Looking beyond the stars

This is the text of a sermon preached on Epiphany at Guildford Cathedral exploring revelation and incarnation; worship and joy; our ongoing journey of faith. The texts were Isaiah 60:1-6; Ephesians 3:1-12; Matthew 2:1-12.

When they saw that that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy.

Later this month, you’ll have the opportunity to become an amateur star gazer for the evening.  The external lighting will be turned off as Cathedral becomes home to a pop up observatory. Volunteers from our local astronomical society will be on hand to help you use telescopes to explore the night sky.

For a moment, the wonder, curiosity and expertise of the magi might be ours. The depth of space, of time, of light… it is the same sky that they observed.

They watched and calculated and scrutinised not for one night, but for a lifetime. They notice some thing new. A brighter light. A comet, a supernova or a conjunction of the planets?

This cosmic sign revealed to them the birth of the one who is the morning star: the splendour of light eternal and sun of righteousness; the love that said ‘let there be light’ is the love birthed in a stable; the love that is all in all, rest in a mother's arms, turning a house into hallowed ground.

The light has come - our light has come - in the midst of darkness: the darkness of the shadow of death, the darkness covering the earth, the thick darkness over the peoples.

This light dawns in the midst of political crisis and the brutal reality of human violence. Jesus’ birth takes place in time. In the time of King Herod. In the time of occupation, empire, threat and displacement; in the time when ruling by fear reveals fragility and creates instability.

It is in a world such as this that Herod finds himself acting as a catalyst. Those who’ve been guided by hope need help. In their desire to worship a new born king,  magi come to a palace, to the place we think power resides. In his desire to retain control of his own kingship, Herod consults experts and points the mysterious strangers beyond the stars to a a place. To a place where the child was.

When they saw that that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy.

Stefan Lochner, Adoration of the Magi, c. 1440, Cathedral, Cologne

This light dawns in the midst of political crisis and the brutal reality of human violence. Jesus’ birth in time, is the still point in a transforms the world for all time. In our time, with its violence, instability and displacement of people; in our time, God continues to reveal to us his patient and loving response to our impatience and fear.

And it looks like a child with his mother. This is God with us. In the midst of us.

And we pay him homage: this child calls forth joy, yes; but as God’s very self, this child causes us to kneel and to worship.

And treasure-chests are opened.

Gold is offered a sign of Jesus’ kingship, yes; but also placing all of our resources as the disposal of a different kingdom; a setting aside of our desire to control and embracing instead love.

Frankincense is offered as a sign of Jesus’ divinity, yes; an act of putting first the call to prayer and worship; a placing at the heart of our lives the deep attentiveness to God.

Myrrh is offered as a sign of Jesus’ reconciling the world, yes; and this healing means confronting pain, sorrow and despair; here, we glimpse cross, death and resurrection.

The light has come. It shines in darkness. The darkness does not overcome it.

The wise men’s journey continues on another road:  they go, resisting fear and abuse of power; they return, witnesses to love, light and glory.

The Christ child’s journey continues on another road: he goes with Mary and Joseph, and seeks refuge in another land;  he will return, to set us free, revealing God’s love, light and glory.

King Herod’s journey continues on yet another road: his fear turns to fury, fury to violence; his violence becomes lamentation and death.

And yet, love wins.  Still the light shines. In our world.

It is not overcome. It reveals truth to us. We have to decide.

When they saw that that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy.

We need to take heart from the diligence and joy of the wise; but perhaps we need to embrace their courage too.   For their quest throws up the deepest questions of identity: of who we are, who this child is and how we are to live in the world.

Day by day, we pray that the Holy Spirit might kindle in us the desire to seek and to find; to worship and to rejoice. In the light of the Christ child, not only do we see but we become radiant; our hearts over flow.  In the light of the Christ child, we experience something of God’s grace. The outworking of that grace is challenging; our imaginations our stretched, we live differently embodying God's wisdom in whatever we're doing this time tomorrow.


Such grace is, in the words of Rowan Williams, ‘the mysterious capacity to look in the face the destructive effects of human ignorance’. In saying this, he was reflecting on Shakespeare’s improvisation on the revelation which we celebrate this Epiphany; it’s a reflection on grace in Twelfth Night.

In a play which hovers between comedy and tragedy, we see the a journey of attentiveness and courage; an emotional journey of learning to make acquaintance with storms in order to love.



