Breathing the words of Mary

 A sermon preached at our patronal with prayers for Her Late Majesty: Isaiah 61:1-11, Galatians 4:4-7 & Luke 1:46-55 

Standing in front of our Vicars’ board is a humbling and poignant thing: the dates  connect us to past generations, eras and circumstances. They mark out times of  conquest, plague and reformation; of settlements, civil war and restoration; of  empire, industrialisation and commonwealth; of the blitz and the welfare state, state  funerals and accession. 

Most of the names are unremembered apart from being said out loud by the  current incumbent wondering how they navigated change, how they, in the power  of the Spirit, shared God’s word and witnessed to Christ. 

They baptised at the font we use today; they, like us, took bread and wine saying  take and eat do this in remembrance of me; we are united with them in every ‘our  Father’. We laugh and weep like them; we comfort and seek consolation like them.  

We come as T. S. Eliot expresses it: ‘you are not here to verify, instruct yourself, or  inform curiosity or carry report. You are here to kneel where prayer has been valid’. 

Amidst the changes and chances of this fleeting world, we continue this rhythm of  worship and witness; dwelling in the eternal pulse of love, the fullness of God. Our  lives are but small things held within this overarching story of God’s love for the  world. 

Madonna of the Dispossessed by Mary C Farrenkopf

We trust in a God who works through small things: through one woman’s “yes”  God’s Son is made flesh; immensity cloister’d in [her] dear womb. It is through the  child-bearing of blessed Mary that we receive adoption as children of God, and if  children then also heirs.  

Heirs of a promise of a kingdom. Archbishop Fisher, who gave Her Late Majesty a  book of devotions as she prepared for her coronation, said: ‘The Christian lives in  two worlds at once; the world of Christ’s completed kingdom… and the world of  continued conflict against the powers of evil’.  

In some ways, Mary’s song - the familiar words of the Magnificat - is one which  shapes how we live between these two kingdoms.

Mary’s whole being is caught up in praise of God, the assurance of grace: she  embodies the words of Isaiah as mind, body, soul and Spirit are caught up in the  fullest expression rejoicing and exultation. She also calls us into service of God’s  kingdom on earth. 

On Friday, Bishop Sarah said: ‘A life lived in the service of others is a rare jewel. It is  a jewel that Her Late Majesty The Queen wore as a crown.’ Isaiah speaks of a rich  crown too - of jewel and garland, garnets and robes. These were no mere earthy  vesture but speak of God’s salvation and righteousness. 

Salvation being God’s power to heal, restore and make whole. Righteousness being  the quality of God’s faithfulness and loving mercy. Through Jesus, salvation is for  any and for all - the greatest and the least. Mary speaks of this promise, remembered  across all generations. 

In Jesus, the powers of evil are undone: though his presence in the world, through  his death and descent to the very depths of alienation and despair, though glorious  hope of resurrection. As Rowan Williams puts it: ‘he comes to his new and risen life,  his universal kingship by searching out all the forgotten and failed members of the  human family’.  

This is the stuff of the world of Christ’s completed kingdom. This is our hope. 

Mary names the conflict and struggle of this world. She gives thanks for what God  has done in faithfulness, blessing and generosity. She speaks of the consequences  for the world.  

The one whose name is holy will make known mercy from one generation to  another. And mercy is revealed in deliverance from poverty, exploitation and  domination.  

As this courageous, joyful, obedient and determined young woman makes the voice  of the prophets her own, God’s own Son is being knit together in her womb. Her  words look forward to the start of his public ministry: the poor lifted up, the rich  sent away; the hungry filled, the powerful challenged.  

She declares the work of salvation and righteousness in relational terms: human community  transformed, resources redeployed and imaginations enlarged. This is a song through which  we too are called to embody God’s compassion, love and mercy; through which we seek  all that makes for the flourishing of humanity and all creation. 

Today, we hold in mind the life and words of one who, as a young woman, made  vows and promises which she spent a lifetime inhabiting. Her Late Majesty was  greeted in an Abbey with great pomp and ceremony; but she also knelt, laying aside  regal robes and jewels, to be anointed.  

