Language of the heart

Today it was very good indeed for former Gosden Scholars (lay chaplains) at Selwyn College to be reunited in th leading of worship at Melbourne Cathedral.  

A section of the stunning window in the 'west-end'  of St Paul's Melbourne

Over the last few days it's been a delight to spend time with old friends Andreas and Katherine, and also Gillian our former organ scholar; it's been an equal delight to meet new colleagues/friends and to explore a wonderful city.  Bringing with me greetings from the Cathedral Church of the Holy Spirit in Guildford, it was an honour to preach at the Choral Eucharist at St Paul'sl Cathedral, Melbourne.  The readings were: Acts 2:1-21; Romans 8:14-17; John 14:8-17, 25-7.

As we celebrate this feast of Pentecost, may the Spirit renew our vision, kindle in us the fire of love and bring forth fruit in our lives for the sake of God's Kingdom: in the name of God Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.



What's your story?

That's the question posed by visitors to the State Library this month: already home to millions of stories, treasures and curiosities about the Victoria's history, we're all invited to file our own story to add to their collection. On Instagram, interactive displays or on special catalogue cards there are messages about romance and heartbreak; family and change; hopes and memories; quirky statements
of identity.

What's your story?

Exploring the art, culture and history of new places over the last couple of weeks has been a thought provoking and delightful experience for me.  Spending time with family has been a process of sharing stories about life and work, politics and faith - creating space for connection, laughter, discovery, and banter. It's about identity, yes; but it's also been about purpose. Who are we? What's important to us? What might our legacy be?

Those personal stories don't exist in isolation. They're woven into a complex matrix of narratives; layers and patterns of meaning, waves of disruption. Every gallery, exhibition, museum and garden; every tour, beach and cathedral has an impact. Learning new things and deepening my understanding; being inspired or having my curiosity aroused.

When we encounter something new - or the unexpected other - we adapt and change. Stories get re-written. We ask how well we know ourselves; we change in response to our encounters with others. We confront our prejudices and revise our first impressions. Although its relatively easy for a Brit to fit in here - belonging is intensified when you catch an accent from home.

What's your story?

Family, food, names, dress, daily rituals and, above all, our language roots us. The stuff of our dreams, our emotional reactions, the expression of our senses and the testing of ideas - all of that is so much easier in our mother tongue. When we lose our language, we lose part of our ourselves.

To name that reality heightens the significance of what today's celebration of Pentecost is about.

Today we are caught up in the transmission of a story which is both intensely personal and also cosmic in scope. It's a story which stretches language to the limits of imagination, passion and extravagance: rushing wind, tongues of flame, exuberant speech.

This story reveals the intimacy and power with which God communicates his love for us.

One of the many striking things about this story is that amidst the amazement, bewilderment and sneering, there is a radical home coming. People hear in their native tongue; in the the language of their heart.

This shouldn't surprise us: it is in continuity with the expression of God's love in the diversity of creation; in the commandments to love; in faithful calling and recalling in wilderness, exile and restoration. In the face of our human tendency for our desires to misdirected to things we consume or control, God's love remains faithful. In response to our propensity to exclude and wound - and our experience of being wounded and excluded - God comes to be with us.

This is our story.

John's Gospel began with the declaration that the Word became flesh; the Son who abided with the Father dwelt with us.  His identity was revealed all that he said and did: in words spoken to Nicodemus under the cover of darkness and to a Samaritan woman in the glare of noonday sun; on the boarder zones of blindness and sight; at a wedding feast in Cana and in the home of Mary, Martha and Lazarus. In all this he brought life in all its fullness in the embodied language of touch, taste and gesture.

The language of God's love, forgiveness and mercy, is expressed in Jesus physical death and risen life in the body. In going to the depths of human despair and alienation, to those places even when we lose ourselves, there is no longer anywhere where God's love is not. Christ's risen life, calls us to new life. In the power of the Spirit, he calls and recalls each of us by name.

This is the promise of abundant life - not just for a few, but for the whole world.  In advance of his death and resurrection, Jesus speaks words of farewell to his disciples. His words express enduring presence, not aching absence.

The promised Spirit, the Advocate, continues to guide and inspire us; drawing us more deeply into truth; enabling us to take risks as we improvise on the theme of God's love in all that we do and say. It's a risky  and costly pattern of life: speaking with hope rather than colluding with fear; offering compassion not resentment.

