Remembrance and Re-membering

A sermon preached at St Mary's Hendon on Remembrance Sunday. 

The readings were: Job 19: 23-27a, 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17 and Luke 20:27-38

We opened the doors of the little chapel… [the priest] beckoned me to kneel with him in the front of the altar… I did not understand the precise meaning of what he was saying, but I could hear the compassion in his voice… He placed a wafer on my tongue and offered me the cup. He then placed this had on my head and prayed… it did not feel like a man’s hand but something much more powerful and profound, radiating energy… filling me with love.

These words are written by trauma surgeon David Nott in his memoir War Doctor detailing his voluntary work on front lines from Sarajevo to Syria. 

It encapsulates everything about the brutality of war: all that we remember today. It encapsulates the tragedy of lives lost; and moment of grace where lives are restored or re-membered.

Today and tomorrow, there will be moments when we fall silent and remember. 

Our silence speaks of our longing for peace and its cost.

We remember those who have seen active service in the theatre of war: those whose experience of conflict has cost them their lives; those who return suffering mental or physical trauma; those who mourn their friends. 

We remember men and women in danger this day as a result of war and terror:  the service personnel from commanding officers to the medics, the ground crew to special forces; the chaplains serving alongside them; the civilians, volunteers, humanitarians and peacekeepers.

We remember them with respect and with gratitude: our remembering calls forth from us a spirit of commitment. A commitment to the cause of peace and justice in the face on the anger and hatred of humanity.

From his place of brokenness our silence holds out this defiant hope.

Such hope isn’t mere optimism; it’s the refusal to allow death the final word.

It is a hope reflected in today’s readings. 

Such hope is expressed with conviction by Job.  Even in bitter pain, protest and lament, Job remembers God. The one who is with him; who transforms his flesh; who his eyes shall behold.

I know that my Redeemer lives.

Job places his trust in God - believing that ultimately God has the final word; that human beings are called into life. 

In a debate about the possibility of life beyond death, Jesus rejects the literalism inherent within this hypothetical scenario; and moves us beyond earthly limitations to reveal promise of new a creation that does not whither or decay.

God is the one who says “I am”; the Lord of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob: the one who God of the living, not the dead; for to him all are made alive. 

This is a God who re-members.

Remembering all that has been and allowing nothing to separate us from love.

It is a remembering that brings together the broken and separated members of the human race.

God draws near to us in flesh of our flesh in Jesus: like us, his body aches and moves and touches and bleeds.

God draws near to us in broken bread: inviting us to touch and taste and see and remember.

And in this act we are remembered too: our divisions are brought together; our differences are diminished.

Because of what Jesus did in our past, we remember in the present and choose a new future.

We are gathered together in Christ, our living redeemer.

A wafer on our tongues; a cup offered; a hand laid on our head.

In these small things the powerful, profound and radiating energy of God’s love fills us.

As we remember in silence, we can choose to listen; to understand; to love.

In our silent remembering, may the Spirit be at work in us calling us to seek what is just and true.

As we remember, we stand firm, making Paul’s prayer for the Thessalonians our own: Now may our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and through grace gave us eternal comfort and good hope, comfort your hearts and strengthen them in every good work and word.

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Loved

A sermon preached at the Eucharist on Bible Sunday 27 October: The texts were: Isaiah 45:22-end, Romans 15: 1-6, Luke 4:16-24

World Book Day

Each March, school children up and down the country dress up as their favourite fictional for world book day: parental creativity and resourcefulness means that Facebook and classrooms are full of recognisable Harry Potters and Matildas; Snow Whites and Peter Pans.

The delight of stories never really leaves us: whether it’s the latest John le Carré or the high

drama of Eastenders; the comfort of a familiar classic or the long awaited film.

We read to be entertained and challenged; to explore emotions and understand relationships. We inhabit other worlds; navigating the lives of others, from youth to older age.

Beyond the realm of fiction, there books which we delight in or inspire us with determination; there are books which speak to our distress and others which help us follow our desires.

Numerically speaking, the Bible is the world’s number one best seller. Like many of our own favourites, it’s full of dramatic stories and vivid characters. In its pages we find beautiful poetry, inspiring visions and profound wisdom. 

It’s been translated and learnt by heart over hundreds of generations, by men and women trying to make sense of life and of God. It’s been studied and interpreted in contexts very different from our own, by radicals and conservatives seeking after what is true.

This epic narrative begins in a garden and ends with a city. Our lives are enfolded by its words.

On Bible Sunday, we are invited to read, mark, learn and inwardly digest those words. For it is  not merely another piece of literature. It’s an invitation into the presence of the one who is life and love; it expresses the language of the heart.

They continue to address us - with a cry, a whisper, a song, a breath:

you

are

loved.  

They declare that ‘God loves us’. 