The Queen - photographed by Cecil Beaton to commemorate her coronation in 1953

In her book of devotions, Archbishop Fisher had invited her to ponder this moment  - anointed God’s servant until her dying day, drawing on resources of divine grace  with a heart, mind and hands to do his will. The words Fisher gave the young  queen were, ’in answer to God’s call and consecration, I dare to breathe the Virgin  Mary’s words: “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy  word”.’ 

We too as adopted children and heirs are invited to breathe Mary’s words as we live  trusting in God’s Kingdom amidst the real conflicts and challenges of the earthly  realm.  

Suc works are often about small things. Like seeds planted in hope - germinating  unseen - brings forth shoots from the earth; small things out of which new life and  hope springs up.  Bringing the margins to the centre is not the preserve of the new Prince and Princess of Wales alone; it is the work of all of us, members of Christ’s body; people who breathe in Mary’s words. 

God’s righteousness and salvation is enfleshed in Mary’s womb; from this small  God’s power and love is made perfect in human weakness. This power breaks  through in us too - as we break bread in remembrance of our living Lord; as the  Spirit breathes through us, strengthen us for service. 

In a small thing - a fragile wafer - we are fed, restored, strengthened by Christ’s  body; we become his body, receiving dignity and purpose as adopted children  and heirs.  

We receive this gift not just for ourselves but for the world. Here, even in our grief  we sing songs of hope and praise, vision and protest. Here, we commit to the  pursuit of justice, compassion and peace; to courageous advocacy for the powerless  and marginalized. Here, we like Mary, and all who dare to breathe her words,  commit afresh to acts of service as a nation mourns Her Late Majesty who shares  with us the inheritance of God’s kingdom. 

We sing Mary’s song in places of vulnerability and fear; we breathe her words in  solidarity with suffering and anxious. As members of Christ’s body we do small  things which bring healing and hope; bringing the margins to the centre, seeking  justice and peace. 

The day before her coronation, an archbishop invited a young queen to ponder this  peace in these words: ’But above all God has taken me into his peace and I praise for  his being what he is, for his goodness, his enabling power, the certainty of his  unfailing love’.  

As she takes our rest, may we continue in our service: may God be in my head in  our thinking, speaking and at our departing. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2022

What's your song to be?

A sermon preached on the Fourth Sunday of Advent

Last Christmas: Wham!

These are the rules of Whamageddon: it runs from 1st December until midnight on 24th; you “win’ if you haven’t heard “Last Christmas”; you’re out if you accidentally or intentionally hear Wham’s pop classic.

Thanks to Jeremy Vine’s lunch time show on Radio 2, I was knocked out of Whamageddon early on. You may have heard it everywhere - car radio, supermarkets, pubs and cafes, but not at our Christmas Fair.

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart

But the very next day you gave it away

Some would say that this song, written by George Michael in the bedroom of his childhood home when visiting his parents, has a timeless appeal. 

This year to save me from tears, 

I’ll give it to someone special.

His fellow band member Andrew Ridgeley called this refrain ‘beguiling’ and ‘wistful’: somehow ‘distilling the essence of Christmas into music’. He continues, saying:  ‘Adding lytic which told the tale of betrayed love was a masterstroke and, as he did so often, he touched hearts’.

In a way, this Sunday of Advent is all about hearts and songs. The Gospel that we hear today is so familiar that we might be moved to call it ‘beguiling’ and ‘wistful’; a story that in some way distills the essence of Christmas.

Today we hear of two pregnant women in their first and second trimesters greeting each other: there is energy and exclamation in this encounter; movements of unbridled joy in hearts and wombs. 

For each of them, pregnancy brings not only physical sensations and changes, but also intrigue and speculation. Mary left Nazareth in haste, perhaps wondering what Joseph would do; Elizabeth was at home, wondering if her husband would speak again. 

Hearts had been given away not in romantic infatuation but in love so deep that it is both mysterious and scandalous.

Yet here, there is the call and response of hearts that have been touched by love. In the company of her pregnant cousin, Mary finds both sanctuary and delight in the face of uncertainty. 

These women embrace and so enfold each other’s stories. As John leaps in utero at the nearness of Jesus in Mary’s womb, this human loving shifts to be a moment of worship, a moment of blessing.

Here there is overflowing joy and renewed trust; here, hope bubbles up with awe and wonder. Hearts are opened and given away in a love which moves from fear to communion, from promise to fulfilment.

