Let freedom ring

This is the text of a sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral at Evensong on 19 August. The texts were Exodus 2:23-3:10 and Hebrews 13:1-15 - both readings speak of the faithfulness of God and the call to liberation. 

Today, the American city of Detroit will be full of song and celebration as people gather to honour the Queen of Soul in her home town. It was here, in the church her father led, that Ree Ree as she was known locally began her singing career and her spiritual life. 

Aretha Franklin: 2009 inauguration - Ron Edmonds/AP

On a crisp, bright day, almost a decade ago, Aretha Franklin stood on the steps of the Capitol. Wrapped in a thick grey coat, paired with a striking hat, her gloved hands held the microphone, and she sang. 

She sang: ‘Let freedom ring’. 

Let it ring, ring ring… let freedom ring.

President Obama closed his eyes; and a vast audience was moved to tears. This was an historic moment but also a prophetic one.  Her voice expressed the hopes and heartbreak of many; it distilled the struggle against segregation and the legacy of slavery.  

Over recent days, tributes have woven together her life story with the impact she had on others. It has been said that she was the voice of America: she toured with Martin Luther King and at his funeral, her rendition of "Precious Lord" gave voice to the bewilderment and resilience of grief. 

Let freedom ring.

Pain and trauma were re-voiced in blues and soul; jazz and gospel expressed out a vision which defied abuse and turned heartbreak into strength.  Hers was the voice which spelt out R-E-S-P-E-C-T, enabling generations to voice their own cry for equality regardless of race or gender.  This voice was gift, crafted by skill and underpinned by character; flawed and flawless, hopeful and human. 

Respect!

In the words of Barak and Michelle Obama’s tribute: Every time she sang, we were all graced with a glimpse of the divine… In her voice, we could feel our history, all of it and in every shade - our power and our pain, our darkness and our light, our quest for redemption and our hard-one respect.

Let it ring… let freedom ring.

This cry is voiced in the scriptures which shaped Aretha’s life and shapes ours. The journey towards freedom is fraught with struggle - with power and pain, the darkness and light. The book of Exodus names the groaning and cries of a people who are enslaved.  The misery and suffering of the Israelites is observed by God; by a God who seeks to deliver them.  

How is that redemption song voiced? How does freedom ring? God works through flawed humanity to restore hope. A flawless glimpse of the divine is made real in human lives. Aretha embodied that in song. Moses embodied it in a call to lead.

The Jewish poet Yakov Azriel retells the family story of Exodus; inviting us to stand with Moses as something mysterious breaks into the mundane; as human curiosity meets divine holiness. He writes:

In the shadow of a burning bush, and in

Its light, we gaze beyond the desert dune.

Moses at the Burning Bush Rembrandt (1606 – 1669)

Moses' story is as complex as that of the Queen of Soul. A Hebrew by birth, given up for his own safety and raised in Pharaoh's palace; living in privilege yet aware of the injustice of the regime. His intolerance for abuse and exploitation leads to an act of violence. He's a man fearing for his own life yet his own people mistrust him.  The Moses we encounter tonight is a shepherd fugitive.  

Now he looks and turns aside: a bush ablaze yet not consumed. In Azriel’s words:

In the bush's shadow, and its light a thin

Unbroken thread of grace is seen...

There in the burning bush we see a flame of freedom.  God does not coerce Moses; rather he ignites his curiosity.  This isn't a dazzling display of power and glory. In shadow and light of an intriguing phenomenon, there's a thin line of grace which enables Moses to gaze beyond the desert dunes. In the darkness of exile there are glimmers of light and new purpose.

He hears his name.

The soles of his feet touch the heat of holy ground.

He hides his face.

His words: Here I am.

A voice: God’s ‘I am’.

The Burning Bush Dali (1904- 1989)

God chooses to act through one who already burns with a passion for justice. Moses will cry out for freedom in the face of systemic oppression.  The voice from this blazing bush is an invitation to us to; a call to courageously enact the possibilities of God’s goodness. This voice is, in the words of one Walter Brueggemann, ‘a flaming warrant for truth to power’. 