Shakespeare places us in the tumult of a ship wreck - drawing us into the lives of a rescued twin and a lost brother. He confronts us with the chaos of misrule, the delusion of self love, the cruelty of mockery; intoxicating passions and suffocating grief are played out in a whirlwind of mistaken identities.

The person who knowingly puts on a disguise, is the one person who effectively navigates the complex pathways of love. Viola’s is a love that serves and attends to the other; it is a love which is vulnerable and resilient; a love which is rooted in the assurance of faith and hope; a love which is neither defensive nor manipulative, but utterly authentic. Her maturity brings life, healing; it enables other to let go of their delusions and to interact more truthfully.

The resulting epiphany is of restored relationship as Sebastian looks on his disguised sister and says: Of charity, what kin are you to me? 
What countryman? What name? What parentage?

The revelation we glimpse today answers those same questions too: the mystery of Christ which has been revealed is about our kinship. Because he is God with us - living, dying and rising for us - we are children of God. As Paul puts it, we, the Gentiles, have become fellow-heirs, members of the same body, and sharers in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel.

If we are to seek wisdom like the magi and to love like Viola, we do so by entering into a drama which reveals our identity as members of Christ’s body.

The drama we enact today, names the shipwrecks and storms of our human condition: in the Eucharist, our fears, frustrations and desires, our griefs, betrayals and hopes are expressed.

The drama we enact today, names the patient and generous love of God which continues to reach out to us: in the Eucharist, we touch and taste and see grace that does not look away, light that continues to shine, hope that dispels fear and love that increases our capacity to love.

When they saw that that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy.

Our journey continues on another road: step by step, may the Spirit equip us to witness with boldness to the love of God, revealed in Jesus Christ.

Julie Gittoes © 2017

Who am I?

This is the text of a short piece entitled 'Identity and Incarnation' written for magazine called Focus which is circulated within our diocese. 

Who am I? I am Julie.

We all have a name by which we are registered; some of us change it later on. That name may differ from the name by which we are known - Ju or Jules. There’s an intimacy to our name. It roots us in relationships as a friend, sibling, spouse, colleague and citizen.

Our identity is tracked in ultrasound scans and birth certificates and medical records; electoral rolls, tax returns and driving licenses; our passport, bills and membership cards verify who we are.

This paper trail and our digital footprint acts as a web of ‘identifiers’: necessary to prevent ‘identity theft’; a means of contributing to the safety of others. In death, our identity is carefully marked out, in an electronic age, in pen and ink.

Identity is more than documents and records. Our identity is also reflected in our appearance; our ethnicity, local culture, class and religion; our tastes in food, music, dress; our personality traits and our accent.  

We express our identity in a rich variety of ways; we create a first impression and (whether we know it or not) make an impact on others. Who am I? A question answered in names, relationships, appearances; the memories we treasure and the stories we tell. We know that identity - yours, mine, ours - is composed of certain biological traits; but we are more than that.

This reality was expressed with profound assurance in a statement made by Archbishop Justin when responding to very public revelations about his paternity. He said: I know that I find who I am in Jesus Christ, not in genetics, and my identity in him never changes. 

Who Jesus is has an impact on our identity: on our self-understanding and on our sense of kinship; on dignity in the face of our vulnerability and hope in the face of mortality. Why? Because in him, God is with us:  with us in birth and speechless dependency; with us in grief and celebration, in feasting and sickness. 

His teaching is challenging; his actions restorative. Possessions, biology, gender and authority aren’t the ultimate markers of identity.  Samaritans, tax collectors, foreigners, children; the unwell, the ostracised, the powerful and the curious… and we ourselves are given new dignity as children of God.  Ultimately, God is with us in betrayal, agony, isolation and death.  By being with in human weakness and the depths of alienation, Jesus reveals that nothing can separate us from the love of God. 

Through the mystery of Word made flesh, we become children of God. In baptism, we participate in his death and resurrection. We are in Christ. Our self-understanding shifts as we see ourselves as God does - ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven. Our sense of kinship is expanded too. No longer limited to ties of ‘our family’ we share a spiritual kinship with brothers and sisters who are not at all like us in terms of outward makers of ‘identity’.

The assurance this brings is a stability: at our most vulnerable and when we let go of life. As John Swinton writes with eloquent wisdom in his book Dementia, we are held in the memories of God. That memory is also our hope of life that really is life: full, abundant, transfigured and everlasting. 