The Spirit speaks of energy and movement; imaginative creativity and prophetic challenge: wind, flame and breath.

The Advocate speaks of peace, comfort and courage; of a presence that guards against loneliness; of the pursuit of wisdom in uncertainty.

Today we celebrate that that is how God communicates with us still: holding, loving, guiding and inspiring with every breath.

This is our story.

The power of God is revealed in the core of our identity; moving close to us in the recognisable, authentic and compelling pattern of a rhythm of speech. We 'hear' that God knows and understands us - every hurt and hope, every joy and regret, every fear and desire.

This is love: restoring, forgiving, compassionate and transformative.

Today we are presented with a vision for how human beings become channels of such love - to be transmitters or translators; to be embodiments of God's story.

Paul reminds us that we are caught up in the process of salvation: some thing decisive has been accomplished in the reconciling love of God in Jesus' death and resurrection; the gift of the Spirit is at work within us, and all creation, as we await the fulfilment of God's Kingdom.

In baptism, we are now adopted children - heirs through grace. Our kinship is manifested in the way in which the Spirit bears fruit in our lives: enabling us to grow in patience and kindness; kindling in us generosity and joy; fostering the capacity to be gentle and forgiving. All these incremental shifts in virtue begin with the cry of prayer - Abba, Father.

That cry of prayer is reassuringly simple and intimate: our Father. It is memorable, profound and transformative: thy kingdom come. It is prayed second by second in 100s of languages;  yet, we are united in one language, that of God's Spirit in our human hearts.

This is our story.

But not ours alone. Assurance of God's love and presence is not a gift to possess; but a gift for the sake of the world. In world of upheaval where men, women and children seek freedom and a better life; when they flee conflict and disaster we have a story which speaks to the human heart. We have a language of kinship that transcends ethnicity and status; we proclaim a Kingdom where all have an honoured place.

This iconic holy place in the heart of a city stands amidst the clamour of sirens, birdsong and trams; it stands at a busy intersection, with commuters, the homeless and fashionistas, the student and the refugee. Here, in this place, your welcome releases gifts in others. Gifts of hospitality and conversation; gifts of advocacy and a concern for justice.

You are a dynamic holy people: you live, worship and work in the heart of this city and beyond. Wherever you are, the Spirit is at work in you: in acts of encouragement and compassion; in your skill and creativity; in your public service and private devotion. In all this, people come to know, explore and respond to the love of God; they worship in the language of their heart; they grow in fellowship, learning a second language.

The Eucharist is our food, our family, our ritual, our language, our identity.

As we touch and taste bread and wine; as we receive God's blessing, may we be renewed as Christ's body. Your story is God's story; God's story is revealed in your lives.

In the power of the Holy Spirit, may we like those Galileans in Acts,  witness to the love of God made manifest in Jesus Christ.

Julie Gittoes © 2016

Alone Together

This is the text of a short paper entitled Alone Together: Towards a Theology of Singleness which I presented at the Society for the Study of Theology Conference in Durham this week. The Conference theme was  Redeeming Human Nature. This work is the beginning of a longer project on the theme 'Alone Together' - and giving this paper at the start of a period of Extended Ministerial Development Leave was extremely helpful in terms of framing the question and exploring other strands of research for this topic. In thinking about an image to use as I transferred this paper to my blog, I wanted to avoid stereotypes of solitude or 'togetherness'. So in the end, I've used one of Chris Gollon's works which hangs in my hall way at home. She's called 'Crock of Gold' - but I think she expresses something of our human capacity to radiate the light and glory of God - alone, together.

Single is...

'"Single" is, ironically, a complex word' says  Jana Marguerite Bennet in her book Water Is Thicker Than Blood (p.84). It is frequently used to describe various states of not being married, perpetuating the idea that singleness is a lack of something.  Questions about marital status seem so black and white. Yet the word 'single' masks the complexity of how we form households and the diverse network of people with whom we share our lives.

In this paper, I will make some observations about why 'singleness' might be a focus for our theological anthropology - including social context and pressures with the church. Although those factors demand our attention when it comes to mission and pastoral care, my primary concern is how we underpin that with a theological understanding of humanity. The question of how we live well - alone together - takes into account our need for companionship, intimacy and solitude in the face of mortality. This questioning is rooted in God's creative and redemptive movement towards the world. To think about being alone together is not yet another set of binaries; but perhaps generous spacious way of thinking which God, in Christ at the centre; but which also opens up a way of relating well in the world, in the power of the Spirit.