Moses goes on to express a number of objections to this challenging call. His reluctance is met by the assurance of support from his brother - and by God’s very self. God’s faithfulness as expressed in ‘I am’; the one who was and is and ever will be.  

God works through our passions and our voices can be threads of grace. Exodus tells one story of slaves and fugitives whose lives are marked by hope and blessing. Yet cry for freedom to ring out has not ceased. 

It’s no less daunting for us than it was for Moses to both stand on holy ground and respond to this call of radical transformation: of relationships, structures, priorities and communities. Our second lesson reminds us that this is about the whole of our life; but it also reminds us that we depend on the love of God.

The writer of Hebrews reminds us of God’s love in words which echo the voice from the flaming bush: Jesus is the same, yesterday, today and for ever. Jesus is ‘I am’, God with us.

For in him, God makes new his covenant and takes notice of human suffering. In Jesus Christ, God’s love reaches out to the vulnerable and marginalised. His teaching challenges the false assurance possessions, status and independence. His love meets us in the depths of despair and humiliation; and heals when we are wounded and fearful.  He bears the agony of the cross and the coldness of the tomb. And freedom rings out in resurrection life.

The writer of Hebrews also reminds us of the very practical demands of letting freedom ring out. Mutual love is revealed in friendship and support; our bodies can communicate tenderness, creativity, compassion and support.  We are to imitate those whose lives have revealed God’s love to us. 

 

Angel Unawares - Kimberly Ramey *

Hospitality is not confined to those we know - but to those with whom our lives intersect in fleeting ways. Those who are imprisoned or on probation, those who seek refuge or who become invisible in residential care aren’t kept at arms length as ‘other’. They are part of us.  We are to be content with what we have - a prophetic message in a world of zero hour contracts and executive pay increases, where human beings are still enslaved and trafficked.

Collectively and individually, we are to let freedom ring out: confronting the power of inequality, abuse, illness and discrimination. In our lives, that thread of grace, the glimpse of the divine, can run on.  It runs on in what ignites our passion for justice; in what kindles our compassion.  

Each of us can take a lead - in acts of service, influencing others, finding allies in campaigning and seeking the welfare of society; in living out R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

May we walk in the light of Christ, by the power of the Spirit at work in us, revealing something of God's love: Let freedom ring out. 

© Julie Gittoes 2018

 

*This painting created by Kimberley Ramey and the narrative accompanying it speaks movingly and honestly of the challenge of Hebrews and moments of hospitality which can be glimpsed or lost; sharing the image and the link to her work to read more about this.

Receiving life in our fragile bodies

This is a sermon preached at the Cathedral on Sunday 29 July. The texts were 2 Kings 4:42-44, Ephesians 3:14-21 and John 6:1-21. 

The two things which underpinned it's inspiration: the headlines about stockpiling food; a poem by Malcolm Guite called "Love's Choice". Particularly the line about the lightness of bread 'a wafer-thin sensation'; yet in this sensation we encounter the fullness of Christ. 

I was also struck by a comment made on Twitter by Dr Ayla Lepine about a painting by Eularia Clarke called "The Five Thousand", she described it as 'holiness in the everyday everywhere". 

John's Gospel tells of an episode which is more than simply a miraculous feeding - and we hear it in a context where there is ongoing anxiety about our ability to feed our nation. 

Aunty Credwyn’s afternoon tea is one of the legendary memories of my childhood: the table seemed to heave under the weight of cakes and sandwiches. Plates were emptied and replenished; our eyes boggled at the plenty. 

Elijah’s words could have been her motto: They shall eat and have some left.

If you were to venture Credwyn’s larder, you’d have found an abundance of a different sort: boxes and boxes of washing powder, bags and bags of flour, tins and tins of fruit.

Her capacity for hospitality may well have been shaped by the experience of wartime rationing.

