Perfect Days

 17 March 2024, Lent 5: Jeremiah 31:31-34, Hebrews 5:5-10 and John 12:20-33

Oh, it’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you.

Somewhere in downtown Tokyo, underneath the lights of the revolving Sky Tree building, Hirayama wakes up, folds the bedding away, washes, trims his moustache, mists his tree seedlings and yawns as he looks to the sky embracing a new day. 

It’s a routine which runs through Wim Wenders’  film “Perfect Days” - with minor variation in response to the people whose lives intersect with his quiet existence. Hirayama cleans toilets - with care and diligence - eats lunch in the same garden, takes a photograph - on film - of light through the canopy of trees - continues cleaning. 

Perfect Days

He goes to the same bathhouse, laundrette and cafe-bar; he listens to cassette tapes in his van, reads the books he’s bought from the bargain shelf, takes off his glasses and sleeps. He observes the mini-dramas of others -  his niece, a divorcee and colleague - quietly offering what they don’t know they need; his work renders him all but invisible, and steps aside to avoid inconveniencing those needed to use the facilities. 

Oh, it’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you.

Oh such a perfect day you just keep me hanging on.

He lives alone, without being lonely. He says little, but hears much. For him now is now, not yet is not yet.  His is an analogue world not a digital one: he lives lightly and simply, with a depth of attentiveness attuned to shifting moods: the shimmering light and shadows as leaves sway in the breeze, but also as the light and shadow of life, relationships, work and routines move around us. 

As these perfect days unfold, we see the world through Hirayama’s eyes; we glimpse something of his inner life. Despite hints of past sorrows - and occasional awkwardness, he has a sense of peace, his desires ordered to simplicity but above all contentment and a quiet joy. 

Such a perfect day.

Hirayama is inviting us to look at the world not just with our eyes but with our hearts open to its beauty. It is a way of seeing which sees the significance of the insignificant; which waits patiently for others to share the fears and sometimes takes almost foolish risks of generosity. 

Looking at the world with our hearts, and seemingly foolish risks of generosity, run through our readings today. 

In Jeremiah, we hear of a broken covenant, of God’s people being likened to an unfaithful spouse. But that is not the end of the story. God’s response to wayward human hearts and fractured relationships is to reach out again and again in love. 

There is forgiveness in the face of failure; a setting aside of the sin that separates and wounds. The covenant is renewed - renewed by the law being written on human hearts: love God with all that you are, love your neighbour as yourself. 

Oh such a perfect day you just keep me hanging on. 

You made me forget myself, I thought I was someone good.

Today's gospel begins with curiosity, seeking the good - with desire to see Jesus. We don’t know any more than that.

Are the Greeks seeking after the one who turned water into wine at Cana, bringing joy and abundance when human resources ran out? Are they seeking the one who fed thousands on a hill side and went on to describe himself as the bread of life, the true food?  

Had they heard of the stories he’d told which spoke of a radical kingdom of justice and peace - or of the conversations with individuals seeking to live out of an economy of love? Had rumours reached them that Jesus had called Lazarus out of the grave restoring him to life?

Perhaps this simple request went deeper than the desire to hang out with a celebrity - the equivalents of autographs and selfies.  Perhaps they did want to encounter the one who keeps us hanging on; who helps us forget ourselves, drawing us back to what is good and loving.

Jesus’ response in that moment is to meditate on his death - to speak in that moment of the hour that had come. Now was now. 

He names the fear and describes his life as seed falling to the ground - dying to bring life and fruit. He challenges his hearers to sit so lightly to this life - even to hate it - so that they might know eternal life. 

In “Perfect Days”, we watch as Hirayama notices a tiny sapling. The tree's seed has fallen to the ground and brought new life - but will struggle without light and nutrients. He takes it carefully from the soil, re-pots it at home and will nurture it until it can be given a place to flourish into maturity. 

Perhaps his way of living - in relation to his work, to creation, to others - is the kind of life giving subversion of life that Jesus is talking about. Hating the pace of a digital world; hating the rush to consume and exploit. Instead life is lived by noticing and responding: noticing where life can be nurtured, in the face of desires and worries; in the face of what we don’t know and even death itself.