They inspire us to ‘love one another’.

Prophets, poets, historians, letter writers, psalmists, evangelists: all of them address our questions and struggles. They name our deepest longings and our misdirected desires. 

There is familiarity and strangeness in these texts: hundreds of stories about human beings trying to make sense of the world as we reach out to each other and to God; stories of our hurts and failures, desires and relationships.

There is familiarity and strangeness in these texts: hundreds of stories of God reaching out to us when we dare to dream, when we cry in distress; stories revealing something of Godself to us in healing and justice, truth and beauty.

In the books of the Bible, God breathes 100s and 1000s of times:

You.

Are.

Loved.

In our first reading, we hear this assurance.

This love is God. This God is love.

Faithful: waiting for us to return to our first love.

Faithful: reaching to the ends of the earth.

Faithful: teaching us to walk in ways of justice, humility and mercy.

There is no other source of life and strength. 

You are loved.

Love one another.

In our second reading, we hear a snippet of a letter written to those seeking to walk this way of love in community; a letter written by one whose life had been transformed by love which dazzled with challenge and forgiveness and calling and faithfulness.

Paul writes to the Romans naming the distress being caused by the strong dismissing or taking advantage of the weak.There is sorrow and anguish and fragmentation when we please ourselves. It neither honours God nor our neighbour.

Paul writes to the Romans naming the delight that comes from knowing Jesus as God with us; the one who came not to be served but to serve; who reveals the depth of love divine in human flesh.

Paul writes to the Romans naming the desire to know and keep God’s commandments: seeking to build up our neighbours and to live in harmony with one another; glorifying God with one voice in worship and glorifying God in our deals with weak and strong.

Paul writes to the Romans naming the determination to love - not by human strength alone, but through the power of the Spirit at work in us and in the encouragement we find in scripture. The steadfast rhyme of love shapes our hope.

Delight in God.

Name your distress.

Desire God’s ways.

Be determined.

Love.

Such love isn’t an abstract concept.  It is something we grow into and make our own. Love is to be our appearance;  and what we see in others. 

Such love isn’t an abstract concept; it’s not a matter of words, but of the Word made flesh.

The one who was  conceived by the Spirit has baptised with the Spirit. Now that same Spirit leads him in the wilderness. The Spirit fills Jesus and the Spirit guides him. 

Before Jesus began his public ministry or arrived in his home down, he had spent time the desert, committing  himself to loving the world. Tempted as we are, yet without that fracturing of relationship, or selfish desire, we call sin.   In the weakness of our flesh, God loves in a way that it so real it hurts; so real it saves. 

Here in the human frailty of hunger and fatigue, Jesus faces the relentless psychological nagging of ‘if’.

If you are the Son of God do x or y.

Yet through the lens of those ‘ifs’ we see the power of love.

Temptation of Christ

The love of God with us.

Satisfy your hunger: no, says Jesus, for we are sustained not by bread alone. I won’t love the world simply by gratifying physical desires but by going to heart of our needs and hopes.

Accept earthly power: no, says Jesus, seizing glory and authority in that way is not God's way of loving.  Love that coerces and dominates a response isn't real.   Attention to God in worship is the beginning of love; serving others by attending to their needs, that's real love. 

Perform a stunt: no, says Jesus, I won't take a short cut. I won't put God to the test in that way. Such love is superficial and fleeting: it doesn't forgive or heal; it doesn't challenge or embrace.

Three times, Jesus chose to serve God. He reveals a love that is our ultimate reality. A love that overcomes pain, sorrow and death itself. 

When Jesus went to his home town, he went to synagogue as we might expect.  He stood up to read. He began to teach; to speak of the fulfilment of scripture in and through him.

Jesus reading 

What had the gathered community expected? An endorsement of their way of life or their values; a shared interpretation of the law?  Might he have something to say about the threat posed by the occupying Roman forces? May be they wanted to bask in the fame of a local lad ‘made good’. When Scripture is read, do they - do we - expect a light to shine in the dark corners of our minds?

Jesus announces his ministry: proclaiming justice, advocating for commission, declaring liberty. Familiar words are heard afresh; salvation and hope are made real.

Words of scripture are fulfilled by God’s Word in our midst.

In this Eucharist we read, mark and learn the words of Scripture which unfold the story of God’s love for us. Here we practice love in community.  We received forgiveness and share peace.  We inwardly digest God’s Word in bread and wine, receiving what we are; becoming Christ’s body in and for the world.

You.

Are.

Loved.

Here we name the cries of our heart - cries of distress and desire. Here we delight in God faithful love and here pray that our determination to seek God’s Kingdom be renewed.

In the power of the Spirit we are sent out in peace to love and serve; bringing hope as we witness to the love of God revealed in Jesus Christ.

Love.

As you.

Are loved.

