Light rather than certainty

 Midnight Mass 2024: Isaiah 52:7-10, Hebrews 1:1-4 and John 1: 1-14

The power of God. The ambition of men.

The pope is dead. The throne is vacant.

What happens behind these walls will change everything.

Poster - film ladder

Taglines for the film “Conclave”. Based on a novel by Robert Harris, it's been praised for its cinematography and stellar cast - led by Ralph Fiennes, Stanley Tucci and Isabella Rossellini. 

It’s a suspenseful, glossy thriller; dark and claustrophobic. 

The themes are familiar: ambition, temptation, conspiracies and corruption; but also humility, courage, growing self-awareness; moments of repentance and forgiveness. 

It names the impact of grief, the nature of friendship, and the longing for hope. 

In his address, Cardinal Lawrence speaks from the heart saying: There is one sin which I have come to fear above all others… certainty. If there was only certainty, and no doubt, there would be no mystery. And therefore, no need for faith.

Sin is what separates us for each other and God. The pursuit of certainty can drive us to conspiracies and erode our capacity to trust or understand others.  It’s elusive,  brittle and divisive. An enemy of unity and of tolerance, as Cardinal Lawrence puts it. 

Certainties are shaken by the sorrow of death, the joys of friendship and commitment to a better future. Doubt, mystery and faith are our companions in these things. 

Birth also shakes and undoes certainty. The wonder of first breath; the dignity, vulnerability and possibility of a life unfolding in unknown ways. 

The birth we mark this holy night is a mystery calling forth faith - tenderness and hope. A mystery of love which exceeds our imagination; the eternal one, who holds our lives, dwells with us.

The writer of the letter to the Hebrews reminds us of how God spoke through prophets, calling us to do justice, seek mercy and walk humbly with our God. 

We don’t need a conclave to reveal either how our motivations or ambitions fall short of that; or how precious is our humanity, how tender our grief, how restless our longing for hope.

In response, God chooses to reveal Godself by dwelling with us: the glory of the creator’s very being, the sustainer of all things, comes to us in wordless infancy.

This child grows into adulthood - healing, consoling, teaching, debating, feeding, welcoming. He overcomes the old certainties of our misdirected hearts by bearing the weight of that sin and strife in his own body. 

The power of God - in vulnerability.

The ambition of men - undone.

There is a death, yes; but in him life is restored.

What happens in him - in the world, not behind closed doors - changes everything. 

The Word that was with God and was God became flesh: lived among us.

The Word brings life and light. Light that enlightens, that shines in the darkness.

Darkness did not, has not, will not overcome it. 

Light. Not certainty. Light. 

Light breaks down certainties and awakens possibilities.

At the end of “Conclave” windows open and light breaks in, dispelling claustrophobia. There is air, breath and laughter. Light.

We cannot retreat from the world in its beauty and brokenness, but we can seek the light - by refusing despair, resignation and indifference. 

Light  opens us to the mystery of the other - resisting suspicion, division and suffering; not allowing hate to creep into our hearts. 

Dare we let light shape our imaginations - affirming what is good, binding up broken hearts, persevering in love for the sake of a renewed world 

In dark times of tragedy or sorrow, we can turn to the light. We can hunger and thirst for righteousness, seeking what is just, beautiful, good, true - even joyful.

This week, in one of the world’s darkest places, the Jerusalem Patriarch said to Christians in Gaza: ‘you have become the light of our church in the entire world’. 

He spoke of joy in being present with them; of love and solidarity; of the need to protect their hearts - in light and love and life - in order to be ready to rebuild.

In the darkness we might ask ‘where is the light?’. John reminds us that Jesus is our light and life, our hope and joy.

In the darkness of this night, this world, we receive him. Emmanuel.  God with us. 

We receive him in the candles we light, the crib we bless, the forgiveness breathed on us; we receive him in the peace we share, the bread we break, the wine we pour out and in being with each other.

We receive him in being blessed to be a blessing of light to others: to be messengers of the good news of joy and comfort, healing and renewal. 

May the light of Christ kindle a hopeful flame in us - flames of hope and joy, mystery, faith and love; undoing certainty,  dispelling darkness. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes

So, this is Christmas

 Midnight Mass 2023: Isaiah 52, 7-10, Hebrews 1, 1-12 and  John 1, 1-14

+ Today, in between the hospital and the crib service, this song came on the car radio:

So this is Christmas

And what have you done?

Our hopes might lie with John and Yoko: having fun with our nearest and dearest, the old and the young.

And so this is Christmas

For weak and for strong

For rich and the poor ones [but]

The world is so wrong

Tonight, the  atmosphere in Bethlehem is heavy with absence. 

A smaller celebration this year. No tourists or pilgrims filling the Manger Square; no carols or market stalls.  The city is empty from happiness, from joy.

There is a nativity scene: with the newborn Jesus surrounded by rocks and barbed wire.  

A Lutheran pastor in Bethlehem, the Munther Isaac, says: ‘the birthplace of Christmas is the place in most need of peace, justice and equality’. 