Crock of Gold  - Chris Gollon (2013)

Alone Together
 
The phrase, or more precisely those two words, 'alone together' have stayed with me since hearing my colleague Mark Oakley describe the truths he discovered after surgery; the truths about masks we wear to fit in. And when the medics have left him he addressed God saying, 'ahh alone together at last'. God and creation; God with us; you and me; in relation to others. Together. Alone. To think this way takes us into the abundance of Genesis 2 and the stillness of Mark 1; it takes us into the ecclesial vision of life together shaped by Bonhoeffer and Hardy.

Children, widowers, divorcees and the never married are all 'single'. We will all be 'single' for some or all of our lives. Patterns of work and serious illness might mean that spouses spend time having to live in a way that is 'single minded' if you like, in terms of ordering practical aspects of their lives, emotional resilience and relational intimacy.

That we find 'single' problematic is not just matter of definition. There are a number of social and ecclesial pressures which demand a more adequate theological response. There's both a nervousness about sex and what it means to be married but open to relationship; plus a tendency to equate intimacy with sexual encounters, rather than cultivating and cherishing bonds of friendship, intellectual curiosity, support and appreciation.

Perhaps too there's added pressure around our language of discipleship and particularly leadership - typified in the presumptive 'your spouse will...'. In many contexts, we've grown to accustomed to certain ecclesial role models (as evidenced by the comments about the marital status of women who've become bishops).

Households and friendship

Our scriptures are quite subversive on that - offering a rich diversity of 'households' within the church, including Lydia a (presumably) financially independent business woman. We may also be aware of the emotional pressure at work - to fulfil the ideals of an implicit hierarchy of discipleship by dating with a view to marrying.  It does indeed tap into deep human longings - the plot of London Spy turns on Danny recollecting a conversation with Alex about being 'the one'. A contemporary twist, perhaps, on 'Reader, I married him'.

There have been some wise and resourceful responses from Kate Wharton on navigating such pressures (Single-Minded: being single whole and living life to the full, published 2013); but it still leaves open some of the deeper questions which demand engaging with and changing societal and ecclesial culture.   There are over 26 million single person households in the UK and in the 2011 census, the percentage of those who are married dipped below 50% for the first time.

Added to this, the statistics on loneliness in the UK have been given human context by the BBC documentary The Age of Loneliness. It was narrated by those who were in a more nuanced sense single: students, widowers and new mums; the unemployed, divorcees and those will fulfilling careers. It is an inter-generational issue not related to marital status. If that is our social context - the world in which we witness - it is salutary to remember that those who attend church report higher instances of loneliness than the national average. Cultivating a vision of living well alone, together becomes even more of an imperative.

In Being Single, Philip Wilson reveals the isolation experienced by single church goers and (in his words), their 'over use' (Wilson, DLT, 2005).  He writes of the potential and challenge for the church, including the place of friendship. Friendship has become a significant category and indeed practice for thinking about ecclesiology (see comment below). Indeed, it is the category that John Pritchard draws on in Living Faithfully. He describes the church as a network of friends called to 're-vision the church as the place where Jesus is at the centre, living in his friends and empowering them to live his abundant life of each other and the community around. Then anything is possible' (Pritchard, 2013, p. 120).

Think single?

It is then that he issues the imperative to 'think single' - offering activities 'to reflect this diverse make-up' of the widows, students or unsupported by a partner for whatever reason (Pritchard, 2013, p.120).  If 'single' is a complex word; than activities is perhaps too simple a response. Singleness with the body of Christ demands of us a sustained engagement with being an embodied human being.

In the marriage liturgy, the couple say 'all that I am I give to you'. How we foster a sense of 'all-ness' which is good for personal and corporate flourishing, which doesn't collude with fierce autonomy; nor that we are incomplete apart from others; but which recognises that our identity in Christ is more important that our legal status is the question at the heart of a project exploring the notion of what it is to be alone together.

Turning to Genesis 2 we are confronted with the reality of being alone: As we contemplate creation - the glorious and tumultuous diversity of it - we respond with our whole being. We are in a profound way 'together' - we are part of the goodness of that create order; yet in the face of delight and responsibility, we catch a glimpse of the reality of being alone.

it is not right... to be alone

It is is not right or good for the man to be alone. He - you and I - need helpmates. We need companionship. Not God nor creation alone:  the well-being of the one, as Brueggemann puts it, 'requires a fresh creative act of God' (Brueggemann, Genesis 1982, p. 47). There is something good in being together. We share in work and creativity; we learn compassion and empathy. In the first instance, this is not about hierarchy, complementarity or marriage. Rather it seems to be an opening up of what it is to be human - in relation to other people.

