Homeless Jesus

 Christ the King 2023: Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24, Ephesians 1:15-23  and Matthew 25:31-46

Homeless Jesus: image from BBC

When was it that we saw you? Hungry? Sick? A stranger?

Timothy Schmalz is a Canadian sculptor, whose work is shaped by his Catholic faith, describes one of his pieces as a “visual translation" of Matthew 25, the gospel we heard today. It’s called Homeless Jesus. 

Jesus is depicted curled up, huddling under a blanket. His hands and face hidden from view. Only his feet are visible. Marked by the wounds of the nails.

Over the decade since the original was installed at the University of Toronto, Homeless Jesus  can be found across the world from Milan to Singapore, New York to Dublin, Rome to Melbourne. 

Schmalz once said that he would be happy if his work was “used by people as a tool to think”. It has certainly provoked strong responses and reactions as well as thoughts. 

Some called it offensive, demeaning and insulting.

Pope Francis blessed it.

Passers by have called the emergency services on a cold night.

Others have sat next to it, and prayed.

Westminster City Council rejected it. 

Why?

Because it was felt it would neither maintain nor improve the character or appearance of Parliament Square.

Homeless Jesus finally found a place to lay his head in our city in the church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm Street. 

He finds his rest alongside volunteers distributing food, clothes and other items to those in need; alongside those who staff or use the night shelter in winter months.

Image from The Tablet here

Schmalz said: “The same streets that were closed to him are open to statues of politicians, abstract art and visual puns continually planted in the urban setting of your city, but this work that challenges us to see the holy in the least in our community was not allowed outside. You brought him inside. You welcomed him, giving him a beautiful permanent spot in the centre of the city.  May this sculpture become a symbol of  how we all should let the stranger and the least in our community inside our hearts.”

How many of us have responded to the needs of a stranger - offering food or company, support, prayer or a kind word?

Are we then sheep?

How many of us have failed to respond to the needs of another - not having the time, feeling uncomfortable, being preoccupied, not noticing?

Are we then goats?

The truth is, we’re both. 

As the title of one book puts it: we’re ‘Good Goats’. 

That isn’t to duck the challenge of today’s gospel, but to navigate judgement and salvation: to see ourselves and the world as it is - and to trust in a loving, merciful and healing God. 

Having taught his disciples about watching, preparing, waiting, being faithful to his commands, he turns their hearts and minds to the last things. 

Then, at a moment of universal judgment, the Son of Man will ask the peoples of the whole earth will be asked: did you show compassion?

Did they seek justice by showing acts of mercy to those in need? Do we?

Responding to the least of these is to find him there already: amongst the fearful, the vulnerable, the lonely, and the dispossessed; amongst those hungering for food and yearning for equity, for what is just; amongst those who’re imprisoned, those who wait for them, who seek restoration; those needing to be clothed, and those making clothing for a pittance. 

He’s there already on those margins between being ok, and not; getting by, and not; being well, and not. He’s there in the place of seeing a common humanity; and the choices and circumstances which separate us, or bind us together. 

To stand in this place as ‘good goats’ isn’t about being judgmental; it is about facing judgment which moves us towards redemption. The relationship between these too are not simply individual, but social. 

The theological Miroslav Volf - himself a prisoner of war who lived under the threat of interrogation said: “the final justification will have to be accompanied by the final social reconciliation.” 

It is God who judges and God who redeems, makes whole. All things will be renewed in Christ. Now we see too much that causes pain and tears; too much that is broken and scattered.

The one who rules over us in the unity of the Spirit that we might know the bond of peace is the one who fulfils the words of Ezekiel: a shepherd searching out the scattered sheep, rescuing the lost; one who is gathering up those who have strayed; binding up the injured and strengthening the weak. 

They will be fed by justice; and so will those who’ve pushed, exploited, and scattered.  But that is where God chooses to meet us. In the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, God has already revealed judgement and mercy, grace and hope.

To bend our knee to Jesus is to worship one who is our servant king: who gave his life that we might live; who chose to bear our heavy loads; whose hands and feet carry the scars that speak of sacrifice; the one whose risen life changes and renews us in love.

The biblical scholar Rosemary Radford Ruether wrote that ‘the gospels are written from the perspective of converted betrayers, disciples who knew that they had been unable to hear the radical character of his message of abnegation of power in his own life time, and only in the light of the resurrection were able to re-evaluate this mistake’.

As we gather to celebrate this Eucharist, this feast of Christ the King, we do so not ignorer to use his memory ‘as a means of power and domination’ as Radford Ruether puts it. Instead to follow the one that was poor, outcast and crucified, is to learn how to serve. 