The holy child is birthed amidst the rubble of Gaza; birthed in the rubble of the kibbutzim too.

The Dean of Jerusalem reminds us that  Jesus was born in Bethlehem at a time of ‘terrifyingly brutal’ occupation by Rome and their ‘tyrannical client king, Herod’. He was born of a woman, born under the law, born a Jew.

Image of Bethlehem Nativity from Newsweek

In the words of Hebrews, the one who ‘sustains all things’ by a ‘powerful word’ comes to us in solidarity with pain and brokenness: the Word becomes flesh in a wordless infant.

God’s very being is with us in weakness and vulnerability. Not known or accepted - and yet in this new life the impossible is made possible. In the most unpromising circumstances a glorious light dawns in our world. 

For John - the Evangelist rather than Lennon - this is Christmas: ‘light shines in the darkness: and the darkness does not overcome it’.

Fearful times demand defiant acts of faith: to scan the skies for a glimmer of light, however faint and flickering, which might just be enough to form the basis of hope. 

The words we hear tonight are that spark; that fragile flame. It’s a story that invites us to let go of nagging fears, forgives old hurts and remakes our hearts and minds. 

Writing in the diary column of the New Statesman, Jeanette Winterson acknowledges our struggle to live in and carry this light but she says ‘that doesn’t mean the light is not there or that we are not drawn to it’.  

Dare we lay aside false gods - power that coerces, wealth that consumes, selfishness that makes life unsustainable? Dare we ask for what we need this Christmas - for comfort in grief, friendship in loneliness, acceptance that we are loved? 

The story of this night in all its beauty and mystery offers us new life in our fears and hopes.

It invites us to be messengers announcing peace, good news, salvation, healing - the reign of God with us. It invites us to sing - for comfort in ruins, for redemption in cities, for all nations to see the peace that is the salvation of God.

A few nights ago, Noa and Mira Awad - a Palestinian Israeli and a Yemenite Jewish Israeli - performed together at the Berlin Philharmonic Concert Hall.  They sang the words Think of Others by  the poet Mahmoud Darwish in Hebrew, Arabic and English with the refrain ‘if only I were a candle in the dark’.

The poem asks that in the midst of wars, we do not forget those who seek peace; that as we return home, we do not forget the people of the camps; as we sleep, that we think of those with nowhere to sleep; as we liberate ourselves, to think of those who’ve lost the right to speak.

Being a stubborn candle in the dark.

So this is Christmas

The fullness of God’s love in an infant - in a world such as this - drawing out of us a depth of solidarity, transforming us and stirring us to loving action. 

So this is Christmas

The fullness of that same love in fragile bread, in rich wine, in words of blessing: Christ’s body given for us in our brokenness,  calling us into solidarity - knowing the power of our voices, as messengers of peace, holding onto the light. Being a stubborn candle in the dark. This is Christmas.  Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2023

Break forth into singing

 Midnight Mass 2021: Isaiah 52: 7-10, Hebrews 1:1-12, John 1:1-14

Break forth together into singing, your ruins of Jerusalem, for the Lord has comforted his people.

There is something instinctive about singing.

Something so powerful about the human voice expressing itself in song: taking up a melody, holding the harmonies, daring to improvise, moving towards resolution.

In the notes and pauses, in the breath itself, the unsayable is made known

We find comfort in coming in breaking forth into singing together: and how much we’ve missed it.

Last year, we couldn’t sing carols in churches; we couldn’t sing along to Slade in the pub.

This year, new songs are competing for our attention to be a Christmas classic alongside Mariah Carey, Chris Rea, The Pogues and Kirsty McCall. 

Kelly Clarkson wikimedia

Ed Shreen and Elton John try to name the ways in which we’ve had to carry on with the love we’ve known and the ones we’ve lost. Kelly Clarkson’s sings that Christmas isn’t cancelled - even when places and favourite things are tinged with sadness at the memories of those we’ve loved.

She describes her song writing as something that can: “breathe hope into one’s life and let possibility wander”. 

And may be that’s what this night is about: breathing hope into life.

That hope is breathed into life as light shines in the darkness.

The darkness does not overcome it.

The hope is breathed into life as God’s very self becomes flesh and dwells with us.

Mary’s labour brings God’s Word of love to birth.

Our carols give breath to this hope; our voices make possibility wander.

Erland Sibuea, Nativity (2008)

We break forth together into singing: singing carols that name the “ruins” of a  ‘weary world’ that has ‘suffered long’; yet which invite us to ‘hush the noise’ and hear ‘the love song’ that angels sing.

We break forth together into singing: singing carols which name the “comfort” offered by the one who comes with ‘healing in his wings’; a newborn king born who ‘feeleth for our sadness’ and ‘shareth in our gladness’.

We break forth together into singing: singing on this ‘silent’ and ‘holy night’ of the child who is ‘of the Father’s love begotten’; the one ‘born this happy morning’ bringing  ‘light and life’.

This is the love song that gives breath to hope: the one who created all things in and for love - for relationship and tenderness, for community and trust.

