He will come... to bring life

We are waiting.

He will come.

The Word made flesh.

All things came into being through him and without him not one thing was made.  Amidst the richness of John's words we glimpse the Word: light, hope, grace and truth.

In him was life, and the life was the light of all people.

That life was known in his infancy: crying, disruptive, demanding our attention.
That life is promised to us in abundance: as he lays down his life for us.

John 10:10. I remember my bishop teaching us that reference in a school assembly about assurance and hope. There was clarity and purpose; a call to relationship, growth and fruitfulness.

John 10:10 is more than words. It is an expression of God's Kingdom.

It's an expression of assurance and a mandate to love: to love God, love others and to love words. Or, in terms of Archbishop Justin's priorities, it's a call to prayer, reconciliation and witness.

We have been entrusted with good news; it's compelling, attractive and radical. It demands attention to God - and the expectation that those who hear it might wish to hear more.  We're inviting people to choose life.

'It's my life': isn't a phrase restricted to tempestuous teenage years as we renegotiate relationships, push against boundaries and figure out what it is we want to do, or who we are.

In the public life of our communities, in the intimacy marriages and the diversity of friendships; in how we spend our time, our money and our resources our culture prizes personal autonomy. In the face of deteriorating health and death itself, 'it's my life' is corrosive.

Rather than hermetically sealed autonomy, we invite others into communion, human and divine.

Amidst disordered desires, we name the freedom of life in Christ.

In the face of self-absorption, we pray that the Spirit will kindle the fire of his love.

John 10:11 doesn't role off the tongue in the same way but it takes us to the heart of the cost of this fullness of life.  That cost is there in Chris Gollon's 'Virgin and Child'.  In the arms of a young woman we see a child who looks at us with a stead gaze; with a depth of love; with a startling maturity.  Mary holds him as if already preparing to let him go.

  

Virgin and Child - Chris Gollon (2014)

This is love, actually: a love that brings both judgement and mercy. Jesus gives us all we need to live: he calls us into openness to God, recognising our faults and seeking forgiveness. He says to a baying crowd, whoever is without sin cast the first stone; he says to an accused woman go and sin no more.

This love is cruciform; love that reconciles the world to God.  The love of a servant king, who brings healing as he is lifted up on the cross; who says "Father, forgive" in the face of sin, alienation and death. Such love is our plumb line; it's a different sort of measure - a Gospel metric, the paradoxical letting go of life that leads to abundance.

The good shepherd is leading us to oneness with God.  But to abide in his life and love is also a calling to grow in responsibility to others in service and witness.   Such spiritual maturity is at the heart of our Common Purpose.  It's a radical way of life; it's costly.

Perhaps in our common life, it feels as if the CofE is buffering. Dare we wait without anxiety on God? Dare we seek his kingdom with a patient impatience?

Our waiting together today raises questions of mission and unity; truth and holiness.

He will come as child. He will come to bring life.

Abundant life demands servant leadership. There's an urgency to our call.

Will we who are in Christ open ourselves to the renewing, reforming Spirit?

A headline in The Guardian reads: We need the Church of England more than ever. That's why we need it to die.  Describing the CofE as the 'NHS of the soul', Peter Ormerod commends our social engagement whilst noting collective estrangement from the gospel. He asks: have we muted our world changing message in a generation craving 'something they can relate to and be nourished by'?

If Christ is the light of the world - the source of hope, forgiveness, love and joy - we cannot as Father Raniero said in his sermon at General Synod, be unconcerned that 'the majority of people around us live and die as if He had never existed'.

This time of waiting is an opportunity to draw near to the one who promises abundant life.  We are invited to put our love for Jesus Christ centre stage, even in the face of disagreement. This is for our own sake - but also for the sake of the world.  The words of Father Raniero again: 'The Word of God, once it is proclaimed, remains forever alive; it transcends situations and centuries, each time casting new light.'

Our calling is to witness in the power of the Spirit to the love of God made manifest in Jesus Christ. He teaches us to live and love: to give all that we are.

In our daily lives - in our work, our prayer, our leadership and friendships Jesus is present. In moments of exhilaration and times of loneliness, Jesus is with us.  He's with us calling us to grow in faith and love. He calls us to follow him - to follow his example.

How might our discipleship, our leadership offer a model for forgiveness? Do we draw others into communion, to greater maturity, compassion and acceptance?

We all have need of each other in prayer, reconciliation and witness.  For our shepherding has as its source, and as its goal, communion with God. Our shepherding leads us into life and truth.

Trusting in God, means risking our life - letting go of all that holds us back from sharing his love.

We are invited to grow as ministers of the Gospel in a church called to renewal: in holiness, self-giving, fearless witness.  It's a responsibility that leads us where we may not wish to go. Like Peter, we are both penitent and restored; we face death and receive life.  As we wait, for his coming like child, we face one question, in silence of hearts. As we wait for his coming to bring life, we are offered a commission in public witness. Let's hear those words afresh:

Do you love me?

