To be known in love; to be heard in life; to be held in trust. 

Image: Fr Ronald Raab

Would the disciples have remembered this prayer as Jesus’ body - marked by wounds and glorious is life - now ascends to heaven? 

Did they remember in their anguish at death and joy at new life, that Jesus prayed for them: that he gave thanks that they had received him - his name, his life, his love and his work?

As they looked up, with questions on their lips, did they remember that Jesus prayed for them: for their joy and their unity?

As they ask: is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel? Do they remember that Jesus is honest about the opposition they’ll face; that he prays too for those who will come to believe through their words and deeds?

At this moment of parting, do they remember that Jesus in his prayer for them promised the Holy Spirit - the comforter, advocate and guide? 

For now Jesus is no longer in the world, he promises that this prayer will be fulfilled. The power of the Spirit will be at work in them - breath by breath - as they witness to the fire of his transforming love.

For the love in which they abide; the love in which we rest; is a love that heals and transforms.

They stand -watching, gazing and looking up. 

They are consumed by the spectacle - yet watching undermines the possibility of continuing the journey. At this moment of loss they are invited to go forward in faith.

This moment of Jesus’ departure marks a moment of transition; of waiting; of preparation and of prayer. 

For a new order is about to begin. Our humanity abides with Jesus and the power of his Spirit abides with us: and we wait for it; we wait for it in prayer. For it is that Spirit that will enable us to speak and act for the kingdom Jesus brings. 

It is is a kingdom of new life and hope; it is rooted in what they remember and comes into being through their witness. 

But for now they are to devote themselves to prayer.

The moment they get up and return, they say a little prayer:

Forever and ever, you’ll stay in my heart

And I will love you.

Reflection Two

Pray: It’s an interesting group; this gathering of those called upon to pray, as Jesus did.

There are the disciples who’d walked the land with Jesus; some of the women who’d watched at waited, last at the cross and first at the tomb. Mary is there - with her other children. 

Perhaps she is remembering that time of waiting in hope and prayer when, overshadowed by the Spirit, she said yes to being the God-bearer.

And now she prays with those who’d followed the one she’d carried in her womb: as now they prepare for an unknown future.

They wait and pray in a particular place: like us, shut in; like us, confined to world that is smaller or more limited; like us, they see around them life that is fragile and wounded.

But it is from this particular place that they will be sent out into the world. We like them are invite to wait and pray.

We pray: come down, O love divine: kindling in our hearts thy holy flame; come love divine, illumine our path; come, Holy Spirit, dwell within us.

In this prayer, each creature will be claimed as a site of love divine.

The American theologian Willie Jennings, calls this: the revolution of the intimate.

If our heart is warmed by this Spirit, then it is a spark that lights hundreds of fires.

Fires of prayer in our own homes, where we are equipped and inspired for the tasks entrusted to us; where we seek to reflect the character and values of patience, kindness,  justice; of self-control, joy and hope.

Fires of public worship and witness: finding ways of gathering online, sharing hope on social media; looking at how our churches can be once again places of safety and sanctuary.  

Fires of social transformation as we engage with vision and imagination in bringing people out of poverty; seeking a system of education and justice that works for all irrespective of race or gender or age or class; a cultural life that inspires and binds together; ensuring that there is dignity for those in frontline services, and those who depend on them.

Women Kneeling in Prayer - George Henry Broughton

To pray, like the disciples, that we might be open to the Spirit is discomforting and transformative. This vision is part of the witness we share with the apostles. 

The Cuban-American theologian Justo González writes that the Book of Acts is: a call to Christians to be open to the action of the Spirit, not only leading them to confront failures and practices in society that may need to be subverted, put perhaps even leading them to subvert or question practices and values within the Church itself.

We only need to glance at news paper headlines to see how urgently need to confront such failures and practices; subverting selfish exceptionalism and seeking the common good. 

As we pray, we make way for the Holy Spirit to touch human flesh and create in us new hearts; new hearts committee to a transformed world. 