This love song continued when our hearts are broken by grief and fear:  for the one who created all things in and for love, reached out to us through the prophets, who called us back to ways of compassion and mercy.

The Word of this song was breathed as life and hope in flesh and blood: Jesus took on the very stuff of life that makes us vulnerable.

From that starting point, this love song begins to open up new possibilities: for community and forgiveness, for intimacy and understanding, for purpose and joy.

We’re all in different places emotionally this Christmas: delight at time with family and friends, or longing to be away from pressures of work; rebuilding the habits of life we’ve lost; disappointment at what’s been postponed; the grief, anxiety, uncertainty and loneliness are real - co-existing alongside the laughter, comfort, opportunities and loves.

But today we celebrate the way in which God speaks to us by a Word, a Son: the fullness of life and love and light became like us.

Who shares the joys and the sorrows: who says, in the darkest hours, I’ll be with you. 

However hard it feels to live well - with the struggles, laughter, hopes and loves; with our longing for healing, peace, joy and comfort - there is a promise. 

A new song: I am with you. 

This love will win, even over death; this light will shine and not be overcome. 

This love opens up for us new possibilities: in the intimacy of a blessing received, in the joy of bread shared.

May the love brought to birth in our world through Jesus, be breathe hope into our life.

May the way we share that love with others, bring to birth new possibilities for our life together. 

May our lives echo God’s love song. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2021

What can we give? Our hearts

A sermon for Christmas Day 

Image: courtesy of BBC

Strictly Come Dancing has always offered glitter, glamour and a touch of escapism on a Saturday night. Perhaps in the disappointments, losses and struggles of this year, even more so. 

And here we are: a Christmas Day like none we expected. And here we are: a community welcoming this great little one whose all-all embracing birth brings earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth.

In the final, Bill Bailey and Oti Mabusi performed to Queen’s iconic song The Show Must Go On. 

They lifted the glitter ball trophy, hours after we went into Tier 4. Bailey said: ‘It very much was a rallying call… People are going to be isolated at Christmas. This is not just a song about the arts. This is an anthem about not giving up, keeping hope, getting through this!’

Albin Polasek: Shepherds and Angels

And we too are called to not give up, to keep hope and to get through this: together.

We’ve kept going: carrying out our tasks at home, at work, amongst friends and in our community. Like the shepherds keeping watch over those things we’re responsible for.

And there have been glimmers of light: acts of kindness and generosity; phone calls and offers of help; checking in with neighbours; opening our hearts to each other in the midst of the strangeness and loss, anxiety and isolation.

Today we, like the shepherds, are called to respond to a greater hope, a brighter light a deeper love.

Nicholas Mynheer: Nativity

For although, as Isaiah describes it, it can feel as if we are in a land of darkness: of social distance, financial pressure, disrupted eduction and uncertain futures, there is a new dawn.

A child has been born for us: after the pain of labour, in the frailty of our flesh, here is love.

God acts to transform the world, to open our hearts, through the greatest power there is.

Love.

Speechless and crying to be fed; dependent and carrying all authority.

This little one is our mighty God; the source of counsel and peace. 

In this little one, fear is turned to love; despair to hope; isolation to friendship; hurt to trust.

Dinah Roe Kendall: The Shepherds went to see the Baby

The shepherds seek out this little one of great love.

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

That God loves us and will not let us go.

Limitless love in frail flesh.

Risking all; enfolding us in its fullness.

Abundant. Unconditional.

Calling forth love.

In this little one, we see a  love bridges every social distance; teaching us new body language of care. 

Refusing to give up; keeping hope; getting through this with love.

Luke will go on to tell of this boy growing in wisdom and debating in the temple; eating with tax collectors and pharisees; embracing women and men, old and young; healing, teaching, forgiving, restoring.

Joseph holding Jesus while Mary sleeps

For now this little one knows the vulnerability of every human need.

This little one will bear great love in suffering, dying and rising to new life.

It is a love that wins: the Word of God with us that has the final word.

The Christ-child comes to set us free to love:

to love God; to love ourselves; to love others.

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

May this love keep us going in the disappointments, losses and struggles;  strengthen us to get through this with hope and perhaps a little joy too.

As we kneel before our crib, and sing joyful carols, may we ponder the wonder of this birth.

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

The carol at the end of today’s service speaks the earth as hard, the winter is bleak; yet the angels fill the heavens with light and song; it is Mary who cradles Jesus, kisses him; Joseph who takes him as his mother rests. 

This little family cradling love human and divine: drawing us to this light of love and hope. 

What can we offer or give, knowing we are loved this much? 

Our hearts.

Open the door; open our hearts; ponder what we find.

You are loved.

When the miracle happened it was not 

with bright light or fire - 

but a farm door with the thick smell of sheep 

and wind tugging at the shutters.

There was no sign the world had changed for ever

or that God had taken place;

just a child crying softly in a corner, 

and the door open, for those who came to find.

Nativity: Kenneth Steven [printed in the Church Times]

© Julie Gittoes

 

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