Do you love me?

Do you love me?

Feed lambs. Tend sheep. Feed sheep.

Follow me.



©  Julie Gittoes  2015

He will come... like child

Waiting…

It's part of the human condition; but we're not always very good at it.

Whether it's queueing to get through airport security or the tendency to crowd round a train door when the platform is barely in sight, we want to be on the move.

Seeing Bond on opening night; ordering books for next day delivery; take-aways, ready meals, Jamie's 30 minute suppers.

Waiting in; waiting up; waiting around; waiting your turn.

A minute - a moment – a second... Even longer.

Perhaps the sign of joyless impatient waiting is the mesmerising whirl of the digital circle of doom on our screens. Our lives are lived at such a pace, with an intensity driven by technology. And we're waiting for something to download, we get impatient. The faster our broadband speed, the more impatient we get when it buffers.

Waiting....

Waiting until something happens; until you can do something. Waiting for the expected; for an event, a meeting, something longed for or something that will change us.

Allowing time to go by; staying in one place; not doing very much.

Perhaps this morning we will be able to practice the sort of waiting that that is about attention to God; the sort of waiting that is about paying deep attention to what is going on around us… within us.

Perhaps it'll be an exercise in non-anxious waiting to take us into Advent with a deeper sense of expectation.

Perhaps we'll cultivate the right sort of patient impatience of longing for God; for his Kingdom to come.

Perhaps we'll be renewed in witnessing to the good news of God with us in our own generation.

The advent of Christmas ads appear well before we've hosted our first carol service, but long after mince pies appeared in my local Co-op.  John Lewis with its science defying man on the moon invites us to show someone they're loved; Sainsbury's shares Mog's calamitous story ending with the message that Christmas is for sharing.

Such ads have tremendous power to shape our waiting. They shape the expectations of those we'll encounter.  Paying attention to them reminds us of human longings - for companionship; but they should also disrupt us. As the debate about the Lord's Pray ad has illustrated, advertisers have a vested interest igniting desires and making us want things now; encouraging us to spend rather than wait; to consume rather than conserve.

In #MulberryMiracle, the brand presents a tongue in cheek nativity: a host of visitors arrive to share in the excitement of an unexpected present. They 'oooh' and 'aaah' over a most beautiful thing; something amazing. A thing of wonder; something quite stupendous.

'Guys, it's just a bag' says Joe. In a brilliant piece of parody, the Christmas starts with Christ campaign tweaked the tagline: It's Christmas. What are you worshipping?

We too are called to subvert the culture in which we wait: we do that by attending to the narrative of our world; by accurately describing its fears, longings, hopes and anxieties.

Our calling is to be with people as they grapple with the challenges, pressures and delights of life. To do that we have to wait upon, pay deep attention to, the one who is God with us.

The poetry of John's prologue has become iconic: In the beginning was the Word. The Word was with God. The Word was God.

There's an intensity to this divine communion and creativity: the fullness of life and in the words of John Donne, one equal light.

Darkness did not overcome. We, like John, are to testify to this light.
The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.

In expressing this hope, a vision for the healing of humanity, John distils the history of salvation into but a few verses. The depth of his attention to the way in which God was in Christ Jesus reconciling the world to himself is spine tingling.

Yet, he also pays deep attention to the gritty reality of the world: a world filled with violence, division, rejection, ignorance, greed and loneliness. Yet he also pays attention to how wisdom, meaning and hope was expressed in Hebraic and Greek thought.

Logos.

This Word was coming.

This Word is the summation of all ideas, thoughts, wisdom, reason and knowledge.
This Word has the power to create, change and transform

This Word was coming.

Coming to what is his own; becoming flesh; living among us.

Here is the heart of the Gospel.

The one who abided close to the Father's heart comes to us: there is communion, glory, light and love.

We have received from this fullness and are called to make it known.

For all the magnificence, grandeur and power of this Prologue, John's words point to an intimate, human and disruptive reality.

For this Word came, comes and will come like child.

He abides close to Mary's heart: conceived in her flesh, sustained at her breast, needing her to respond to every physical need. The Word as wordless infant cries and abides in the stability of Joseph's loving presence.

He knew the stability of a home and the skill of a craft; as an adult he had no fixed abode and walked with us in the world.

At this time of year, we are away of the frailty and changeability of the world. Rowan's poem 'Advent Calendar' captures the sharp edged beauty of the seasons; the resistance and self-absorption of human condition.

And that is our hope.

When loss flays us to the bone; when we feel chocked by grief. He comes to us.

