Monday 30 December 2019

After Christmas

A sermon preached on Sunday 29th December. This goes to the heart of Christmas - the messiness of the world; it's violence and misused power; and yet God is with us in this place. How can our lives walk another way - a way of peace? The texts were: Isaiah 63:7-9, Hebrews 2:10-18 and Matthew 2:13-23



Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night and went to Egypt.

The great of violence and destruction is real: the holy family flee.

As the priest-poet Malcolm Guite puts it:

We think of him as safe beneath the steeple,
Or cosy in a crib beside the font,
But he is with a million displaced people
On the long road of weariness and want.
For even as we sing our final carol
His family is up and on that road,
Fleeing the wrath of someone else’s quarrel,
Glancing behind and shouldering their load.

We live in a murky, brutal and wounded world.  It is into such a world as this that the Christ-child is born.

It is a world where children are held at borders, separated from parents; where families fleeing war and violence risk crossing the Mediterranean Sea in the hope of safety; where refugee camps become the only home a child knows; where human trafficking is still a reality; where the fear and power of tyrants and insurgents bring cruelty and destruction.  




A world where fathers get up and take the children and their mothers by night. 

Today, we’re confronted with the horror of Herod's fury; it reminds us of the way in which insecurity and power can envelop our lives.  The whole of Bethlehem was caught up in the implications of an infant's threat to stability.  

Herod snatched away his people's future in the destruction of children.  The catastrophic consequences of desire to cling to power is repeated in the lives of men and women in our own generation.  

As Malcolm’s sonnet continues:

Whilst Herod rages still from his dark tower
Christ clings to Mary, fingers tightly curled,
The lambs are slaughtered by the men of power,
And death squads spread their curse across the world.
But every Herod dies, and comes alone
To stand before the Lamb upon the throne.

What Herod did is appalling: wickedly massacring children to protect his own power.

This is the world that Jesus came to save.

The Christmas message is that God so loved the world that he sent us his Son.

It is a hopeful because there is no where where God is not; our humanity is glorified.  

It is disruptive because divine vulnerability shifts the balance of power in a fearful and war-torn world.  

The birth of the Christ-child is just the beginning.

The hope and joy of wise men contrast with Herod's fear and rage.  Their gifts reveal who this child is: our king and our God; the suffering servant who lays down his life for love of the world.  

Their journey continues along another road; they're witnesses to peace in vulnerability, power in weakness. Joseph must take his family along another road.  

They must flee and seek protection.

Herod searches and destroys; he is infuriated and kills.

There is wailing and lamentation. 

We feel silenced and helpless; we lament and cry out.  

The writer of the Hebrews reminds us that the one through whom all things exist shares our flesh and blood.

Jesus becomes like us and suffered with us; bleeding like us and dying with us us; so that through death he might destroy its power and set us free.

In Jesus, God reaches out to us - to all who suffer - in vulnerability. 

God continues to reach out to mothers crying out, to communities whose future is disrupted by the loss of children.  

God reaches out in Jesus Christ to bear the weight of pain and violence on the cross.

God reaches out in the resurrection to demonstrate that human wrath does not extinguish love.

God reaches out in the power of the Spirit to call us to live in the light of that hope. 

Trusting in Jesus, God with us, is not an escape from world; nor is it an attempt to conquer it in our own strength.  Rather, in him we seek the transformation of all that is by acts of compassion and justice which resist abuses of power.

The Gospel makes manifest the power of love in birth and death and in risen life; in a human family, in a complex world, in the midst of agony and grief.  

Such love shifts our horizons away from control and manipulation.  The change of heart wrought by God's reconciling love disrupts our tribalism; it seeks a kingdom of justice and equity which challenges the human tendency to control or oppress.

The promise of Isaiah - of mercy and the abundance of steadfast love - if fulfilled in God with us.



Mercy and the abundance of love is revealed in the speechless dependency of an infant; revealed alongside all who flee for safety, we see strength in weakness.

In time, Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel.

We are to pray that our lives will frustrate the evil designs of others; that we might be agents of hope and reconciliation.  Hope that is rooted in a love that liberates, transforms and forgives. 

The promise and challenge of that is held in our Eucharist. Here God continues to give himself to us in the ordinary stuff of bread and wine; a sign of abundance and hope in a broken and fragile world.  Here we find assurance forgiveness, faithful love and renewed hope; here we learn to walk another way, the way of peace.

Jesus doesn't merely show us love or validate our human expressions of love.  Rather he demonstrates redemptive power of love.  Only he can forgive us, recall us, draw us into abundant life; he enables us to be agents of resistance, compassion and reconciliation.  