We enthrone our risen Lord in our lives. He is the one who beings life and love out of death - who brings mercy and grace out of judgement. He teaches us to prefer each other’s needs, to serve him in them. 

Each Eucharist is in a sense a “visual translation” of today’s gospel: reminding us of Christ’s sacrifice of love; the wounds his risen body bears. A wafer of bread and wine outpoured, his body given for our bodies.

As we welcome him - in this building, onto our hands and into our hearts - may it be in Schmalz’s words a “symbol of  how we all should let the stranger and the least in our community inside our hearts.”

As Paul gives thanks for the Ephesians it is because of their faith in the Lord but also their love towards others. He prays that they might be given a Spirit of wisdom and revelation - and I pray that for us too. That the eyes of our heart might be enlighten - given a glimpse of our heavenly hope but also strengthened for our earthly service. 

When was it that we saw you? Hungry? Sick? A stranger?

Jesus is the name above all others: ascended about all things, head of his body, the church. May we see him and love him at this altar, in each other, and in the world. 

May the Spirit animate this body - ours and his - with fullness of him who fills all in all; may we follow in his service for the sake of a kingdom that has now end.

© Julie Gittoes 2023

Buried love?

Sunday, 19 November 2023:  Zephaniah 1:7, 12–18, 1 Thessalonians 5:1–11 & Matthew 25:14–30

Image of parable of the talents found here

When he was Archbishop, Rowan Williams spent a day at Canary Wharf meeting with CEOs in the midst of the financial crisis of 2008. In that context he observed that there had been a preoccupation with maximising profit without building trust or relationships and without taking time, as he put it, ‘for enterprises to come to fruition’.

He observed that:  ‘that double problem; lack of relationship and the telescoping of the time taken had produced the unreal, destructive world of speculation which has so wrecked the lives of so many, including many of the most needy and vulnerable in our society and across the world.’

His observations lead us into thinking about the parable that Jesus tells to some of his closest disciples as recounted by Matthew.  But perhaps, as the scholar Amy Jill Levine suggests, we might consider what parables do rather than what they mean. 

Jesus tells us stories which stretch our imaginations and invite us think more deeply about God’s ways with the world and our place in it. 

On the one hand, it might be possible to hear this parable as a comment on good and bad economics. Two servants trade with what they’ve been given - accepting the trust placed in them to build relationships and to take risks over time. 

The other servant buries what he’s been given - he’s fearful rather than trusting; he conserves what he has, but in isolation and secrecy.  Part of his response is driven by how he imagines his master - he alone describes him as harsh rather than generous.

There are limits with an economic line of imagining in this parable: the risk of seeking God working through those with money, assets, abilities, strengths; those who can take the risk of a gamble, who can count the cost of loss, who have the security to dare experimentation and growth.

A talent wasn’t cash used day by day, but more akin to gold bullion: wealth and security which amounted to 20 year’s of a labourer’s wage. Twenty times the London Living Wage would be over half a million.

But what is the master really giving his servants? Running through the gospels is the promise that God gives us something more precious than a lottery win - that is love. This is a love which creates, restores and sustains us. Such love is an invitation to relationship; a love that casts our fear; that creates trust. It changes us and our life. If we let it.

And perhaps that is the crux of the matter: if we’ve been given this extraordinary gift what happens if we bury it? 

Imagine that physical act of taking what is most precious and digging deep into the earth, placing it there; then spadeful by spadeful shovelling the soil over it until it disappears from sight. And then walking away. Leaving it hidden in an unknown and unmarked place. No one else knows about it.

Buried.

Love.

But strangely that is what happens to God’s love poured out in Jesus. 

The love flowing from God’s very self choosing to dwell with us, risking everything for us.

At this point in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus has taught about the kingdom of God - through the lens of the beatitudes, attitudes of blessing in the pursuit of peace and mercy. He has brought healing and wholeness to young and old, influential and marginalised. 

He has told his disciples that he must suffer and die; and has sent them out in pairs to share the good news of repentance and forgiveness. He crosses thresholds and breaks boundaries. He has fed multitudes on the hillside, debated with those in authority, cast traders out of the temple and told stories. 

Stories about the nature of God’s grace and mercy; stories about a kingdom which is begins like the smallest of seeds growing into a tree offering sanctuary for birds; stories which stretch imaginations and reveal new ways of being. 

And now, as the plot against him thickens, and fear and betrayal fill the air, he tells another story about the risk and cost and abundance of this love.

For in his body this gift of Godself will be lowered from the cross to the grave; entombed in the earth, and hidden. 