When we are with those in our communities who feel that life and opportunities are shrinking; when we delight with them in the surprising beauty or gentle radiance of transformation. He comes to us.
We wait on him and with him today: to pay deep attention to the story of how the Eternal Word became flesh; of how he comes like crying in the night to break down barriers of fear.

For the one who comes to us is amazing, wonderful and beautiful: we worship him.

For the one who comes to us invites us to share our lives in loving mercy and generous hospitality in calamity and ordinary; he invites us to reach out to the lonely and despairing with the oxygen of companionship and the gift of our lives.

May we be drawn afresh into the peace, truth, light and glory today.
As we wait and abide in God's love, may we be refreshed and recalled.

Be drawn into the love of God. He will come like child.
A child drawing us into relationship; demanding our attention.

Wait.

He will come.


© Julie Gittoes 2015

The text of Rowan Williams' poem Advent Calendar can be found here: http://rowanwilliams.archbishopofcanterbury.org/articles.php/2280/advent-calendar-a-poem-by-dr-rowan-williams

My heart and flesh do cry unto God

Preaching at Guildford Cathedral yesterday morning was a daunting prospect in the wake of the terrorist attacks in Paris and our responses to those events.  A sermon at mattins set against the backdrop of events which were unfolding at an intensely human level, as well as within the political sphere, is but a personal reflection. It is an attempt to begin to make sense of feelings and repercussions; and as with all such 'attempts' it falls short.  The texts were 1 Samuel 9:27-10:2a, 10:17-26 (the anointing of Saul as King) and Matthew 13:31-35 (Jesus' parable of the kingdom of heaven).

My heart and flesh do cry unto God, cry to the living God 
[J. Brahms, text from 'A German Requiem' Op 45]

Last night, iconic buildings around the world were lit in the colours of the French flag: from London to New York, Berlin to Sydney, Durham Cathedral to Tel Aviv.  The profiles of friends on Facebook have been overlaid with the tricolour - pictures of weddings, holidays, football, concerts and familiar smiling faces - reflecting our desire to connect.

Music, sport, conviviality, friendship: the very things disrupted by brutality on Friday night.

And apart from: Kyrie Eleison; Lord, have mercy; pray for Paris.... there was nothing I could say.

Words seem futile: yet we try to make some sort of sense. 

Silence seems like acquiescence: yet we need to express solidarity.  

In a tiny book 'Writing in the Dust', which reflects on 9/11, Rowan Williams gives us a seed of hope. He wrote of the  bewildered, resilient 'we' of shocked humanity. He said:  'This "we" needs, God knows, time and opportunity to grieve, but time and opportunity also to ask whether anything can grow through this terrible moment. I hope the answer is yes'.

I hope the answer is yes.  In this smallest of books, he writes honestly of humanity and God's loving mercy.  He warns of using too many words 'when we try to make God useful in a crisis... that we take the first steps towards the great lie of religion: the god who fits our agenda'. 

I hope that the answer is yes: that something can grow; that God's kingdom is glimpsed. In the words of today's eucharistic prayer, which resonated deeply: we hope in God who'll 'gather into one in his kingdom our divided and broken humanity'.

Our first lesson draws us into the reality of grappling with earthly and heavenly agendas. We begin with the anointing of a ruler. As the oil pours down Saul's hair and cheeks, Samuel tells him that he'll reign over God's people; that he'll save them from their enemies. Such words belie complexity. 

The Lord worked in partnership with human agency - through the faith of Abraham, the boldness of Moses and the collective wisdom of the judges.  God had remained faithful to them in calamity and distress; they had sought to walk in the way of his commandments.  But now his people want a king. They want to be just like all the other nations. No wonder Saul hides - overwhelmed by the weight resting on his shoulders.  

God remains faithful amidst their desire for human sovereignty; but the people learn that a king is not a panacea to their woes.  It falls to the prophets to continue to speak for God's ways of justice, mercy, compassion and peace. In the midst of exile,  they offer to God's people something akin to the breathing space Rowan describes. 

Rowan's words are eerily prescient.  Hearing Parisians speaking about their refusal to live in fear, echoes his words about shunning victimhood. As we live with the void amidst destruction, as we express both love and grief,  Rowan warns against language of war saying: 'The hardest thing in the world to know is how to act so as to make the difference that can be made; to know how and why that differs from the act that only releases or expresses the basic impotence of resentment'.

Paris is the focal point of our prayers, in part perhaps, because events in this particular place presents a challenge to our identity and our common life. Perhaps it is because we are implicitly aware that our response in Europe has wider repercussions.  As we say 'pray for Paris, are we also praying for Beirut and Baghdad, Syria and Pakistan?  Our shock and anger reveals how connected we are to the corrosive brutality of our world; our hearts and souls cry out. 