Let us pray [from S. Shakespeare, Prayers for an Inclusive Church]:

Weeping God
whose heart is pierced 
by the cry of the innocent:
receive into your arms
the waste of our violent;
confront the powers of fear
by the confidence of love;
and help us stand with all creatures
who bear the weights of cruelty and greed;
through Jesus Christ, Rachel’s child. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Wednesday 25 December 2019

Stormzy, shepherds and the good news of grace

A sermon preached on Christmas Day: Isaiah 9:2-7, Titus 2:11-14 and Luke 2:1-20




Last week, Stormzy was facing competition for the number one slot in the Christmas charts; but that’s not why he’s in the headlines.

Instead his name is trending on Twitter because he will be reciting a reading from Luke’s Gospel on BBC one tonight, bringing Christmas Day to a close.

Stormzy has talked about his faith; he’s sung about being blinded by God’s grace; he invited crowds in Glastonbury to give God the glory.

In that sense, he isn’t a surprising choice; but it’s not universally popular.

How can a grime star recite words from Scripture? 

He’s a voice from outside the traditional establishment who calls out racism; he engages critically with the music scene he’s part of; he’s a philanthropist who offers scholarships to enable young black students to study at Cambridge.

Perhaps then he is precisely the right person.

Someone who is honest about the darkness, the burdens and oppression; but who’s also glimpsed the light and joy of grace.

Perhaps Stormzy is precisely the person to share the good news of a world turned upside down.

A world turned upside down since the Son of God was born amidst poverty, oppression and need; born amidst the crowded, noisy town of Bethlehem; born in the frailty of our flesh, raising us up that we might share in glory.

Imagine the disdain, the first century Twitter feeds if you like, of knowing that a bunch of shepherds were the first to hear and proclaim the good news of Jesus’ birth.

Today we rejoice that unto us a child is born: authority rests on this little one; a speechless infant who is God with us; God who does not despise out human condition; but who rather loves us.

This little one is out mighty God; the prince of peace: the one who judges us not by wealth or status, but instead knows our restless hearts and all we most hope for and fear.

The heart of the good news we celebrate today is God is with us.

The Christ-child comes to set us free to love: to love ourselves; to love others; to love God.

This love is the main thing: it does not leave the world unchanged. 

As Pope Francis said, God loves even those who make a complete mess of things: ‘if we think we’re unworthy, if your hands seem empty, if you think your heart is poor in love, this [day] night is for you. The grace of God has appeared, to shine forth in your life’.

It embraces us and makes demands of us; there are new levels of expectation and new possibilities.  

Fear is turned to love; despair to hope; isolation to friendship; hurt to trust.

This love invites us to love with a compassionate commitment, making us zealous for good deeds, as Titus says.

God draws near to us each time we celebrate the Eucharist: as we receive the gift of bread, the nourishment of our bodies; as wine is poured out, joy for our souls; as we receive the grace of God’s blessing; and as we kneel before our crib, may we ponder the wonder of this birth.

Let us ponder love that makes us whole; and let us give all that we are, for those who live under the shadow of darkness. 

What greater grace could God have made to dawn us than to make his only Son become one of us so that we might become children of God. In that way, Stomzy echos Augustine on this dazzling grace: ‘ask if this were merited; ask for its reason, for its justification, and see whether you will find any other answer but sheer grace’.

Let us ponder this love; give our whole hearts in response:

‘What can I give him, 
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give him;
Give my heart.

Billericay, Barry, Bethlehem and Barnet

A sermon preached at Midnight Mass: Isaiah 52: 7-10, Hebrews 1:1-12, John 1:1-14


After months of waiting, we’re getting closer , hour by hour, to the epic Christmas moment.

It might be a long way to Bethlehem; but it’s also a long way between Billericay and Barry as Gavin and Stacey return to the BBC.

The trailer has wet our appetite: Gavin opens his front door to his best mate Smithy.

Are you asking me to step in, he asks?

Seconds later, they’re singing their hearts out to Elton John’s Step into Christmas.

We last saw these characters on screen back in 2010: then, life was complicated. 

Truths were told; feelings expressed; situations left unresolved.

And now: What’s occurin’?

How would Smithy adapt to the commitment of fatherhood; given Nessa’s own very particular style of parenting?

What would unfold for Gavin and Stacy?  One moment they’re struggling with the grief of infertility; the next their world is turned upside down with an unexpected pregnancy.

Billericay, Barry and Bethlehem.