On these perfect days… Lou Reed's refrain sounds more hopeful: you’re gonna reap just what you sow. Life, joy, compassion; the world seen through a heart inscribed with the covenant of love. 

Jesus speaks of his own death as a point of gathering all people together - people of all nations and languages. We are gathered not out of our choice but because of our need for love and healing; we are gathered because of God’s will and choice and being is to love us first. 

Jesus will be lifted up on a wooden cross that will become for us the tree of life: in the coming weeks, we will keep our own vigil around the cross - walking in its path - gathering around the agony and glory, the depth of God’s love for us, the ultimate communion. It is a song of love unknown - love to the loveless shown; our dear friend, who in our need, his life doth spend.

All that wounds us - all the world’s pain, hatred and indifference - is drawn into Jesus’ body: a sacrifice of love which dies like a seed, in order to bring life and replenish the earth. Here the fullness of God comes near to us, is made visible to us, in all that is overwhelming, frightening and alienating. As Hebrews expresses it, his prayers, cries are tears unite with ours; his suffering brings life and healing, calling us into obedience. Here God sees us - comes to us in our longing and loves us. 

Here, God reaps what God sows: drawing us to love and life with a compelling and mysterious power. It is strange. It is holy. Here we are drawn together in communion - bread of our basic needs, wine of the most joyous feast. Here our many bodies are united in one body - with the one who keeps us hanging on. 

As we shape perfect days - days of living lightly and intensely, of paying deep attention to the world and each other, may we remember it is for love. May we see with our hearts. May we love quietly, using words when we have to. May we plant seeds of hope, knowing what might have to die - in us and around us - for life to come.

Or, in the words of Laura Jean Turman, a queer writer and preacher from Atlanta:

Keep my anger 

from becoming meanness.

Keep my sorrow 

from collapsing into self-pity.

Keep my heart

soft enough to keep breaking.

Keep my anger 

turned towards justice,

not cruelty.

Remind me that all of this,

every bit of it,

is for love.

Keep me fiercely kind.

© Julie Gittoes 2024

Walking in Crosslight

Second Sunday in Lent: Genesis 17:1-7,15-16 and Mark 8:31-end

In yesterday’s Guardian, Monica Heisey explores what she calls the ‘joyless trudge’ or the British obsession with ‘going for a walk’.  She captures the refrain that perhaps we recognise from our childhood or being amongst friends: Where are we going? On a walk!

In lockdown, walking - without a particular destination in mind - has been a way to exercise, spend time with a friend, get away from the computer screen and relax. Whether it’s on the Heath, at the Welsh Harp or a circuit of Sunny Hill Park, we’re spoilt for choice when it comes to walking 

Yet, Heisey, such activities are aimless - ‘no destination, only journey.’

At this early point in Lent we are invited to walk: to walk before God; to walk the way of the cross.

And perhaps, like the journalist, we worry that that can be a joyless trudge; and yet our readings are inviting us to stay with the journey, even when the destination is uncertain or even unpalatable. 

We’re invited to in the way of the cross; and to allow its light to be good news.

Abraham and Sarah - Marc Chagall

Today we are invited to walk with Abram and Sarai as they face a new beginning. 

The journey begins at an unexpected and unlikely moment. 

Their journey thus far has included the companionship of the life together; but also the reality of childlessness. Whether through choice or circumstance, the social pressures and expectations of parenthood are still recognisable to us today - for men and for women. 

The ‘I am’ of God speaks into this place of ageing at a time when life seems short; when the light of hope grows dim. 

I am God.  I am God inviting you to walk before me. 

To walk with me; to be with me; to be blameless. To let go of shame and fear; of stigma and isolation. And to walk.

To begin a new journey.

Image: artist unknown, found here

This invitation to walk doesn’t have a clear destination; but it full of promise. 

This covenant is exceeds all that Abram and Sarai could count or imagine.

Where life seemed limited, now there is an everlasting covenant.

Where hope grew dim, now there blazes a multitude of possibilities.

One couple, becoming exceedingly numerous.

An old man, an ancestor to a multitude of nations.