As we shall see, that is also fragile and complex. But for now it is worth exploring further the language of sameness and different; the covenantal nature of being alone together. Again, quoting Brueggemann: 'the place of the garden is for this covenanted human community of solidarity, trust and well being. They are one!' (Brueggemann, Genesis 1982, p. 47).

This is a dynamic and generous 'one'. Genesis speaks of being bone of my bones; flesh of my flesh. Is there a transformative movement here beyond 'our flesh and blood' and ties of biological kinship and commitment. For we also use such language to speak of our belonging together as the body of Christ. We we are called by name in him; shaped together by word and sacrament; improvising together in the power of the Spirit.

The vision of Genesis of human companionship and shared endeavour turns to fragmentation. Life and knowledge are within our grasp: freedom, trust and calling in love are exchanged for autonomy, oppression and hierarchical ways of organising life (Brueggemann, Genesis 1982, p. 53).

Dan Hardy's language of extensity and intensity expresses the hope and reality, the dynamism of divine and human interaction. God creates in generosity and freedom. Intensity is that movement of love pouring forth in diversity and abundance; our response to that freedom means that that energy is spread outwards into the world. Extensity is the consequence of such spread-out-ness; we get distracted by our own desires and find ourselves caught up in complex social and economic systems, which draw us further away from one another and from God.

Part of that is that our identity is reduced to just one aspect of who we are: we are defined by race, gender, age and marital status. The fullness of who we are is impaired. If Genesis 1 reminds us of our primary desire or orientation as being made in the image of God; Genesis 2 reminds us of the glorious relational and material aspect of that.  But divine intensity continues - in redemption; in the formation of the human person; in Christ; in the Spirit.

A lonely place

In the midst of this, God reaches out to us. Mark's gospel begins with a direct assertion that this is good news precisely because Jesus is God with us in the midst of hurt and loss, delight and commitment. We are called to live with difference - whatever our marital status, gender or class - we are all gathered up together. We are a body, together; attentive to God in worship and to God's ways in the world. We are together with God and an innumerable company of pilgrims, yet also alone.

Mark recounts that Jesus goes to a deserted place, early in the morning, to pray. He had gathered around him a group of disciples who had responded to his call; he had begun to proclaim that the Kingdom of God had come near; he was reaching out to those in need bringing grace and healing. He had spent time in the intimacy of Peter's household. He was with us; together with others. And he went to be alone.

Prayer in this lonely place becomes a place of power, direction, strength and cost. We are called to lay ourselves open to the intensity of God's refining light that we might be strengthened and sustained in our discipleship. Our life together is rooted not just in corporate worship but also in our capacity to be alone. Bonhoeffer warns us that many people 'seek fellowship because they are afraid to be alone'; but he says let whoever 'cannot be alone beware of community' (Bonhoeffer, Life Together pp. 76-8). Silence and stillness before God shapes our day, being alone in meditation, prayer and intercession.

One Body & the Spirit's work

This time is not, says Bonhoeffer,  an 'abyss of loneliness' but time alone with the Word (Bonhoeffer, Life Together p. 88). The value of solitude is to be deeply away that we are loved; it is rooting all else in God's desire for us. It resources all of us for those times 'alone' in the world, in the dispersed life of the church: political imagination? We cannot risk  being alone, unless we are in community: bearing with one another, carrying griefs and burdens; rejoicing in gifts and joys.

Perhaps 'singleness' becomes less about self-sufficiency, but somehow a sign of freedom in Christ; which paradoxically points to our primary social reality. As John Bradbury puts it in 'Called to Become: 'the individual is the locus of the work of the Spirit of God: a human person can be led into a new social reality that fundamentally changes who they are' (Bradbury and Cornwall, Thinking Again about Marriage, SCM 2016, p. 144 ). This transformation of our personhood is what Hardy describes as abduction; as all that we are is drawn to God.

Within the body of Christ, we are still living in between times: we await the fulfilment of God's Kingdom, knowing that something decisive has happened in Christ. Something is deeply personal in effect, but also cosmic in scope. We hear the cries and groans and longings of the whole creation; and utter the assurance that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. We live in the midst of Romans 8.