It seems inconceivable that today we read newspaper headlines such as “Hoarding food now seems the only sensible thing to do”.

The Swedish government has issued advice to households on how to cope in situations of ‘major strain’; when services are disrupted by crises from a cyber attack to terrorism. The leaflet suggested stocking up on non-perishables.

Jean Vanier, in his commentary on John’s Gospel, writes: We human beings do not possess life; we receive life in our fragile bodies.

We receive life via a food supply chain reliant on imports and structured on a system of “just in time” deliveries.  All of us depend on physical nourishment; for some that dependence is more precarious than others. 

Social media responded to Dominic Raab’s assurances about ‘adequate food’ with pictures of Spam; but it was the food writer Jack Monroe who pointed out that mass panic and stockpiling hurts those least able to buy: ‘those living hand to mouth, paycheque to paycheque, food bank trip to food bank trip’.

Today’s readings weave together very real physical concerns with deeper questions about the kind of community God calls us to be.  Jesus himself is concerned for life in our fragile bodies:  Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?

Those of us who’ve enjoyed the excitement of going along to a festival or carnival, might conjure up a vivid image of a crowd caught up in an event. There’s a momentum all of its own; but at some point people get hungry. 

Jesus notices this: those drawn there by the desire to hear his words and to see signs of healing now needed to be fed. He asks out loud, where are we to by bread?

Philip responds by commenting on the impracticality of the question: they can’t afford enough bread. Andrew’s pragmatism is tinged with a realistic sense of scarcity and inadequacy.

Jesus’ response reveals God’s compassion; his actions are directed to our welfare: sit and eat, he says; rest here a while. He gives thanks and distributes food. Nothing is held back; all are satisfied. Nothing is lost; fragments are gathered up. 

As Vanier reminds us, this is not simply a miracle of multiplying food but also of creating and building a caring community where people are concerned for one another. 

This is a foretaste of heaven in ordinary. The twentieth century painter Eularia Clarke captures this brilliantly in her depiction of the feeding of the 5000: bicycles and handbags are set down, fish and chips are spread out; babies rest in their carrycots, children quench their thirst, adults eat without guarding what is theirs; strangers notice the needs of others, perhaps for the first time. 

Eularia Clarke - The 5000 (1962)

In Jesus we see the fullness of God with us. A fullness which loves abundantly in order that we may learn how to live like that too. In Paul’s words of prayer to the Ephesians, we are to be filled with the fullness of God - in order that God’s power at work in us may accomplish more than we dare to ask or imagine. 

This is not a vision of competition or rivalry; it’s not life ordered by self-protection or lack. It is an invitation to be liberated from selfishness to become self-giving. Our Gospel reminds us of how costly and challenging it is to live in this way.

The crowds want to claim Jesus as a leader who will satisfy their physical needs for ever; but he wants to lead them into a deeper dependence on God who’ll reshape our attitudes and actions. 

Jesus disappears: he takes his rest and prays. To give out does not mean we must burn out. To be in community with others, we need also to be alone.  To nourish others - emotionally, physically, mentally and intellectually - we need to nourish ourselves. 

This lesson in sustaining life in all its fullness confuses the disciples. Perhaps they had hoped to hold on to the success of this feast; to enjoy the exultation and admiration of the crowd. 

As Jesus goes up the mountain, they walk back down to the lake and wait. They wait until it gets dark. And still he has not returned to them; so they return to Capernum.

Their impatience turns to fear when the storm rises up. Their journey is not merely physical; it is also spiritual. They, like us, long to abide forever on the sun-kissed mountain top where our longings are satisfied; where our fragile bodies are fed; where we know life in its fullness as an equitable harmony, where all is gathered up.

They, like us, return to a world which is fraught with lack, fear and complexity. We face storms which are beyond our control: uncertainty about the future; the fading hopes of our wishful thinking; cycles of anxiety and addiction We do not possess life; we receive it in fragile bodies. Bodies which are dependent on others; bodies which have the capacity to nourish others.