An old woman, blessed mother of many peoples.

I am God. Walk before me.

Be blameless: love, trust, hope. Walk.

This is the covenant of God: a commitment to mercy and blessing and life. 

Image here

That commitment to walk in God’s way of love are not always comfortable or straightforward.

Peter discovers that in a painful way today. A few moments before the conversation we hear today, Peter had placed his faith and trust in Jesus - he had declared who he was. 

He named Jesus as Messiah; the I am of almighty God in our midst.

But then Jesus begins to teach the disciples that this way of being with us, of walking with us, would involve suffering. 

He speaks of rejection, suffering and death. 

Peter protests. 

He speaks from the heart.

He speaks out of the human instinct to protect the one he’s chosen to follow, listened to, and place his hope in.

He speaks of the human instinct to hold on to his understanding of what it meant to be Messiah; to the image of saviour as an all-conquering hero.

This is a painful moment. Peter rebukes Jesus because he cannot bear to hear let alone understand what is being said; to register the shock of this suffering love is hard.

It is a painful moment. Jesus rebukes Peter - but also keeping the disciples and each one of us in his gaze. For it is too easy and tempting to set our hearts and minds on human things. 

Jesus takes up the cross: image here

Jesus is inviting us to think afresh about the ways of God; about the way God’s very self is revealed in vulnerability.

It is only by focusing on the person of Jesus that a relationship begins; that we can come with our misunderstandings and questions, hopes and desires.

And here, in the company of the one who is God with us, glimpse mercy and truth. Catch the drift of the radical change he brings. 

For  hear we see God at the heart of the world; at the heart of what we experience. God is at the heart of the suffering, pain, confusion and uncertainty. 

God is there and, in the words of Rowan Williams, is transforming it  ‘by the sheer indestructible energy of his mercy’.

The cross bearers of Holy Week: image source here

Like Peter, we are invited to keep going. However hard it is at times to make sense; however many questions we have, we are called to follow.

To follow the energy of this mercy, and there to find life.

To let go of the dazzling prizes of the world, and to find life.

To recognise the force of God’s love, and to find in it new life.

The God who invited Abram and Sarai to walk before him, is the God who is the ground of our being.

Today, we are invited to see the ways in which Jesus changes what can be said about God. 

If this is where God is - walking the way of the cross -  then God’s love and mercy cannot be overcome or squeezed out by injustice, suffering and loneliness. 

Image from video-hive

Is walking this way a ‘joyless trudge’? No.

Is there no destination, but only journey? No.

This walk, this journey is infused with the light of God’s light.

A steady light that sheds light on the world around us.

A light that calls us to recognise the dignity of every human being; and to trust in the energy of God’s mercy.

Walking in cross light reminds as that in Jesus, God goes to the very heart of human experience; and there, at our weak point, brings life.

Walking in cross light delivers us from the circumstances or choices which bring sorrow; and instead invites us to be part of a story that speaks of good news and a new world.

God comes to the weak point and says this is not the end; comes to the place of sorrow and embraces us; to the place of regret and forgives us. 

We are to walk - remembering God’s tender mercies and loving kindness.

We are to walk - remembering that God’s mercy and love bring life, hope and forgiveness. 

Let us pray to the trice holy God to have mercy on us as we walk in cross light.

Holy God. 

Holy and strong.

Holy and immortal.

Have mercy on us.

 © Julie Gittoes 2021

Death is not the end

A sermon preached on Sunday 30th August: Jeremiah 15:15-21 and Matthew 16:21-28

On hearing of the death of the actor Chadwick Boseman, Martin Luther King’s son - a human rights activist said: he ‘brought history to life on the silver screen’ in his portrayals of Black leaders.

He’d portrayed the baseball star Jackie Robinson in 42; James Brown the soul singer in Get on Up; and in Marshall played the Supreme Court justice Thurgood Marshall.

But many of us will remember him in Black Panther the ground breaking superhero movie which shattered stereotypes.  He lent enormous dignity, strength, vulnerability and depth to the role. 

In a previous Marvel film, his character T’Challa says: In my culture, death is not the end. It’s more of a stepping-off point. 