And some will think that that is the end. But like the buried grain, a green blade rises and life is seen again. 

We are entrusted with this gift of life and love - so that it can multiply in relationship, with trust and generosity and sacrifice and forgiveness. 

This is the seed of a new and transformed humanity: yes, it can also feel like hard work; but the alternative is worse, we risk losing everything. 

As Jesus says elsewhere, if you hang on to life, you will lose it; if you let go of it, you gain everything. 

To give love away overtime and in relationships might be a struggle we’d prefer to avoid or bury; but to invest in it is to share in the Spirit led work of humanising the world around us. 

Challenging those who limit dignity and blessing,  or who dismiss falling through the net of our fragile social fabric as a "life-style choice”. Strengthening households, friendships and families; playing our part in changing systems; offering what we have to bring glimmers of comfort, inspiration, purpose; taking time for our enterprises in justice and kindness to come to fruition.

To build relationships where conflict can be transformed, joys are shared, burdens are carried, hope is renewed. 

To love as God has loved us: faithfully, even in small things. 

That means being alert, keeping awake as Paul reminds the Thessalonians: because we, like them, never know when the day of the Lord will come with dazzling brightness.

In this waiting, we don’t fearfully bury the gift given to us. Instead we are to go about our lives expecting to see Jesus in the familiar and in the unexpected places. 

In this waiting, we are to keep alert: responding the cries and the longings, the suffering and the stuff that brings joy.

We are called to this even more so when the world is in distress: the words of Zephaniah paint a picture of anguish, ruin, devastation, gloom and anger; of places laid waste, generations lost, homes abandoned and material resources plundered.

This is the outer darkness of mistrust, fear and love buried so deep tears no no end. 

Yet, somehow we are to encourage one another. When all seems lost, we are to build each other up; to keep the rumour, the possibility, the hope of a new humanity alive. 

To refuse to bury love with fear. To do the handwork of giving life and love away instead. No wonder Paul resorts to the language of breastplate and helmet for a spiritual struggle played out in acts of kindness, solidarity, advocacy and service.

Live in faith, hope and love, he says: trusting that salvation will be revealed, that time when God will be all in all, all our hungers met, brokenness forgiven, creation restored; trusting that in that moment of judgment we’ll be surprised by those who’ve been Christ for us; those in whom Christ as been revealed to us; and those who’ve served Christ with us.

In worrying less about what today’s parable means, we can trust that it does something in us: reminding us that as we give away in love, fear subsides; that in going to the margins, salvation breaks in.

Our trust in the one who lives, dies and lives again is renewed as we share in blessing and bread. Gathering around our Lord’s table, we say everyone has a place here, even when we disagree; but as Bishop Sarah reminded Synod last week, to gather around this table also takes us to the edge; we continue to invite others to eat with us. She said: 'if that means that I need to sit outside with the powerless, the marginalised, the lost, then that is where I will sit and I am certain that I will encounter Christ there.'

© Julie Gittoes 2023

In these living years

Sunday, 1st October, Trinity 17: Ezekiel 18:1-4, 25-end, Philippians 2:1-3 & 

Matthew 21:23-32

Generational stereotypes abound in memes and advertising, sketches and articles:

Boomers: well-off

Gen X: cynical 

Millennials: entitled

Gen Zs: civic-minded

But, as one headline puts it: ‘Boomers to the left of you; Gen Z to the right. Are we really so bafflingly different?’

At one level, the answer is “no”: we’re human with the same fears, affections, hopes, biases and limitations. Our experience might mean that we find solidarity or difference across generations because of our personality, interests, politics and community.

Yet at another level, the answer is “yes” because as individuals we do exist within cohorts or time frames; the impact of global events or national policy impact us differently.

Some of it is about cultural norms and reference points; or having analogue childhoods versus being digital natives; some of it is about wealth, taxes and the cost of living; coming of age in the era of student grants or student loans.

In a way, bridging the generation gap has always been with us.  It’s 30 or more years since Mike and the Mechanics debuted their rock ballad “The Living Years”. It’s a track which names the way ‘every generation blames the one before/all of their frustrations come beating on your door.’ We come hostage to hopes or imprisoned by fears. 

We can go back even further - 1000s of years rather than a few decades - and find those frustrations exposed by Ezekiel: in repeating the proverb about parents eating sour grapes and children’s teeth been set on edge, he is naming the inter-generational blame game.

Or, to return to the ballad, ‘we open up a quarrel between the present and the past/ we only sacrifice the future it’s the bitterness that lasts.’