Jesus meets the disciples and us with words of assurance: It is I; do not be afraid. 

Paul prays that the Ephesians, may know this fearless assurance of Christ might dwelling in them. Today’s collect echoes his supplication: ‘open our hearts to the riches of your grace, that we might bring forth the fruit of the Spirit in love and joy and peace’. 

At this cathedral we long to be open hearted - open to God and open to all. To fulfil that hope, in this Eucharist, we bow our knees before our heavenly Father; we are strengthened in our inner being through his Spirit; Christ dwells in our hearts in faith. Our fragile bodies are spiritually fed. As we take fragments of bread, we are being rooted and grounded in love. We receive in what is wafer thin, the fullness of God.

Here in broken bread and poured out wine, we touch and taste and see what is the breadth and length and height and depth of love. Love that surpasses all knowledge. Love that was manifested in compassion as crowds were fed on a hill side. Love that was manifested in peace as disciples clung to their boat.  

This love is cosmic in scope: it creates, redeems and sustains. This love is inexhaustible and yet known in intimate indwelling of us.  We gather to share this meal with the household of God, for the sake of God’s Kingdom. 

Here God’s love chooses to be emptied into us that we might accomplish more than we can imagine. In a world which is struggling with uncertainty about the future; where fragile bodies need to be fed,  let us pray that we may receive and give life, across all generations and forever: in the food we share, the compassion we show, the support we give. 

© Julie Gittoes 2018

What will this child become?

A sermon preached at the Cathedral Eucharist on the feast of the Birth of John the Baptist. In the light of how we treat children - and the images from the US border and boats crossing the Mediterranean - the question of what this child/these children become is acute. The parallels with reflections on Hamilton in relation to John were thought provoking. The texts were: Isaiah 40:1-11, Galatians 3:23-end and Luke 1:57-66, 80

Hamilton.  Alexander Hamilton.

First US Secretary of the Treasury.

Overlooked as the face on a ten dollar bill.

Brought to life in an exuberant mega-musical.

A score infused with hip-hop, rap, indie-rock and operetta.

Hamilton: praised on this side of the pond for its ‘political passion’ and ‘nimble wit’.

Alexander Hamilton: who lives, who dies, your tells your story?

This is about the independence of a nation: about revolution and government; interpreting the constitution and managing the economy.

It’s about American identity and European destiny; it’s about urban entrepreneurs and agricultural labourers.

It’s about opportunists and visionaries: the people in the room with power and immigrants getting the job done.

It’s about Alexander Hamilton, as the opening song puts it:

How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, 

dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence, 

impoverished, in squalor grow up to be a hero and a scholar?

It’s about us too - our history, legacy and identity; our cries for comfort, justice and unity.  

For something so historically engaged, Hamilton fizzes with contemporary challenge. 

From this week’s news headlines we are confronted by:  the orphan, the forgotten, the impoverished; the migrant, the president, the constitution; the negotiations behind closed doors, the concerns of business, public services and national debt. 

As we navigate these challenges as people of faith, we unite our cries with the voices of scripture. 

When we’re angry, bewildered and heart-broken, we ask who lives, who dies, who tells God’s story?

One who does just that is John the Baptist.

Today we celebrate his birth: 

How does an only child, son of barren woman and an old man, 

dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in Israel by providence,

with rejoicing, a sign of mercy grow up to be a prophet in the wilderness?

At the point at which Zechariah and Elizabeth had given up all hope of parenthood, they are promised a son. A son who will bring joy; who will be filled with the power of the Spirit. 

The Birth of John the Baptist - Tintoretto

In the words of the angel, this child who will turn our hearts: moving us from disobedience to wisdom, bringing reconciliation to our households.  This child will make us ready, will prepare the way for the Lord.

Whist his father, was literally speechless, this child leapt in the womb as his mother, embraced Mary: the God bearer.

John’s birth is greeted with rejoicing. His name meaning God is gracious expresses something of paternal gratitude. But his name and calling will be challenging too.

What will this child become?