Places full of complex families: hopes, fears and loyalty; tears, laughter and struggles; tenderness, forgiveness and ways of living with each other.

Gavin and Stacey, lush; Nessa and Smithy, may be; Mary and Jospeh, absolutely.

It’s into such a world as this, that God reveals God’s very self: a word of light, and life and love, made flesh; living with us.

This Word of light and life and love was from the very beginning.

This love created all things in and for love.

This life was breathed into our flesh and blood.

This light shines. It shines in darkness. It is never overcome.

The stuff of life and love is risky; it makes us vulnerable. 

We’re blessed by human intimacy with its trust and tenderness. 

But we’re also hurt by intimacy’s betrayals and fears.

We long for relationship - yet we struggle with loneliness.

We see fragmentation - and we long to bring community.

We’re capable of acts of immense generosity, compassion and selflessness.

We take the short-cut to satisfaction by being greedy, possessive and selfish.

But God still loved us and this complex world: as the writer to the Hebrews puts it, God continued to speak by the prophets - calling us back to ways of love and mercy and compassion.

But today we remember that God speaks to us by a Word, a Son: the fullness of life and love and light became like us.

He became a human being: love conceived in a woman’s flesh, birthed from her womb, nourished at her breast. 

The one who dwelt with us became part of human history: dependent on the love and commitment of Mary and Joseph.

This is our God: taking the risk of being as a vulnerable baby.

This is our God:  born in a place of powerlessness. 

God dwelling with us: refusing to refuse to love.

This is our God: there is no sorrow or joy that I won’t be part of.

This is our God: where it darkest, there you will find me.

This is the one of whom Isaiah spoke: the one who comforted his people.

This one says: I am with you in broken bread, in the joy of wine poured out, in the intimacy of a word of blessing.

Billericay, Barry, Bethlehem and the Borough of Barnet:

Places full of complex families: hopes, fears and loyalty; tears, laughter and struggles; tenderness, forgiveness and ways of living with each other.

We step into Christmas because God steps down to earth.

Whatever life looks like today, tomorrow or in ten years time: God is with us. 

A light shining in the darkness.

A light kindling in our hearts the fire of love.

A love that will not be overcome by darkness.

May our lives bring such light and love to others. Amen.


© Julie Gittoes

Tuesday 24 December 2019

On Joseph

Isaiah 7.10-16; Psalm 80.1-8, 18-20; Romans 1.1-7; Matthew 1.18-end


I like it that you are largely silent.
You speak with your actions rather than words.

Words from the feminist theologian, Nicola Slee, in her poetic meditation on Joseph.

What do you see when you look at Joseph?

He sings no song; he slips from view. 

But he is there: do we notice him, this man who loves bound up with love of Mary, and in our Maker’s love?

The Mysteries performed here last night, gave space for his loves; his emotions and his resolve.

He’s a man returning home from  a journey.

A man labouring in love for his beloved.

‘Come hither to’ he says; ‘be nought dismayed’ says she.

We know his toil; his longing from home. We see his longing for intimacy; a life together.

And yet he when he sees ‘a womb too high’ he fears that he’s ‘tarried too long’.

He feels betrayed and disgraced.

He appears to us a man who is bewildered and distraught. 
Mary’s words speak to him of a child with a heavenly father; but they cut no ice. 

He exclaims with questioning and disbelief ‘Goddes child?’

He walks away: to think, to rage, to grieve.

There is sorrow here; not cheer. He goes for a beer.

He resolves to do this: to spare Mary public shame and disgrace; he plans to dismiss her, to let her go.

In this space between of human resolve and fear, our medieval playwright puts words on Mary’s lips: she prays.

She prays to God the Maker’s love who made man; but in her womb is now being man made.

She prays that Joseph may know the truth; that God might ‘heal the rift’.

At first, perhaps, Joseph does not want to be troubled by the presence of an angel.

And yet, the message seeps into his heart: be not afraid, Joseph.

Marry your beloved Mary; for she speaks truly.

The child in her womb is conceived from the Spirit.

Name him Jesus.

He is our Emmanuel.
God is with us.

‘Change thy humour’, says the angel, ‘go cheer her now’.

He goes resolved to obey this new command.

He returns: he looks with love.

Greeting his beloved with a kiss; he seeks her mercy.

Seeks mercy from the God with us, flesh of her flesh.

He resolves to do this: he doesn’t cling to his fixed judgements; he seeks forgiveness for hurt caused; he speaks tenderly to his beloved; he acts with strength and determination on her behalf.

He resolved to do this: he resolved to love this little one; this child who is God with us; our Maker’s love in his mother’s womb.