In the power of the Spirit we are to witness to this hope that is within us: that God was in Christ reconciling us.  That means that our ‘identity’ is an ethic or pattern of life nor an exclusive tribal marker. 

Who am I? In Christ, I am Julie.

© Julie Gittoes 2016

Hope - something more?

Our Lent Lectures at Guildford Cathedral have responded to the phrase 'Do not be afraid': hearing it perhaps as a challenge, an invitation, an imperative or word of assurance. We've been thinking about Catherine Clancy's exhibition on that theme (on display at the Cathedral this Lent). We have been considering which images draw us in, either because they resonate with us or intrigue us; and which paintings we find difficult because, perhaps because they're too bright or because we struggle to find a point of connection.

This Lenten journey has taken us from courage to a hesitant and generous love; from the presence of God in clouds to the peace of Christ in storms. We have thought about fear, grace and suffering; renewed vision, resilience and creativity. And now on the cusp of Holy Week, as we turn our hearts and minds to Jerusalem, I will contemplate the nature of hope.  Hope is shaped by scripture, poetry and art; drawing together our traditions, experiences and imaginations. It's an opportunity to think about where God meets us in the complexity of our lives - and how his Spirit draws us onwards in the face of death to new life.

If we type the word hope into Google, a whole range of images are thrown up: we might find a rather energetic figure looking to the future: outstretched arms embracing new horizons as day breaks.  It looks full of optimism, if a little romantic.   Perhaps we stumble across an image that depicts new life in inauspicious circumstances; flourishing or growth against the odds.

Some images have a recognizably religious feel: candles burning - we don't know why they're lit; the light is flickering in the darkness.  Flames as a sign of our prayers offered amidst confusion, curiosity, hope and love; tentative or assured expressions of faith made by human beings on a journey.


There are resonances of Jesus Christ, light of the world; perhaps in lighting a candle we are placing our trust in God; reaching out towards or acknowledging his presence near us. We staking a claim; naming a hope when we can least articulate it.

Finally, there's an image of sensing the dawn as it breaks; we feel the light pouring in as well as seeing it; even in the darkness, even in brokenness something of the beyond is breaking in.

Hope is a University and a Hospice: places of learning and living life in the face of death.  Hope is a radio station; a Swedish clothing company; a creative design agency. It's associated with inspiring or encouraging listening; an alternative lifestyle brand; developing corporate identities. Turn to Wikipedia - the source beloved of student and scorned by tutors - we find hope described as an optimistic attitude of mind based on an expectation of positive outcomes related to events and circumstances in one's life or the world at large. 

Psychologists, leaders, literary critics and cultural commentators all have something to say about 'hope'. But surely there is more to it than that? Hope isn't a brand, a naive wish fulfillment or transference theory.  However, it is important to acknowledge this dilution of hope; it might help us to make connections whilst witnessing to the good news of Christ.

We glimpse part of that 'more than' when we kept the feast of the Annunciation to the Blessed Virgin Mary: it's a day that in a sense takes us to the heart of hope.  When this joyful celebration falls in Passion-tide, as it does this year, there are deeper resonances. We can't simply romanticize this moment of encounter - between a young woman and an angel.  It is an occasion of thanks and praise; yet Mary needs to ponder the mystery and cost of the message. Following a greeting full of honour and grace, the words that fall from Gabriel's lips are 'do not be afraid'.  His assurance enables Mary to hear this promise with faith.

 The Annunciation- Fra Angelico (1387-1455)

By the power of the Spirit she conceives. Yet, as the words of the Preface express it: From the warmth of her womb / to the stillness of the grave / he shared our life in human form. To sing, 'all my hope on God is founded' is to fix our eyes on Christ: our prayer continues in him a new light has dawned upon the world / and you have become one with us / that we might become one with you.

We know the incarnation of God's Son by the message of angel; we pray that by his cross and passion we be brought to the glory of his resurrection.  That is the foundation of our hope: a God whose generous love is made known to us not just in the mystery and awe of the created order, but in abiding with us. Jesus is Emmanuel, God with us. It is not just that 'with-us-ness' that gives us hope; but it is the assurance of forgiveness and the renewal of vision.  Whatever we face and endure now, is not the ultimate reality.