It’s a question which hovers on our lips when we see an infant: godchildren, nieces, grandson; the orphan, the longed for, the impoverished; the child wailing at the American border.  

What a child becomes depends on the stability, nurture and opportunities we provide. We give thanks for them, worry about them and rejoice in them before ultimately letting go of the children in our care. It’s the risk of teaching, parenting or mentoring.

This child, John, grew and became strong. He wasn’t to be the practical consolation in his parents’ old age. John was drawn to the wilderness and there is name and calling become one - declaring God’s name and inviting us to walk in God’s ways. 

Echoing Isaiah, he is a voice crying out in the wilderness. 

St John the Baptist - Hieronymus Bosch

He lives, he dies, he tells God’s story.

Words which declare comfort to the afflicted; which speak tenderly of God’s love to the brokenhearted.

Words of comfort when we go astray and face the consequences of our selfishness and disobedience.

Words which remind us that whilst our human life is fragile and limited, God’s love endures forever. 

Words which speak of God’s glory being revealed: the vulnerable lifted up, the mighty brought down, a path made straight for us to walk in through the wilderness.

Elizabeth and Zechariah let John go: freeing him to speak truthfully to those in power; to challenge the complacent; to encourage the visionaries; and to bring compassion to the weak. 

His father’s words of praise - the Benedictus we say or sing at morning prayer - invites us to share in John’s prophetic message.

It’s a message which calls for repentance, an acknowledgement of all that hurts us and breaks our hearts; sins of negligence, weakness and our own deliberate fault.

It’s a message which proclaims forgiveness, the promise of healing, freedom, compassion and peace; being justified by faith.

We too are called to lift up our voices as heralds of this message of good tidings.

Like John, we are to point others to Jesus: declaring, here is your God!

The God who in Christ Jesus, rebukes and forgives, feeds and guides, lives and dies for us; who dies and lives for ever.

This proclamation includes a commitment to fulfil the promise of feeding, gathering, carrying and leading others. 

Shepherd with a flock of sheep - Van Gogh

Feeding, gathering, carrying and leading our children: those who’re anxious about exams or ensnared by debt; those whose relationships falter or who face addiction; those whose ideas challenge and inspire; the revolutionaries and visionaries; those fleeing across the Mediterranean to seek refuge.

What will these children become?

Feeding, gathering, carrying and leading our children: those who slip through the net of social security; those abused within the church; those whose lives are shaped by our immigration control; those who will graduate in this cathedral to be lawyers, politicians, scientists, musicians, financiers and nurses.

What will these children become?

We like them, are called by name; we raise our voices in praise and protest, tenderness and hope; we like them are children. 

By the power of the Spirit, in union with Christ, we are all children of God: There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.

We are called by name not simply to tell our story but to take our part in proclaiming God’s story; not to make a name for ourselves, but to speak tenderly to God’s people; our legacy in life and death is to prepare a way for Jesus our Lord; being Spirit led and seeking God’s Kingdom.

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

For Hamilton, it was his wife Eliza. She was proud to set up an orphanage - a legacy which showed responsibility for enabling others to take their place in society.  

Who tells God’s story?

We who break bread together are to be heralds of good news - tidings of repentance, forgiveness and peace. In every gesture, every task, every donation, every conversation, every vote, every petition, every act of compassion and every legacy: we live to tell God’s story.

© Julie Gittoes 2018

Sing praise!

Having enjoyed singing 'alleluias' from the tower of Guildford Cathedral at midday, this is the text of a sermon preached at the Ascension Day Eucharist: the texts were Daniel 7:9-14, Acts 1:1-11, Luke 24:44-53

and the anthem 'God is gone up' (Finzi).

The view from the the top of the tower!

God is gone up with a triumphant shout:

The Lord with sounding trumpets’ melodies:

Sing praise, sing praise, sing praise, sing praises out.