That single line was chosen by many to serve as a testimony or tribute over the last 48 hours.

A line that perhaps expresses the hope that death does not have the final word; a line which expressed the faith not just of a fictional character, but of a man whose pastor recalled his commitment to worship and service. 

But also perhaps a line that is fitting for someone who lived his life in the face of death following a cancer diagnosis 4 years ago. 

As Black Panther, he was a superhero; as a man, Chadwick quietly, and less publicly was a role model. 

When visit a children’s hospital, undergoing treatment himself, he didn’t just bring toys and a moment of starstruck glamour; he brought joy, inspiration and courage. Barack Obama met him at a White House workshop. Obama’s own tribute called him blessed; that he used his own power to give young people heroes to look up to. He said, to do it all while in pain - what a use of his years.

What a use of his years.

Death is not the end.

It’s a stepping-off point. 

Image unknown, found here

Last week we reflected on the moment when Peter grasped who Jesus was.

Today, there’s a shift: from that point on, from that moment of recognition, Jesus begins to teach his disciples what being God’s Messiah means. 

The words of rejection and suffering and even death don’t seem to fit with Peter’s assumptions or hopes.

Perhaps he and the others held onto a a view of the Messiah as a superhero; a mighty warrior who’d transform the world.

He was not prepared for this ‘something else’; for the implications of love.

It’s perhaps understandable that his loyalty kicks in; he’s pained by rejection and suffering, it doesn’t fit his assumptions.  

It’s not surprising that his newly expressed and tentative faith should well up; that his reaction is one of protest and protection.

Peter’s words take Jesus back to the wilderness; to the experience of grappling with power, with vulnerability and with love.

The Temptation in the Wilderness: Briton Rivière

There, Jesus was haunted by the question: if you are the Messiah you can do anything.

You could grab attention and make some easy wins; create a spectacle and assert one’s might.

Peter’s words take him back to that moment of commitment to a way of love which went to the depths of human life. 

Here we see again the vulnerability of God with us in human flesh.

Last we heard that it was not flesh and blood that enabled Peter to express who Jesus was, it was an insight from God.

Today, we hear him speak with human concerns and attitudes; he’s invited again to fix his heart on God.

Jesus looks on Peter and sees the tensions between head and heart, flesh and blood, faith and fear.  

Jesus looks at him with love: love that blazes with challenge.

His response echo the words he used to confront the tempter: get behind me.

It’s a stinging rebuke: get behind me, get out of the way, don’t make me stumble.

But could it also be an invitation?

Get behind me: walk with me, place one foot in front of the other, follow me!

Follow me, be with me, learn from me.

From this time on the focus shifts. He Jesus is on the road now. 

The one who’d healed those who suffered, will suffer to heal the world. 

He’s on the road: walking to Jerusalem knowing that he’s on a collision course; knowing that he’ll confront those who hold on to power - religious, economic, political and social.

He’s on the road now: 

Whilst others might ask, what a use of his years; of his power.

But this is love. 

Death is not the end.

It’s a stepping-off point.

Jesus walks from Caesarea Philippi to Jerusalem.

He walks a narrow path; he walks through death’s dark vale.

And yet, in trial and ill, in fear and pain: this is not the end.

From this point of onwards, love is exposed for what it is. 

Love that bears all things: that aches and consoles, reveals the human heart and forgives. 

Jesus is committed to this path - the calling to walk to Jerusalem knowing that death is not the end; it is a jumping off point. 

Perhaps we too need to walk from Caesarea Philippi to Jerusalem: asking what we need to let go of and asking if we’ve been attracted to the wrong sort of power.

What do we see as we look at our city: the fears the bind us and the powers the oppress?

Stations of the Cross: Audrey Frank Anastasi

To walk this way of the cross, to get behind our Lord, is to take steps in love: to be with the suffering, the heartbroken, the curious and the lonely.

To walk this way, to get behind our Lord, is to let go of concern for wealth, power and status; it it to embrace our vulnerability, to find their courage and creativity.

And sometimes, like Peter our expressions of faith and trust and love with be both profoundly real, and also fragile.