Genesis speaks of one flesh; Paul writes of being many but one body. That entails a fruitfulness of relationship that transcends procreation; which recognises mutual care and affection; where the powerful do not overlook the weak.   Such language describes a whole personal relationship of love. The fruitfulness of Genesis is echoed in the spiritual fruit - becoming a little more patient and hospitable; joyful or self-controlled. It's a way of holiness. Alone together.

Letting go...

In this Easter season, we are acutely that of life coming though death. Of both Jesus profound expression of being alone together on the cross and in the grave. Of the way in which resurrection disrupts and deepens out being alone together; we could talk about Mary Magdalene's calling by name, her desire to cling on; her letting go and her commissioning. Alone she witnesses to those gathered together. In reflecting on how, we come to life in death; that letting go might actually mean deepening our love and care.

If Bennett laments that little has been written of the moral life of the single person: perhaps a Spirit let ecclesiology shaped by Dan Hardy is a good place to start or, in terms of this paper, to end.

He writes that: ‘understood in their fullest sense, both Church and mission are the social means of incorporating all the dimensions of human life in the world in their comprehensive fulfilment by God’ (Hardy, Finding the Church, p. 25).  I could say more about flourishing expressed as sociopoiesis, as good news for all humanity and the whole creation.  Or I could end with a comment on facing death; perhaps more attention should be paid to how all our 'letting gos' become signs of attraction to God and other.  It's less about one's marital status;  all our relationships are provisional, yet rooted in our ultimate hope of redemption. It's about our vocation in Christ to witness to the light, love, grace and beauty of Christ. Alone. Together.

Julie Gittoes   © 2016

Work on friendship:

Steve Summers, Friendship: Exploring its Implications for the Church in Postmodernity (T&T Clark, 2011); Guido De Graff, Politics in Friendship: A Theological Account (T&T Clark, 2006); John B Thomson, Sharing Friendship: Exploring Anglican Character, Vocation and Mission (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015); Samuel Kimbriel, Friendship as Sacred Knowing: Overcoming Isolation (Oxford: OUP, 2014).

Burning like fire!

A sermon preached at Evensong at Guildford Cathedral on Easter Day Evensong: The texts were Psalm 66; Isaiah 43: 1-13; John 20:19-23. The film Watership Down happened to be showing that afternoon - some comments on Twitter suggested it wasn't an appropriate children's movie for Easter Day. However, perhaps the story of rabbits names the reality of pain and hope in the face of mortality. The Gospel of Jesus' life, death and resurrection brings the good news into our human condition; it reveals the destiny of the whole created order. Sin and death are overcome: Alleluia: Christ is risen! 

Bright Eyes by Art Garfunkel is guaranteed to make me cry.

My eyes begin to well up in the opening bars.  Is it a kind of dream?

The words and melody of the refrain are really gut-wrenching:

Bright eyes, burning like fire

Bright eyes, how can you close and fail?

How can the light that burned so brightly

Suddenly burn so pale?

Bright eyes.

It's a favourite song for my sister too. Most of us probably associate it with the film for which it was written - Watership Down.  As eleven year old, it was the book which gripped my imagination - exciting, beautiful, sad, terrifying and hopeful. My copy is dog eared and held together with sellotape.

Watership Down begins with the decision to leave a comfortable warren behind when safety is compromised by a vision of its destruction. Hazel leads them on along and dangerous journey. Snares and threats surround them; the viability of their peaceful habitat is established as a result of courage, loyalty and ingenuity.

The places are real; as are the animal instincts. Yet, the addition of a rabbit 'culture' with its own language and mythology perhaps touch our own hopes and fears. That includes the reality of death.

In the epilogue, Hazel dozes. He dreams. He senses the nearness of a mythical rabbit. It seemed to him that 'he would not be needing his body anymore, so he left it'. He's told not to worry. He slips away - 'running easily down through the wood, where the first primroses were beginning to bloom'.

Bright Eyes is a fitting evocation of our mortality: how can eyes that burn so brightly close and fail?

Whether or not we read it as a child or discovered it as an adult; whether we're captivated by Richard Adams' words or Martin Rosen's film adaptation: this saga about a motley band of rabbits poses stark questions about life and death. It does so more effectively than the Kinder chocolate bunnies wrapped in gold with neat red bows around their necks!  But it's our scriptures - not rabbits - which speak truthfully about life, death and resurrection.