It was seventy-five years ago, in the face of the smouldering ruins of Coventry and its Cathedral, that Provost Howard, took the risk of choosing the path of reconciliation saying 'Father forgive'.  Last night that  Cathedral was lit in red, white and blue. A sign perhaps not of our suffering writ large but of God's love and vulnerability; of Christ's cross; the cross of nails, a sign of reconciliation. 

Father forgive.

And there's silence.

And we wonder how we can names our fear and make space for forgiveness? How do we acknowledge shock and learn to grieve honestly? How do we face the anger and make room in our hearts of the other?  A month ago, this cathedral hosted a day on responding to the refugee crisis.  'There is global hospitality possible too in the presence of death', writes Rowan.

How do we stay with that hope?

The hope of the kingdom of heaven in Jesus' teaching starts with such smallness. Yeast and seeds are full of promise. Already within the seemingly insignificant there lies immeasurable power.  We might not be at the point, today,  when we can embrace the sureness of rich loaves and shrubs offering shelter.Yet, such illustrations invite us to look beyond the random violence and chaos we see around us.

Jesus' vision of the kingdom is dynamic: it is rooted in Spirit's power.  He teaches us with quiet assurance. He promises a transform of our world; but he faces opposition and suffering.  The powerful and violent  mock him as a defeated king or naive prophet. Yet in him, God is revealing the significance of the insignificant. In him, God reveals his patient love, made perfect in human weakness. By the power of the his Spirit, we are to participate in that patient transformation.

It is God's work to bring home the lost, give dignity to the despised and restore the sinner. 

We are called to plant seeds of grace, justice, love and peace - revealing light and holiness in darkness and hatred.

As pilgrims walk towards Parish to the UN climate summit at the end of this month, let us pray that our endeavours to fulfil sustainable development goals will be part of the global transformation of conflict. That us pray that we are on the cusp of a political and scientific revolution of building allies as well as infrastructure.  

May we choose life and hope; may we overcome hate with the power of God's love; may we stand with the suffering and defeat the curse of terror; may the smallest acts of compassion be signs of God's redemption.

Let us pray for God's mercy upon those of all faiths and no faith who shudder with grief, and strength be to those who work for peace:

Grant us to look with thine eyes of compassion, O merciful God, at the long travail of humankind:

the wars, the hungry millions, the countless refugees, the natural disasters; the cruel and needless deaths, our inhumanity to each other; the heartbreak and hopelessness of so many lives. Hasten the coming of your kingdom, when nations shall be at peace and all shall live free from fear and want ; and there shall be no more pain or tears in the security of thy will and the assurance of thy love, shown in Jesus Christ, the Saviour of all. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2015  

What happens when we stop, in silence?

It was moving and humbling to give an address on Remembrance Sunday [2015] at Charterhouse School. The texts were James 3:17-18 and John 14:27

27, 36, 22, 19, 20, 42, 47, 34

The ages of some of those held in remembrance on your [the Charterhouse School] Roll of Honour.

Some a little older than you; many not much younger than me.

Men known as Majors, Lieutenants and Captains.

Men known as sons, husbands, brothers, friends and colleagues.

Men known as Eustace, Richard, Thomas, James and Ralph.

Of the three thousand five hundred Old Carthusians who served in the Great War, 670 died.

They're commemorated here in this Memorial Chapel, along with the names of the 340 who lost their lives in World War II. It did not end there, for today we remember all those who've lost their lives in subsequent conflicts.

In recent years, the losses born by service men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan affect our generation deeply: for parents, friends, chaplains and colleagues it feels as if every day is Remembrance Day.

We remember, knowing that the shadow of war extends beyond battlefields; it lingers long after the end of hostilities. It's  glimpsed it in physical or psychological wounds; in family trees cut short and in the story of this place, their absence is felt.

How do we make sense of all this? We recite the poetry of Rupert Brooke and Wilfred Owen;  we might have read  Andy McNab's bestseller Bravo Two Zero or Simon Weston's  autobiographies tracing his life after the Falklands War; we follow the Vicar of Bagdad on Twitter and await official reports.

Even then, the cost, the pain, the courage, the fear: it feels incomprehensible. Our lives are shaped by those who grow not old.  Fragile poppies poignantly testify to those who gave their 'today' for our 'tomorrow'.  Do we find a point of connection with our own grief, regrets and loss?

It was Simon, not me, who became the Head of our CCF RAF Section. We did drill exercises and flew chipmunks together; he was the better shot, but my mark in principles of flight was higher. He wrote a cheeky comment in my School Leavers' book.

Twelve months later, he was dead. Killed not in war, but in a car accident.  The senselessness and heartrending grief that took hold was wholly new and wholly other. And faith and hope were crushed.  That silence, a microcosm of grief.

Today is honest about the sacrifice of service men and women, lives given and taken away; about the cost born by civilians in terror or fighting; about our own responses amidst all that disrupts life or bewilders us.