In a little while we will hear Finzi’s sitting of those awesome words (here sung by Wells Cathedral Choir)

From the organ’s dramatic fanfare, this anthem is thrilling in its magnificence: songs of praise resound, echoing the trumpets’ melody.  With every breath they take, our choir sing praises out. 

We hear these heart-cramping notes which echo heavens rapturous melody.  Sing praise. 

Their words blend with the organ’s voice more to enravish, as they this tune sing. Sing praises out.

Sing praise.

God is gone up with a triumphant shout. 

Sing praises out.

Finzi holds us in the intensity of rapturous praise as our lips acknowledge God’s glory. He calls us back to song.

But Edward Taylor, the poet who wrote the text, invites to stand alongside the disciples; to ponder another question. The question which was perhaps on their minds as they stood gazing upwards:

Art thou ascended up on high, my Lord,

And must I be without thee here below?

But the point of today’s celebration is that we are not left without: as our risen Lord ascends to the heaven in order that we might be united with him always.

Over the last forty days, we have recalled the resurrection appearances: moments when Jesus was in a particular place, with some of his followers for a finite period of time.  As Luke records, Jesus had opened their minds to understand the scriptures.

This is reality: The one who suffered and rose from the dead has power over death itself.  He has called disciples by name, broken bread with them, invited their touch, spoken words of peace and blessing.  

And now, as they were watching he is lifted up; hidden from their sight. 

How great the temptation to stand looking up; to see this spectacular moment as an ending or as a loss.

Rather it is both the fulfilment and expansion of love.

Ascension at Reachainn by the Robert Shaw

The one who this day ascends to heaven, is Lord of time and space.  In the words of Daniel - to him is given dominion, glory and kingship.  

This heavenly reign reveals scope of God’s love across all dimensions of the cosmos: it doesn’t undermine our agency as human creatures; but it does relativise the exercise of our freedom and authority.  

Our creaturely vulnerability and competitiveness is drawn into a new reality:  an expanding circle of blessing of merciful judgement and reconciling love. 

Our risen and ascended is Lord is now present to all people, in all places, forever.

Today, we assured that Jesus will pray for us at the right hand of God. We also receive a promise. Jesus promised his disciples that the power of God will be poured out on them through the Spirit. 

They and we, are called to be witnesses: they will tell the story of this man Jesus, the one who is flesh of our flesh; they will tell the story of this man Jesus, the one in whom the fullness of God is pleased to dwell.

They and we, are witnesses to one who revealed love divine from birth to life; from life to death; from death to risen life.   And now as we rejoice in Jesus journey heavenwards, we like those first disciples are sent to the ends of the earth. 

As the one theologian and preacher, Willie Jennings, puts it: Jesus ascends not only to establish presence through absence, but he also draws his body into the real journeys of his disciples into the world. He goes to heaven ahead of us. He goes with and ahead of his disciples into the real places of this world.

The span of our journeys will vary. From our homes we are sent out into real places, places that are particular to us: to the places of work and service, of tribulation and rejoicing; of struggle and refreshment; of waiting and praying; of family and stranger; of excitement and loss. 

 The disciples go from watching to praying - with Mary in their midst

We are sent to places we do not expect and perhaps cannot imagine; sent even those places where we fear to tread.  And there we are to witness, bless and sing praises; sing praises out.

Finzi captures the lyricism of Taylor’s devotional poem - fusing words and music into a compelling glimpse of heaven. But the decision to set it as our communion motet roots that vision the most ordinary and intimate of all the real places in this world: in food and fellowship.

For here in bread and wine Jesus gives himself to us. The king of glory enters in. Our risen and ascended Lord makes our bodies the site of his visitation. We become what we touch and taste and see: the body of Christ.  

Today we begin ten days of waiting - a novena of prayer before Pentecost. Let us pray for the Spirit to renew, refresh, empower and equip us that we might witness to God’s love on real journeys and real places.

God is gone up with a triumphant shout:

The Lord with sounding trumpets’ melodies:

Sing praise, sing praise, sing praise, sing praises out.

Alleluia!

© Julie Gittoes 2018