He’s a man of loyalty and conviction: his character put now to new service.

Mary and Joseph travel together: cold and weary.

Each of them wondering what they have done; knowing they’ve been chosen to carry and protect this child.

Each of them echoing words of pray: offering all they have for God’s plan; asking for help to be strong. 

And last night voices softly sang:

Breath of heaven, hold me together, be for ever near me.
Breath of heaven, lighten my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy.

The breath of heaven is at work in this.

This pregnancy raises questions of faithfulness in Joseph’s mind for fear of human betrayal; but he learns this is actually a sign of divine commitment to us.

It is in this pregnancy that the breath of God chooses to be with all people. 

Our Maker’s love is made no longer hid from our eyes; but born in flesh and blood.

This body will heal and touch, speak and be heard; break bread and feed us.

For now, this body grows, unseen; his mother feels his kicks, and perhaps Joseph too.

In Mary’s womb, the breath of heaven is knit together with our flesh.  Sheltered; protected; sustained.

God is with us in an infant body that will be birthed and held and nursed.

In someway, perhaps Joseph offers womb-like protection. He shelters mother and child from Herod’s rage; he protects them as they flee to Egypt; he sustains them in that land by his work.

What do you see when you look at Joseph?

How might he inspire us to be more open and receptive to God’s love?

Joseph has an immense capacity to trust.  

Yes, he gives his feelings full reign - in his confusion and turmoil. And yet, when the angel reframes the situation - allowing him to glimpses the truth and mystery and love - he embraces that strange new reality. 

He teaches us how to seek mercy when we misunderstand. He teaches us to be unafraid to change our minds - to change our resolve - when we are confronted with a new reality.

Admittedly, biblical angels - like the angel we saw on the stage last night - are very convincing. Sometimes, it can be harder for us to grasp the truth so readily.

But then, Joseph was steeped in the promises of scripture too; he  heard the echos of Isaiah being fulfilled. He was able to join the dots and trust God’s faithfulness rather than human suspicion.

He was prepared to think the best rather than the worst. To risk love rather than hiding behind fear.

Joseph was also courageous. 

He showed courage in changing his resolve; courage in seeking a place for Mary to give birth; courage in taking them to safety.

In our own generation, countless families flee violence. They seek refuge and a place of safety.

It may not be that we are called to be “Josephs” in that front line responsibility; but perhaps we can be mindful of the support we can give to charities working with refugees; or to agencies offering women and children refuge closer to home.

Joseph fled with his family to protect them. He waited until it was safe to bring them home to Nazareth. We can only imagine during that time that he plied his trade and earned a living. 

As our medieval play depicted Joseph, he was a man who toiled and laboured in love. 

Perhaps the child Jesus, as he grew, learnt from Jospeh something of the creativity and skill of such labour; perhaps he appreciated the discipline of work, the effort and the energy.

The one called Jesus, our Emmanuel, saw in the stability of his earthly home the nature of life’s labour of love. 

There is something immensely practical in this; very down to earth. In exile and in homecoming, no doubt Joseph, like Mary, had time to ponder the the mysterious events surrounding Jesus’ brith.

A lifetime later, it’s in Paul’s handwriting that we see a distillation of all that Joseph had grappled with and learnt to embrace. His resolve was rooted in prophets and scriptures; he heard the shepherds tell of the good news of peace.

Like Paul, Joseph knew obedience of faith and the grace of his calling: we like Paul now belong to this Jesus.

Jesus draws us back to our Maker’s love. He is our redeemer. 
He is declared to us as God’s Son, the same declaration that Joseph received. 

He is the one who is risen from the dead that we might receive new life.

The one who was nourished by Mary and by Joseph now nourishes us in bread and wine.  We, like them, are to bring this light and love of God with us to others. Let’s return to Nicola Slee’s poem:

I like it that you are largely silent.
You speak with your actions rather than words.
You stood by Mary and did not disgrace her.
You raised the boy as your own,
though you knew he was not.

I like those medieval paintings of you,
doddery and old, falling asleep in the corner of the stable
or looking on from a little distance.
Perhaps you are crouching over a small fire,
cooking up some mess for your young wife exhausted by labour,
or coaxing her to eat.
There is tenderness in your bearing,
a gentleness outdoing the painterly meekness of the donkey and ox.
You don’t demand our attention.

I like it that you didn’t lord it over wife and child,
that you let them be the stars.
I like the fact that you’re no paterfamilias, ruling the household.
I like the kind of man you were content to be.



© Julie Gittoes 2019