What happens when we stop, in silence?

Today, and at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month?

Today's remembrance is also honest about the future. We commit ourselves to work for freedom, peace and justice among the nations. We don't do that in our own strength, but through trust  in God, who will draw all things to himself.  Even in the chaos we're assured of love; in turmoil we hope for peace

Such peace is promised by Jesus as he speaks words of farewell to his own disciples. He meets them in their fear and uncertainty. In advance of his own death and in anticipation of their grief, he gives them a bequest.

His legacy of peace is more than a ceasefire or treaty between opposing forces, the kind of peace the world gives.  His peace is more than the absence of war; nor is it just an inner stillness. It is the promise to be with us and in us and alongside us. He is our peace.

To embrace that, to place that hope centre stage, is risky. It's transformative.

It is a hope  that our world longs for; something that our culture tries to articulate.

Last night, I accidentally caught the end of Dr Who: the shapeshifting Zygons are everywhere; the ceasefire has broken down; no one knows who to trust; opposing forces face each other, locked into a cycle of violence.

The Doctor, Peter Capaldi at his best, urges them to break that cycle. He says 'the only way anyone can live in peace is if they're prepared to forgive'. He acknowledges the complexity of unfairness and injustice, the futility of cruelty; the turning wheel of winners and losers, of ideals and troublemakers.  'It's not a game' he says, 'it's a scale model of war'.  Broken hearts and shattered lives, bloodshed and pain.

The words that the Doctor speaks echo words that God speaks to us: 'here's the unforeseeable. I forgive you'.  He urges an end to war because he doesn't want anyone else hear the screams or feel the pain that he does.

It is God in Christ who both bears the pain we remember today and forgives our fragile humanity; in him, God reconciles the world to himself.

For God so loved the world, he sent his Son to be with us from the moment of speechless infancy to the intimacy of friendship's embrace; from the deepest agonies of suffering to the defeat of death itself. That is our hope.

We remember, because we have a duty to the future as well as to the past. What will happen on our watch? Dare we break the cycle? In the Dignity of Difference Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes 'I honour the past not by repeating it but by learning from it - by refusing to add pain to pain, grief to grief'.

That demands a wisdom from above: peaceable, gentle, merciful, willing to yield. A wisdom that answers bitterness with generosity, hatred with love, injustice with compassion, anger with forgiveness, conflict with reconciliation, violence with peace.

God's wise and peaceable Spirit work in us, in you and me: in each conversation, gesture and act of service.  May we be living sacrifices of love courage  hope and compassion for sake of God's Kingdom.

When the world is in turmoil, peace making and peace keeping are complex and costly things.

On our watch, we need men and women who are wise and peaceable to seek the greater good and restore hope: in soft power, in political influence, in military strategy.

Jesus said: I give you my peace.

On our watch, may there be a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace for those who make peace.


©  Julie Gttoes 2015

The dead are alive

After yesterday's Rugby World Cup Final at Twickenham, some of us are celebrating All Blacks as much as All Saints.

However, over the last week, there's been another source of anticipation and excitement.

Bond is back.

In a dazzling opening sequence, we're transported to Mexico City.  It's Bond.  It's a little bit silly; a little bit cliched. Gadgets, glamour and martinis. We see dramatic ariel stunts, adrenaline inducing car chases, a train hurtling through the desert and a villain - with a white cat.

At  moments, it's heart stopping - but not always in the way we expect.

Spectre captivates us with a spectacular, vibrant and exotic parade scene.  It's 'The Day of the Dead'.  A Latin American festival full of rich cultural and religious allusions; elaborate costumes and intricate dances.

Two people - a man and a woman - move through through the crowd with purpose. Masks hide their passion and their intent.

Four words - an on screen epigraph marks the beginning:

The dead are alive.

Four words... pulsating through unspoken traumas, fears and hopes of one man.  It's Bond. Of course it's full of nostalgia and the ghosts of previous 007s and their enemies. The Telegraph describes it as an act of pure cinematic necromancy.
 
Perhaps it's the combination of Daniel Craig and Sam Mendes that has given the franchise a degree of emotional and psychological depth. The losses are real; the stakes are high.  Ghosts of parents, lovers and enemies lurk amidst the muted tones of the film's palette.

The use of data, monitoring mobile phones, security breaches and tracking: these are the things we
fear in relation to freedom and we'll have chance discuss themat Thursday's penultimate 'Proclaiming Liberty' lecture.  In Bond, it's 'C' who talks about an international surveillance scheme which will capture the world's digital ghost.

The dead are alive.

Death and life lie at the heart of our faith.

Our fears and limitations are changed by hope of the Gospel. Today we celebrate the lives of those who have gone before us in the faith: the apostles, prophets, martyrs and saints.

It is indeed a holy company.  They are knit together, in one communion and fellowship.