Yet, as the challenges of life encompass us, as we struggle we find new life, new purpose and new hope. 

As our final hymn expresses it, we find in the cross our peace: for it’s very honestly about our human capacity to wound and to hurt. 

If today’s culture sometimes risks being an analgesic, numbing us to the reality of suffering and death; the cross becomes instead a jumping off point. 

A brighter day will dawn; all creation is renewed. 

This love makes its home with us; heaven and earth will praise.

In death, Jesus reveals the limits of earthly power and control; his love deifies our death dealing patterns of life.

In resurrection, we see that death does not have the final word. Through God’s power, death is not the end, but a jumping off point. 

The cross becomes the tree of life. 

But walking this way, living this live, sharing this love can sometimes be costly.

This is the source of Jeremiah’s lament.

As a prophet, he lived through a turbulent period of history: God’s people had turned away from the commandments and his calling was to deliver unwelcome truths about the consequences of their actions.

This calling - to speak God’s word - has been a joy and delight; but it was increasingly a burden and source of misery. 

It was hard to invite people to open their hearts to God; to turn their hearts outwards to others. 

Yet in that bleak place of isolation, God is with him; in his vulnerability, we see signs of authenticity and hope.

To be human is to be vulnerable: we cry and bleed; we labour to bring life; we labour in our dying; we love and hope and strive; we grieve and seek justice.

And when we’re vulnerable, sometimes fear of death can become fear of life, or fear of living. 

In trying to save our life we lose it: we keep our protective armour on and fear rejection. 

And yet, in that valley of the shadow of death, we need have no fear for God is with us; and will comfort us.

The way of vulnerability is an invitation to live lightly and intensely; to live wholeheartedly; every moment, precious; to love with mutual affection.  What a use of our years to encourage and show kindness to others; to bless and be hospitable; to welcome friend and stranger; to listen and be present. What a use of our years to love in ordinary. 

Brené Brown, who writes a lot about Christian leadership - says: We live in a vulnerable world - yet instead of leaning into the messy side of life we try to numb vulnerability, but we forget that vulnerability is also the birthplace for joy, gratitude and happiness.

Taking up our cross - getting behind Jesus as we follow him - makes us vulnerable: to ridicule and misunderstanding; it invites us to take risks for love, even when we can’t guarantee the outcome.  

Jesus invites us to walk this path: in him we find truth that sets us free - allowing us to be courageous and creative, to be authentic in love - alone and together.

Stock image

Jeremiah feed on God’s word: as to we as scripture is broken open, as as bread is shared.  

At the heart of cross shaped discipleship is the truth that the fullness of God is pleased to dwell in our fragile humanity; many of us will long to touch and take, eat and digest this word.

A fragile host, full of life and power; our anthem spoke of this body - a suffering body given for us; a dying body which brings us new and abundant life; transforming our bodies in his Body.

What a use of years.

To live in love.

Death is not the end.

It’s a stepping-off point.

© Julie Gittoes 2020

Hope is power

Jeremiah 23:1-6, Colossians 1:11-20 and Luke 23:33-43

Finally, after months of trailers and ubiquitous adverts, The Crown is back for its third season: apparently, the first episode takes exactly one minute and 20 seconds to show us a corgi, which [according to one commentator] is one minutes and 19 seconds too long. Something she’ll forgive because of Olivia Colman.

The words from the lips of Colman’s Queen Elizabeth are:  “Old bat”, spoken as she inspects a new portrait of herself to be used on postage stamps. This austere profile, is designed to convey a sense of majesty, marked the queen’s transition from a young princess to a settled monarch. 

It's 1964, and in the words of Bob Dylan’s song of that same year: the times they are a-changin. 

A General Election is underway. Winston Churchill dies. There’s a a new Prime Minister. There are rumours of Russian interference and of a KGM spy at the heart of the establishment. Beneath the glamour and weight of responsibility  there are scandalous shadows of the Profumo Affair. There are discussions of trust and character, of fabrications and truth.

And in this drama, lavishly blending together fact and imagination, the complicated dynamics of power and privilege, service and duty are woven are played out. They casts light on the world we inhabit: the contradictions and struggles of times which are a-changin’. It could well be 2019 as much as 1964.