Our life span is a fleeting breath. For the disciples, caught up in what was a catastrophic cycle of violence, perhaps they too asked, how could one whose life had burned to brightly suddenly burn so pale?  Jesus, the one who'd proclaimed the nearness of God's Kingdom, burned like fire: words of forgiveness and challenge; acts of healing and nourishment.

It seemed to them that all this was undone by their acts of betrayal, denial and misunderstanding. All that might have been was brought to a hideous end by the corrosive combination of power, fear and weakness. They fled and waited; they watched and prepared spices.

Like us, they had words and rituals for grief. Even if death didn't make sense there was a body to tend with love and dignity.  Grief has its own emptiness: the shadows reaching into the night; the habits of relating and quirks of character; the things left unsaid and undone.

The emptiness of a tomb is of a different order.  

The very absence of a body points to a presence that is more real. Resurrection is an expression of abundance not lack. It reveals the transfigured, incorruptible embodiment, to which we move; as we are transformed from one degree of glory to another.

Bright Eyes speaks of a fog on the horizon and a strange glow in the sky; it asks 'what does it mean?'

Locked doors were for the disciples a response to that question. It meant something risky; it meant something new; something that would change them and us, and the cosmos.

Resurrection reveals the fullness of God breaking into our lives. It is something that we cannot contain; but something in which we can trust.

Resurrection declares that God is with us from first cry to final breath: with us with such love that death is overcome; with us to such an extent that forgiveness and peace pour forth. 

Resurrection fulfils the words of the prophet Isaiah: the one who created us says 'do not fear for I have redeemed you; I have called you my name you are mine'.

To believe in the risen Jesus is to trust that the transformative power of God is active in the sphere of human life; it empowers us in the present. More than that, that transformation and recreative activity is at work in the whole created order.

The disciples in that upper room encounter resurrection in the intimacy of known relationships and in the honesty of their despair and disappointment.

Fears are named in the Gospel of John - in an exhaled breath if you like.

And in response a word peace is expressed - it is breathed out.

They are shown their Lord's wounded hands and pierced side. He has not left his body behind, like the rabbit Hazel. Rather it is transformed in power and glory. The disciples' outward sight kindles in them their inner joy.

The refrain is not: is this a dream?

The refrain of resurrection is: Peace be with you!

Today is not the end of something. It is but the beginning - they are commissioned.

The Son was sent by the Father - to draw the whole world to himself.

The Son now sends the disciples - in the power of the Spirit.

The mission they receive - the calling we share - is to reveal the compassionate, liberating and forgiving love of God.

Oftentimes, as human beings - alone and together - we feel just as frightened and confused as those locked behind physical doors. Perhaps our constraints are the fears of our hearts; the memories of hurt and failure we lock down inside ourselves.

Our risen Lord stands alongside us - just as he stood alongside those first disciples, without reproach for their shortcomings. He breaths his Spirit on us. Our life is but a breath; but it is to be a breath of peace.

In Watership Down, the rabbits were motivated by their fears and hopes - and by trust in a dream of a better place. In Christ, we are motivated by hopes and new realities - and by trust in God, working his purpose out in and through us, by the power of his Spirit.  

Fictional rabbits journeyed across a real landscape. In the reality of our lives, across the tangible landscapes of work, relationships, places and circumstances, we are to show the same courage and perseverance; the same hope and resilience.

That means we are to live love; that means we are live forgiveness.

Sometimes that means naming, challenging and freeing others from the human equivalents of 'snares' or 'dictator-state warrens'.

Love and forgiveness of the Spirit's work within us. As Rowan Williams puts it in his book Resurrection: 'Forgiveness is precisely the deep and abiding sense of what relation - with God or with other human beings - can and should be; and so it is itself a stimulus, an irritant, necessarily provoking protest at impoverished versions of social and personal relationships'.

The one who died has risen in love.

That power is at work in us enabling us to rise in hope.

This is our faith: to witness in the power of the Spirit, to the compassionate and liberating love of God.

Resurrection light that burns brightly, does not burn pale; it burns brighter still.

Resurrection is cosmic in scope: with deeply personal impact.

God's Kingdom embraces non-human animals: God's Spirit refines our smallest gestures. 

As the psalmist puts is: be joyful in God, all the earth... say to God, 'how awesome are your deeds'.

Christ is risen: flame of love burns within us!

Christ sheds his peaceful light in all the world!

Live that love; share that peace.