Tomorrow we remember the lives of the departed, remembering them in love and thanks giving.

The dead are in a profound sense 'with us' not just in our hearts and minds; but as part of the mystical body, in Christ.  Although it stretches our imaginations and confounds our perception of time in relation to eternity, they worship with us; praising God and singing with us holy, holy, holy; Lord, God Almighty. 

To celebrate the saints is an encouragement to us:  as we rejoice in their faith we find inspiration to follow their example, proclaiming God's glory in our own generation.  In the power of the Spirit we are called, like them, to witness to the love of God made manifest in Jesus Christ. We are to do so with boldness and joy.

To celebrate the saints, is a source of hope amidst all that challenges, overwhelms and perplexes us.  It is a hope that meets us at our most vulnerable. It's a hope that confronts our mortality, and says this is not the end. For nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

As we discussed at BOB yesterday,  [our cathedral youh group is called Bunch of Believers, known as BOB]  Halloween faces the darkness of death with pumpkins, fancy dress and the refrain of 'trick or treat'.  Perhaps we dismiss it as light-hearted fun; but there is something sinister about it too. It is a night that talks of ghouls and ghosts but which does not speak of the defeat of darkness by the light of Christ.

Over pizza and cake, BOB pondered the promise Isaiah, discerning words of hope and promise to hold onto now and in the future. Isaiah speaks of a shroud cast over the nations: perhaps an acknowledgement of injustice, pain and sorrow; of all that weighs on our hearts and casts a shadow over our lives. But he also promises an end to mourning and death; he offers a vision of feasting on rich food and mature wine.

As we wait for the fulfilment of that vision,  it seems that the world wrapped in a shroud; like this morning when Guildford was surrounded in fog. We wait for glimpses light, love and hope. As one member of BOB asked, what if our lives resonated with the brightness of that hope - as if the dampening piano pedal has been lifted, and a compelling tune is heard?

In today's Gospel, a shroud is destroyed. It is a story full of love and intense emotion. Jean Vanier describes it as one of the most beautiful chapters of John because it reveals  how profoundly human and totally divine Jesus is.    We see the depth of Jesus' human emotion: he knows the intense anguish of grief.

The pain and horror of the untimely death of a friend is excruciating.

He weeps.

We feel too the weight of the words of Mary, Martha and the crowds: the weight of expectation, disappointment and loss.  We hear the sting of if....

If you had been here, he would not have died. We hear the demands of love. Could he not have prevented this?  They weep. This death is real. There's a stench.

He comes. He sees. He weeps. He is distressed. He speaks:  Take away the stone.  He faces death. Lazarus, come out!  The dead man is alive.

He releases an outpouring of human emotion: a breath-taking an overwhelming joy and adoration.

He releases us from the constraints of death, saying: unbind him and let him go.

Some perhaps were moved to faith and trust by what they witnessed. Here is a glimpse of Isaiah's promise being fulfilled : the shroud is unbound; tears are wiped away; there is joy and gladness.

Today, we  name our fears - of change or pain or dependence on others; of failure, rejection and despair. The fear putting the love of God at the centre of our lives: calling us to let go of jealousy, grudges and self-determination and to see ourselves as we are. As loved. Unconditionally.

Dare we trust the power of God within us and others?

Lazarus' hope, and ours, is in the the Lord of life who swallows up death. In the one who lies in a tomb for three days; the power of God in him defeats death itself. Folded grave clothes remain as God's transformative power is seen in the glory of the resurrection. In different garden, another Mary cannot see through tears yet hears her name and says I have seen the Lord.

We live in the hope of unspeakable joys. Like Lazarus we called to be fully alive in the face of mortality. We're ensnared by fear and condemnation; yet called to live with fearless generosity; fragmented and overwhelmed, yet called wholeness, holiness and godly living.

Jesus says rise up; live as people of light and life. Jesus calls us out of the tomb; he unbinds us. We are called to give life.

Amongst the saints, there is no them and us. For we are all called out of darkness into God's marvellous light.

We are, Vanier says on a journey of resurrection to do the work of God, to bring love in to our families, our communities and the world.  That process begins every morning and is shaped by every Eucharist; it continues in every act of forgiveness and every gesture of gratitude.

The dead are alive.

We live because God lives in us.
We love because Jesus gave himself for us.
We shine as lights by the power of the Spirit.

Rise up in love!

Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead.
He calls each one of us
to rise up
in love.



A sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral on All Saints Sunday. The texts were Isaiah 25: 6-9 and John 11:32-44. John Vanier's commentary 'Drawn into the Mystery of Jesus through the Gospel of John'  continues to be an inspiration. Yes, I've seen Spectre but hope I have avoided spoilers! 