Today, as we celebrate Christ the King - the feast of title of this church - the images of thrones and crowns, royalty and power are cast in a different light. 

This feast emerged in the Roman Catholic Church in the wake of the devastation of the Great War: it was in a sense a warning about the ways in which human authority could be both seductive and destructive. It was an attempt to place at the heart of public life the principle that Jesus Christ is the only King.

In the words of our opening prayer: Christ’s kingship is about peace and unity; it’s about enthroning Christ as Lord of our lives; it’s about drawing the whole of creation into the life of worship.

Jeremiah has sharp words for those who are entrusted with positions of leadership. The prophet calls out behaviour which is self-serving; and promises instead to raise up a new king. The Lord of righteousness will come with wisdom and justice, ensuring safety of God’s people.

That Lord doesn’t reign from a throne or palace or parliament: instead our Lord reigns with us in human flesh. God is with us in Jesus reigning in a manger; ruling amidst the messiness of our lives, leading us into God’s kingdom of justice, mercy, compassion and peace.

Today we see the reign of love from the very depths of human sorrow and pain. 

The Three Crosses Rembrandt, 1653

Today we are invited to gaze upon the face of the one who is our Lord: like those in our gospel, we look, and see and respond. 

The inscription over Jesus’ cross is clear: This is the King of the Jews.

It’s an inscription which provokes challenge and questions; silence and indifference. 

Some stood by watching. They keep their distance. 

Some stood by, gambling: casting lists for his clothes.

Some looked on, scoffing: from the position of their own religious leadership, waiting for a sign; for the ultimate miracle.

Soldiers looked on, mocking him. If you are the king, they ask, use power in the way we understand; use it to save yourself;

A criminal looked on: deriding him. Crying out with that same questioning ‘if’; If you are God’s chosen - do something to set me free.

Three ‘ifs’ echoing the temptations of the wilderness: temptations to use power for selfish ends, to impress others or to collude with the ways of the world. 

But there’s another voice. The second criminal. And when he speaks, he sees a different kind of glory and power; he sees victory where there is shame; hope where there is loss.  

He speaks out: ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’

For although our own mistakes and misdeeds are evident, God in Jesus comes to that place of humiliation and shame and brings the gift of mercy and forgiveness.

So often we are caught up in the regrets and stories of our past that we get stuck there.

Or we get so caught up in our own plans for the future, that we are ensnared by mere wishes.

What we do have is this present moment: and there, as he confronts death, this criminal teaches us what really matters. 

A sermon preached at the joint service for Christ the King - celebrating the feast of title at Christ Church. An amazing service - gathering to break bread in worship and break bread in fellowship - expressing what it means to be two  churches and one parish.

Today in the present moment we hear, those precious words of promise: the promise of paradise. This is a moment of hope.

We are invited to embrace this hope.

We embrace this hope as we take into our hands the body of Christ: in the wafer thin fragility of broken bread, we encounter the depth of love and the promise of new life.

As we hear in Colossians: this is what makes us strong; this is the source of our patience and joy. 

The one who is the image of the invisible God; the firstborn of all creation; show holds all things together. This one is with us.

This God has rescued us from the power of darkness; from all those things which distort power and which corrupt love. 

Jeremiah challenges us about the way we exercise leadership: in our homes and in our schools, in our churches and our workplaces, in public service and in our acts of charity.

We are called to bring people together rather than to scatter them; to enable them to flourish in safety rather than leaving them fearful.  

For us, as much as for Dylan, we can be sure that times they are a-changin’. The challenge and invitation is for us as Christians to be confidence and faithful in our witness - calling power to account, yes; but also reflecting the fullness of life and love God promises us now, though the power of the Spirit. 

Perhaps we can reclaim the new slogan adopted by the Guardian: change is possible; hope is power.

That hope is in Christ: so let us celebrate this feast. Rising to challenge of sharing the fullness of love; and the hope of peace and reconciliation. 

Change is possible; hope is power.

He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

Change is possible. Christ is king. Hope is our power.

© Julie Gittoes 2019