Ezekiel speaks into this conundrum by reminding his hearers that each life belongs to the Lord - of parent and child alike - and together they share responsibility for the present and the future.  He asks what leads to life - and explores the impact of moments of change.

He names the pivot moment: when we walk away from what is righteous and pursue what is harmful, we bound to the fortunes and fate of death; when we walk away from what is wicked and pursue the law of love, we open up a new perspective that leads to life. 

The lyrics of “the living years” are personal and particular - a son regretting all the things he’d not told his father before he passed away, and yet hearing his echo in a baby’s new born tears. 

As the refrain puts it: ‘I just wish I could have told him in the living years.’

Ezekiel is concerned about these living years and breaking cycles of blame. 

We are judged not on the basis of being a boomer or millennial, Gen X or Gen Z - it’s true, we might not always see eye to eye - but on the basis of living in God’s ways. Repentance of hurt or harm opens up space for transformation. 

Bitter quarrels between present and past sacrifices the future; but Ezekiel promises God’s people life  based on a new heart and a renewed spirit. 

Turn and live, says the prophet.

Don’t miss the living years, says the ballad. 

We’re drawn into the substance of this life through the lens of a story Jesus tells when his authority is questioned - and in the words of  hymn which predates Mike and the Mechanics by almost 2000 years.  

Together they invite us into a way of life and faith which is fully integrated - it’s not about the ability to "talk the talk” of Christianity but allowing words and actions to stretch, enrich, sustain and deepen each other. 

Jesus’ story about the two sons highlights the gap between talk and action, intent and deed: one makes a promise but does not fulfil it; the other shrugs off the request, but goes on to do the work anyway.

It’s a very human dynamic. 

We, like the the first son, are capable of both promising things and putting them off, deciding against it, getting caught up in other stuff or simply forgetting.  

However we can also be like the second son - in our hearts being reluctant to do something but in the end being moved to step into the gap, spontaneously moved to act, responding to the need. 

Jesus tells this story in the context of questions about his authority - having arrived in Jerusalem a few days earlier riding on a donkey, to hosannas of hope and adulation; having within the  previous 24 hours cast traders out of the temple, challenging the things that got in the way of it being a house of prayer for all nations. 

We can imagine the outcry - who did he think he was? Responses to him vary across generations perhaps but also across social standing or position. Those without influence or control embraced him; those with power and status didn’t.  How much or how little hope or agency effected their capacity to accept the promise of good news.

This good news is about what leads to life - and demands a moment of change.  It’s not just about the promises we make and fail to keep - it’s about acknowledging mistakes knowing that we can turn and choose life. 

When we name our need and vulnerability, when we let go of self-reliance and selfishness, when we acknowledge the injustices or unfairness we see there is a choice: to blame others or to accept the invitation to shared responsibility - across the generations - and see where God is opening up new possibilities, where change might be possible and where hope might begin.

In the water of baptism, we are brought to new birth - cleansed, renewed, enlivened. There our thirst is quenched - promises are made, we turn to God and choose life. 

However many years ago that moment was for us, we know that we need to be sustained in our journey of faith: not only in prayer, learning and fellowship but by this hour on a Sunday when we are invited to turn and choose life - again and again. Here promises are renewed and forgiveness is received. 

Here we receive the gift of bread and wine which is life itself: receiving what we become and becoming what we received, that is the body of Christ. And we draw near not just with reverence but with an awareness of our need and a deep longing to be fed. Here we rejoice in the hope of an intergenerational community - of hope and life.

But we don’t stop there: this is just a gathered interval in our scattered lives - for we are bodies within the body of Christ moving into the world. We go out equipped to do what we say - acting with love and mercy, seeking equality and justice, embodying compassion and resisting blame. 

Perhaps we can offer a counter narrative to Mike and the Mechanics by healing the quarrels between the present and the past; refusing to sacrifice the future with bitterness. We are drawn into these living years by an early Christian hymn. 

Paul introduces it sayings: if there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being of full accord and of one mind.

It doesn’t matter if we’re boomers or millennials, Gen Xs or Gen Zs - or even the Gen Alpha amongst us: none of us are to act with self ambition or conceit - but instead to look with humility to the needs and interests of others.

That radical intergenerational vision is rooted in the love of God revealed in Jesus - who emptied and humbled himself, becoming obedient to death on the cross. In turning to him we find life. In his name, we find our unity. 

In the power of the spirit we live our lives working out what this salvation - this hope of healing, forgiveness and life means. For God is at work in us in every breath or step we take - in our words, actions, choices, tasks. In these living years may we choose the life that truly is life. 

© Julie Gittoes 2023