© Julie Gittoes 2015 

We wait for justice

The text of a sermon preached on Sunday 25th October 2015: Isaiah 59: 9-20 and Luke 14:-14

The screenwriter Abi Morgan says of her latest film, Suffragette: these were voiceless women. We gave them a voice. The dramatisation of the a story we known we know is shocking.

We glimpse Emmiline Pankhurst emerging from hiding to give a defiant speech; we follow Emily Davison to the Derby before newsreel of her funeral draws the film to a close. Their narratives are familiar to us; we have their words.

The decision to use the fictional Maud and Alice, Edith and Violet gives the film a heartbeat of ordinariness, which intensifies the impact of historic moments. Their testimonies were transcribed by others; their destinies were mapped out by others.

The shock of this story sees the dangerous drudgery of laundries; the use of photographic surveillance; the violation of force feeding; the disruption of family life as a result of detention; the incremental radicalisation of some; the police brutality.  Alongside the shifting dynamics of female friendship we see the fear and suspicion pervading communities.

Therein lies the second shock. The rhetoric is all too contemporary: gathering intelligence, maintaining civil stability, threats to security; the tension between them and us; choices between words and deeds.

News headlines seek to categorise and divide: worker or shirker, refugee or migrant; Christian or Muslim; Unions or Government; civil liberty or civil disobedience; the right to privacy or the need for surveillance. Are there voices in our society which repeat the refrain of Isaiah? Voices crying out We wait for justice but there is none; for salvation, but it is far off.  

Isaiah describes a society which is a long way from the vision of God's Kingdom, shaped by the right judgment of God's love and faithfulness: justice and righteousness are out of reach; people wait for the light, yet they are left stumbling in the gloom; there is oppression and revolt; speech has become dishonest.  Isaiah captures the cries of our humanity.

How often do we cry out to God for ourselves or others? We hear the cries of junior doctors or steel workers; the elderly or those who care for them; the jobless or the overworked; the pensioner or student.  Open any newspaper today, and those cries are heard across the globe from the victims of gun crime in the States to the factory workers in China.

If we listen carefully to Isaiah, we hear words of challenge: he gives voice to consequences of sin.  That is the shorthand for all that separates us from each other; for all that separates us from God. The voice seeking justice also cries out that our transgressions are many; that sins testify against us; that we know our iniquities. Sin is a result of turning away from God. It is a denial of God's will and purpose. It's the choice to follow our own devices and desires; even when that leads to the exploitation and dehumanisation of others.

The confession at the heart of Isaiah is honest about our human condition: because we're human, sometimes we are motivated by self-interest or fear. When we fail to put God's love at the centre of our lives - individually and corporately - we experience fragmentation and alienation at every level. That's not God's will for us; because  we're human, still look for light and long for justice. For we are created in God's image and blessed with the gift of freedom, to bless others.

The confession at the heart of Isaiah is honest about God's power to draw us back into right relationship.Though we turned away and rebelled, he did not abandon his own. When we lack the courage to plead for truth or fail to stand up for justice, God himself acts. Through the words of his prophet we hear the divine expression of displeasure but also the promise of a Redeemer; one who will bring us back and restore us.  The  imagery is of might and strength. We are called back to God's commandments to love him and to uphold his righteousness in our dealings with others. We are forgiven and receive God's grace that - in the words of our anthem - we may decline from sin and incline to virtue.

The name of the Lord is glorious: the source of light, peace, hope and righteousness. The hope writ large is that east and west will turn back to God and away from the self-deception of human pride. Yet, we know that amongst nations and in the outworking of our lives, that things still go awry. We continue to thirst for justice and the manifestation of righteousness; we seek after truth and purpose.   God's response is to fulfil the promise of redemption in his Son, Jesus Christ. In him, God's love is made perfect in human weakness.

By drawing near to us, he restores our centre of gravity. He invites us to live in response to his generous love. We do so not because of obedience to a law alone; but because of our relationship to Jesus. We still grapple with the complexity of our human life - with the cries for affirmation, forgiveness and justice. But in Christ, we are called to be part of the solution; seeking to build the Kingdom of God.

In Luke's Gospel, we catch a glimpse of what that might look like: what happens when we put God centre stage rather than self.  Jesus draws us into the radical demands of the law.  He looks at the person in need and hears his cries; he brings healing and restoration. He challenges us to see the law as a gift of responding to human need in love, rather than a mechanism of isolating us from their demands. Silence and disengagement of those in authority,  leads to a profound teaching about the nature of discipleship.

He plays to our human instinct about social embarrassment, awkwardness and shame. Rather than occupying positions of entitlement or having pride in our status, we are called to make space for others. Our Proclaiming Liberty lectures are in a way making space for conversation, relationship, understanding and action. We pray and act, saying,  "Come, Holy Spirit", kindle in us love of God's Kingdom.