I pray, as we learn to pray with and for each other, alone and together, that we will discern how we serve Hendon in the months and years ahead. That each of us will know the task entrusted to us - using our skills and our work, leading us perhaps to do a new thing that we didn’t dare imagine.

As we pray, with clasped hands we are united with Christ - we abide with God - as the Spirit allows us to become fully ourselves. This is life. George Herbert - poem.

Ever thine: Aretha sang about her human love: 

The moment I wake up

Before I put on my makeup

I say a little prayer for you.

Beethoven, centuries earlier, expresses a similarly intense and devoted to love to an unknown woman. Mourning her loss and longing of a life together.  

And perhaps it those words of a faithful, loving and restless human heart that become the grounds of our deepest and most heartfelt prayer. For in the power of the Spirit, we can pray: Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever us.

An artist's depiction of a scene from the Pentecost appears in the Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis in the city of St. Louis

Let us devote ourselves to prayer; let us discern the tasks to which we are called. Let us be open to the action of the Spirit; confronting failures and kindling fires of change.

Forever and ever, you’ll stay in my heart

And I will love you.

© Julie Gittoes 2020

The crest of a wave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In preparing the way, he points beyond himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus turns hope into reality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Paying attention

Preaching on Mary and Martha at Christ Church and St Mary's: on sisterly difference and learning to live an integrated life - rooted in paying attention to God and God's world. 

This passage always resonates. I am an older sibling and my own sister is a beloved friend: we have our differences, but value them (and each other) more than when we were teenagers.  However, rather than setting up yet another set of rivalries about the contemplative/active life, Jesus seems to be inviting deeper integration in those habits. 

The texts were: Genesis 18:1-10a; Colossians 1:15-28; Luke 10:38-end

Alice Walker once asked: ‘Is solace anywhere more comforting than in the arms of a sister?’

Sisterhood is more complex than that.

Sense and Sensibility (1995)

From Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women  to Jane Austen’s Bennet sisters, writers have explored those bonds: at best, the loyalty and incomparable depths of friendship; at worst, the rivalry and clashes of temperament.

In the Dashwood sisters Austen gives us “Sense” in Elinor’s earnest and serious character; and “Sensibility” in Marianne’s romantic and impetuous nature. Over the course of the novel, they learn more about themselves and they come to value each other’s differences.

In today’s gospel, we glimpse sisterly differences: Martha who’s welcoming, practical, out-spoken; Mary who’s more introspective, attentive, eager to listen.

Christ in the house of Mary and Martha - Johannes Vermeer 

We learn from John’s Gospel that Jesus loved these sisters, and their brother Lazarus. 

Jesus enters this house, the home of his friends. Peace comes to this household.

He’s made welcome by Martha. There is time for hospitality. 

Mary sits at his feet. There is time for learning.

One sibling adopts the role of host; the other the posture of the disciple.

One is distracted; the other sister, attentive.

In this household, there is a moment of revelation and of encounter.

The usual habits and tasks of the domestic routine are disrupted. 

Martha speaks: resentful, fed up or anxious about all that needs to be done. Hasn’t her guest, her friend, her Lord noticed that Mary’s left her to it?

And in a phrase that’s past the lips of many a brother or sister: Tell her. Tell her to help.

And Jesus answers.

He doesn’t chastise her. He speaks her name with concern, tenderness and may be even a hint of challenge. 

Martha, Martha!

He names the worries and distractions of the work she’s doing. The word Luke uses for “tasks” is diakonia - it’s a word which would have resonated with his hearers beyond hospitality and the realm of ‘women’s work’ to include forms of ministry and service. 

This is important work and it isn’t to be done alone. As one scholar puts it: ‘The worries and pressures of ministry are substantial: ensuring people have enough food, shelter, health care, companionship. Jesus is not belittling Martha’s situation. He is, rather, establishing priorities’.

Jesus is reminding Martha of the importance of attentiveness. To pay attention is to give our whole selves over to receptive.