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Touched by an Angel

A sermon for Michaelmas preached at Evensong - a poetic beginning and ending. The texts were: Daniel 10:4-21 and Revelation 5

St Michael

Some words by the eighth-century Northumbrian scholar Alcuin: Sequence for St Michael

Hear us, Michael, 

Greatest angel, 

Come down a little 

From thy high seat, 

To bring us the strength of God, 

And the lightening of His mercy. 

And do thou, Gabriel, 

Lay low our foes, 

And thou, Raphael, 

Heal our sick, 

Purge our disease, ease thou our pain, 

And give us to share 

In the joys of the blessed. 

Underlying the psychedelic imagery and dazzling weirdness of today’s lessons, there are threads of these poetic medieval themes: strength and mercy; light and healing; blessing and joys.

These are themes of consolation.

We long for such consolation, especially as seasons turn with darkening nights and shorter days; especially with the prospect of literal and metaphorical storms.

Angels are associated with the presence of God. In the books of  Daniel and Revelation, angels appear as mysterious spiritual beings who dwell in the realms of light. 

They remind us that we live in eternal day. Though Christ, darkness has been banished. In his death, death dies.

Our old foe no longer has the final word: laid low by light and love and life divine. 

The angels in this evening’s readings, share in the beauty and holiness of unceasing praise in heaven. They dwell in the nearer presence of God. Yet they also go forth from the holiness on high as messengers. They speak words of protection and peace. 

Angels appear in scripture at times when human beings wrestle with their memories, hopes and fears as Jacob did. They bring heaven to bear on earth and help us lay hold on life that is life.

At others times there is obedience and joy as when Mary embraced her call to be the God bearer; and when Joseph took on the role of guardian and protector of wife and child. 

They bring courage and strength in the fulfilment of our calling; and whilst we sometimes struggle with the message or find ourselves rendered speechless; we are also blessed by entertaining them unawares in moments of kindness and hospitality. 

Part of the consolation of this evening’s readings it the glimpse they give of the imagined unimaginable of heavenly worship.

Revelation speaks of a new song and of myriads and thousands singing with full voice.

The voice of many angels sings one song: giving glory the the Lamb of God, the risen and ascended Lord. The one who is power and wisdom and glory and blessing. 

This worship is so all encompassing that the praises of heaven draw all creatures of heaven and earth into one. 

God is worshipped, given honour and worth; and in our songs earth and heaven meet. 

The worship of heaven is like never stop. It is continually echos the pulse of God’s love for the world. We tune into it when we lift our voices and open our hearts. 

As we live and breath in this awesome place, we are swept up in the beauty of holiness; the eternal hymn of praise. 

Praise which gives glory to God; but which also raises us up. 

Angels teach us that worship is a way of being; an encounter with God changing us from glory to glory.

They remind us of the consolation to be found in tuning into this rhyme and rhythm of love.

Love that speaks of strength and mercy when we are our hearts are turned in on ourselves. 

Love that brings to light our hopes and woes and tenderly heals the loneliness within.

Love emboldens and sets free bringing blessing and joy to those who cross our path.

We are changed by love divine. Angels remind us that love we cannot contain or confine.

That love stretches from the medieval scholar to recent poet.

 “Touched by An Angel” by Maya Angelou

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love’s light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Angelic embrace

A sermon preached on the Feast of St Michael and All Angels (Eucharist). I can't believe that the Angel of the North has turned 21. I still remember the first glimpse of the sculpture; and look out for it every time I travel north. How might this iconic angel shape our understanding of the place of angels - and indeed enable us to extend an embrace. The texts were: Genesis 28:10-7, Revelation 12:7-12; John 1:47-51

The Angel of the North

The Angel of the North is iconic.

With its 54 metre wing span creating a sense of embrace, this 20 metre steel sculpture greets travellers to and from the north east.

When Antony Gormley was invited to submit his ideas to Gateshead Council, he famously said that he didn’t do “motorway art”. 

What changed his mind was the context: an image of a remote mound next to the A1 which covered 300 years of mine-workings.

‘Is it possible’, writes Gormley, ‘to make a work with purpose in a time that demands doubt?’

His answer was to make an object which would (in his words) be a 'focus of hope at a time of painful transition for the people of the North East, abandoned in the gap between the industrial and the information ages’.

It recognises the sacrifice of generations of miners who’d worked the pits; it marks the end of an era and refuses to lets us forget.

The angel’s form modelled on the torso of the artist himself; its 200 tonne body is ten times life-size. 

This angel has come of age, having stood for 21 years: withstanding winds and rain; shrouded in snow and bathed in sunlight.

Rarely does this angel stand alone; nor does this icon slip from view. 

An angelic way-marker and gateway; rooted in earth and raising our eyes heavenward.

In uncertainty, transition and abandonment this northern angel remains a focus of hope and belonging.