The cost of that is played out in all sorts of ways. It is played out in the sorrow expressed to those who've been victims of abuse in the church; it is reflected in our concerns to make our churches safe places for the most vulnerable; as we learnt in Thursday's lecture about trafficking, it is revealed when we draw attention to victims of trafficking and when act to shine light in the darkness.  It is the power of God's Spirit at work in us, and in the world, that moves us to a closer approximation of God's Kingdom: may justice, truth, righteousness reign.  May we walk, by grace, in a perfect heart.

Let us pray:

O God, whose Son Jesus Christ cared for the welfare of everyone and went about doing good to all: grant us the imagination and resolution to create in this country and throughout the world a just social order; make us agents of your compassion to the suffering, the persecuted and the oppressed, through the Spirit of your Son, who shared the sufferings of humanity, our pattern and redeemer, Jesus Christ. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2015

Who is Jesus?

Reflections on Hebrews 1: 1-4 for midweek service at St Katherine's: Who is Jesus?

I'm Jesus of the outspoken. Jesus had his followers; I have 600, 000 followers on Twitter. It's about leading the way - I am the new Jesus.

So said Katie Hopkins the former reality TV star and controversial columnist when when she spoke at a church media conference yesterday. She remains resolutely unrepentant about her provocative views; she describes herself as a role model for young women because of the strength of her opinions.   She's not the only famous person to use Jesus as reference point to describe influence or popularity. John Lennon said of The Beatles: We're more popular than Jesus now.

Hopkins sees herself as a Jesus figure because of perceived influence based on Twitter followers; because she sees herself as leading a movement. Her speech is designed to provoke outrage. But there's another side Katie. She's a woman living with severe epilepsy, to the extent she is regularly admitted to A&E as a result of dislocated joints.

Her illness ended her career in the MI5 and the army; she came to prominence in The Apprentice, with reputation for emotional detachment and ruthlessness. She's a human being caught in media storms about refugees or autism; projecting callous judgments rather than compassion. She is a human being whose frailty and disappointments seem to foster the need to foster self-reliance and judge anything that looks like weakness.

Katie's identification with Jesus smacks of hubris. Yet the irony is that Jesus is the one who meets her, you and me in the messiness of our lives. Katie's response to those things is expressed in public vitriol or silently in private. Yet, Jesus is the one drawing near to us amidst our the resentments, fears, pain contradictions and uncertainties.

So who is Jesus? Is he just one of any number of influential, charismatic or outspoken people who leads the way?   Or is he embodiment of God's love who transforms us into agents of altruism and compassion?

Jesus is famous for his teaching about justice, compassion and the use of our money; he told memorable stories about a lost sheep, the good samaritan and wise or foolish bridesmaids. He challenged attitudes and priorities; he brought healing and forgiveness. He was the voice of the voiceless; he debated with the outspoken; he knew their innermost thoughts and loved them. He lived. He died. And that was not the end.

Our reading from Hebrews draws us into a deeper understanding of who he is. He is the fullness of what it means to be human; he is the fullness of God. He shared our humanity that we might know the abundance of life with him, in relationship to others. In him we are forgiven and restored. He loves Katie. And you. And me.

God created us in love and freedom, longing for us to be people of blessing; but knowing we'd made mistakes; or wound hurt others with our selfishness; we carry burdens of failure, self-reliance and perfection  which can be overwhelming. God chose to keep loving us; teaching us.  He spoke to us in the words of prophets - reminding us of his call to act with justice and mercy; urging us to love God, neighbour and ourself.

Ultimately, God responds our human tendency is to mess things up by becoming one with us.  The Word that abided with God from the beginning, the Word that was God dwells with us. Jesus is the reflection of God's glory; the exact imprint of his being.  In Jesus, God's  love is made perfect in human weakness In him we know God.  It is that tangible yet paradoxical truth that sets us free to be fully who we are called to be.

He forgives and restores us for he lived and died and rose again for us.  There is no longer any place where God is not: his love reaches out to us in the  depths of despair, or failure; in him even death itself is defeated. Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Not only does his light and glory draw us back to God; but in the power of his Spirit, we find inspiration and hope; the Spirit cries out with us, uniting our prayers with Jesus; drawing us to the light and glory of God.

Who is Jesus? He is the light, glory and love of God who transforms us by liberating us our anger, weakness, fear and self-reliance.  He liberates us by taking on the vulnerability and frailty of our human nature. He invites us to love as he loves.  We aren't called to be a new Jesus; but we are called to follow him. Literally. Step by step; day by day.

So let us pray that in the power of the Spirit we might witness to the love of God made madifest in Jesus Christ:

O God, forasmuch as without you we are not able to please you; mercifully grant that your Holy Spirit may in all things direct and rule our hearts; through Jesus Christ your Son our lord, who is alive and reigns with you, in theunity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. 

© Julie Gittoes 2015