Pay deep attention, says Jesus. Pay attention to God; to that pulse of love. 

Such attentiveness enables us to be more alert to the needs of others. 

To pay attention increases our capacity to be attentive.

Mary and Martha - Jesus Mafa

Sometimes, this passage gets read in a way which exaggerates the potential sibling rivalry, but setting up a hierarchy of inferior or superior occupations - that the contemplative life is to be preferred to a life of service or practical action.

Elsewhere in the gospels, Jesus criticises the host for being distracted from the main thing - because they’re more concerned about the status of the guests or proper ettiequte than anything else. 

As host, Jesus is saying, there need of one thing; that is to attend to her guest, her Lord.

Hospitality and learning go together. 

And perhaps there is a challenge or potential danger for Mary too. She has chosen the better part - to listen to her Lord. Yet to flourish as a disciple, she in turn will also need to speak, act, serve or come to the aid of another.

Jesus is inviting Mary and Martha into an integrated pattern of life. There is a time and place to be receptive; to listen and learn. There is a time and place to ask questions, to engage and be challenged. There is a time and place to contemplate, to be still; and to mirror that attention in faithful, fruitful acts of service. 

Mary and Martha will work out their own callings, together. In the light of this encounter with their beloved friend and heavenly Lord, they’ll learn to value each other, and their differences.

There are lessons for us too, as brothers and sisters in Christ. 

At our PCC last week, we pondered two sets of questions: firstly, where have we encountered Jesus, seen God at work in the Spirit; and secondly, what is our heart’s desire, what do we long for?

To answer those questions we have to be attentive: attentive to our selves and our community; and we also have to be attentive to God.

Sometimes the biggest threat to such attentiveness is busyness. When we try to do more and more, without the capacity to be fed or to reflect, we lose focus. It becomes draining and makes us anxious.

This is too much for the contemplative heart and the activity itself becomes a burden we resent.

When we talked about traces of God’s grace on Thursday, we were being attentive: naming the freedom of stepping into new territory; naming the fear and hope of going outside our comfort zone. 

When we talked about our heart’s desire, we were attentive we talked about the needs of our community, our schools and university; we expressed a longing for our fellowship to go outwards; for confidence in expressing our faith, for others to find joy in this place.

This double attentiveness is rooted in Jesus, the one who is God with us. The one who helps us name our distractions and our need to do ministry, together; The one who gives us permission to enter into a stillness and silence; learning, contemplating and praying.

Such attentiveness releases joy and brings new life and hope.

The story of Abraham and Sarah being hospitable to the mysterious strangers is full of attentiveness: in listening and responding, in refreshment and promise. It reminds us that when we are attentive to ordinary, earthly human encounters, we might also glimpse something of heaven.

For the earth is the Lord’s. By the power of the Spirit we are to open our eyes to see the possibilities, our ears to hear the cries, our hearts to respond with compassion.

Just as Jesus teaches Mary and Martha that they need to listen and question before they serve, so the Sprit teaches us to be attentive to the small things; to focus on what really matters.

Christ is God with us: the one in whom all things have been created; the one in whom all things are held together. 

Christ is the image of the invisible God; the one in whom the fullness of God’s love and power was pleased to dwell. In the frailty of our flesh, he reconciled all things to Godself.

That peace was made possible by the cross: a meeting point of all our human cries of despair and the fullness of God’s mercy.

Here and now we are called to be channels of that peace and reconciling love. 

At this Eucharist, love bids us welcome; bids us sit and eat. 

Love is our host.

In bread and wine, the mystery of love is made fully known to us. We are united in Christ’s body, given new life in the Spirit  and called to share the good news of God’s fullness with the whole of creation.

Within our community, there will be many Marys and Marthas: rather than being fractious siblings, let us be brothers and sisters who find common purpose; teaching each other to breath deeply in prayer; encouraging one another to be joyful in service.

Let us pray that we might be attentive to the light and love of God in our worship; and to that light refracted in our world. 

© Julie Gittoes 2019