In her beautifully illustrated book on angels, Jane Williams ponders her own underlying questions about what these figures. What do they tell us, she asks ‘about our own longings and what messages they might bring us about our place in the world, our connections with each other and our relationship with God - if we really listened to them.’

The Angel of the North speaks powerfully of hope, place and connection - emerging of a sense of abandonment.

The Angel

This feast of St Michael and All Angels extends to us an invitation to us to listen carefully to our world and our longings; to notice and bridge the gaps.

The ordering of angels speaks of God’s holiness and greatness; but they also speak of the distress of separation and division between us, earth and heaven, humanity and God. 

They stand as way-markers, ladders, gateways, reminding us that even at points of isolation God still reaches out; God still reaches out with a fierce, tender and radiant love.

The language our Eucharistic Prayer speaks of how angels reveal God’s wise purpose for the salvation or healing of the human race.

The ministry of angels speak of steadfast love and protection. Whilst they behold the one equal light of God’s glory, beyond dazzling and darkness, they also keep faithful vigil for us. They guard us in the way that leads to life; they guide us to God’s kingdom of light. 

As Jane Williams writes: ‘The angels are part of the struggle to define what kind of a universe this is to be be.’ 

The help to enlarge our vision of the world. Reminding us that in the struggles against fear, oppression and suffering, the strength of God’s goodness is the ultimate reality. 

It may not always feel that way - our God doesn’t coerce humanity to make the good, wise and just choice. The struggles and tensions are real; and yet, as in the stories we hear today, we are to be alert to messengers of assurance and encouragement, who help us to glimpse traces of grace.

In our Gospel reading, Jesus greets Nathaniel as someone he already knows - even though they’d never met. 

Jesus looks on him and sees someone who is honest; a child of God without deceit. Nathaniel takes Jesus’ literal answer as a sign that he must be the Messiah, God’s chosen and anointed one.

Jesus has something deeper in mind. He is more than what they think that title means. John tells of the call of Andrew, Simon, Philip and now Nathaniel. They are all invited to come and see; to open their eyes to something that is ‘more than’. 

They are to name their heart’s desire; the thing they seek. They are invited to stay. To be with the one who was with the the Father. To abide with the one who stoops down to earth to raise earth to heaven.

Jesus enables them to go deeper when he talks of angels ascending and descending on the Son of Man. He’s reminding them of a story of their ancestor Jacob; the story which we have heard this morning.

At this point in Genesis, Jacob is a fugitive. Having tricked his elder twin brother Esau out of his birthright, he had fled. In that time of being separated from his own kin, he earns a living using his skill in rearing animals; he settles in marriage. And yet, here he is sleeping out in the open with a rock for a pillow.

He is utterly alone. He is in-between places and in-between people. He’s caught between the consequences of his act of deception and self-will; and the purposes God has in store for him.

The vision he receives is one of hope.

Jacob’s ladder by Albert Huthusen

God is saying, I have not abandoned you; I know you and I am bound to you. 

Despite his physical isolation, he is reminded of his human ancestry and of God’s faithfulness. This land is gift; his people will be a blessing; blessing the earth.

Heaven and earth were not separated. There was an unseen ladder - upon which angels ascend and descend, ministering to the world. 

Through a flawed human being a promise is renewed: blessing is extended.

Today we hear Jesus reminding the honest Nathaniel of the story of crafty Jacob; but he goes a step further in telling him that he is that ladder. 

He is the visible means of joining earth and heaven.

Come and see, says Jesus; open your hearts and minds to see more.

Jesus is still inviting people into a journey of faith and transformation; Jesus is attracting us to abide with him and walk with.

We live in a world where many still cry out to God; willing God to tear open the heavens and come down. 

We live in a world where many echo Gormley’s question: asking, is it possible to create and work and live with purpose in time of doubt?

We live in a world where many still long to open their hearts and minds to a new vision; to follow a more authentic way of life and love; to begin, however falteringly, a journey of faith.

In Jesus, the heavens are opened. 

The Word becomes flesh: walking with us in human weakness to lead us into a new vision.

The longings of Jacob and Nathaniel have been fulfilled and God’s promises continue to be renewed here among us.

For, how awesome is this place!

The altar around which we gather is where we are no longer alone; here we unite our praise with angels.

The bread which we take, is Word made flesh stooping down to be with us.

The world in which we tread, is raised up to heaven; the ultimate hope and reality is revealed.

And yet, the image of St Michael reminds us of the ongoing  struggle. He is more than an angel; he is a warrior. He reminds us with utter seriousness of the fight for all that is good and just and holy.

St Michael

May we be messengers of love’s fierce radiance; discerning traces of grace.

May we pierce the darkness of our world with words and actions of hope; and, like that northern angel, offer a tender embrace of belonging.

© Julie Gittoes 2019