Elizabeth’s words of blessing are but the beginning: as she affirms Mary’s faith and trust, when labour is still many months off,  the good news of God’s Word of love made flesh is magnified in a song of praise.

On Mary’s lips, there is a new song. She finds her voice. A voice which picks up the cries of prophets throughout the centuries: she sings of God’s strength, generosity and mercy; she cries out for the poor and broken hearted.

This is a song of hope and change. It names the ways in which the human heart can be turned in on itself in pride and self-reliance; it names our misdirected desires for wealth, and the ways power can be misused.

This is a song of hope and change: it names the way God’s blessing and love reverses the status quo. She described the honour given to the humble and the raising up of the lowly. The world she describes will be marked by the justice and mercy brought by the child she carries in her womb.

Mary and Elizabeth

This determined and courageous young woman - makes her voice one with the prophets. She does so not as a future hope but with the confidence of present reality. The God of whom she speaks has acted to raise up and fill, to bring down and to send.

This is song of describes what healing and salvation look like: as relationships are transformed; as imaginations are enlarged; as resources are redistributed. God’s compassion is embodied in human flesh and in networks of community; all this for the sake of the flourishing of the whole of creation.

Human lives magnify and amplify the loving purposes of God.Hearts are given away, but not betrayed; when lives are freed from tears; when next year brings the unfolding mystery of God’s love. 

In her song Mary sees the world as God sees it: she amplifies God’s love and invites us to magnify it in our own hearts. 

What then will our song be?

We are to make Mary’s song our own - committing ourselves to feed the world and banish fear; embracing the lonely, vulnerable and fearful; challenging those gifted with economic and social capital. 

The prophet Micah denounced dishonesty in business and superficial religion; he challenged the abuse of power and the exploitation of the poor.  He looked forward to a time of peace - when we could set aside our reliance on military might and the false gods of wealth.

And foretold that this work of redemption would begin in a small place; in a city which was home to a small clan. In Bethlehem, this marginal place, blessed Mary will go into labour. In this city her firstborn child - God’s own beloved Son - is born. 

Peace breaks in in the cries of an infant; in a babe at his mother’s breast.

Blessing is found in the fruit of Mary’s womb.

We are blessed by God’s love dwelling with us in flesh of our flesh. 

We bless as we become receptive to that gift, and channel that love.

Our world cries out for that gift of peace and love: a world of universal credit and food banks; a world of environmental degradation and refugee crises; a world of homelessness and zero hours contracts.

We respond to cries: singing increases our capacity to act; the Spirit strengthens us to seek justice, compassion and peace. We commit to Mary’s manifesto of struggle and change with hope and courage. 

The body Mary carries in her body is God with us. That body will teach and heal, console and provoke. That body will be beaten, mocked and lifted up on a cross. That dying body destroys death and brings new life. In broken bread, we are fed, restored and strengthened by his body; we become his body, receiving dignity and purpose.

We sing out in places of vulnerability and fear; we stand in solidarity with suffering and anxious. As his body we cry out for those seeking healing and hope; we act of those seeking justice and peace. May our lives be blessings of love.

This Christmas will we give God our heart; will God work in us to open hearts to those around us.

© Julie Gittoes 2021

Making Mary's song our song

A sermon preached at Sunday's Patronal Festival St Mary’s. In part revisiting reflections on the Magnificat in a different context - how her song becomes our song. The texts were: Isaiah 61.10 - 11; Galatians 4.4 - 7; Luke 1.46 - 55 

‘That human beings have rights; that they are born equal; that they are owed sustenance, and shelter and refuge from persecution: these were never self-evident truths’. 

So writes Tom Holland, the award-winning historian, biographer and broadcaster in an essay [in the New Statesman] entitled: ‘Why even atheists think like Christians’ 

His point is that Christian concepts and assumptions saturate the western world. In his typically epic style, Holland traces this from the Venerable Bede to Corbin via Marx, Churchill and many others.

The conviction that all peoples have a duty of charity towards each other is socially transformative, is bound up with the vision of Genesis that human beings have a common origin. 

We have to regularly recalibrate or reclaim the lived truth of that narrative - especially when Christianity itself is co-opted in political or social agenda that seeks to diminish the weak or serve only the strong. 

Campaigns to end discrimination flow from a presumption that we all possess inherent worth. Holland the historian turns to Paul the Apostle, saying: ‘the knowledge of what constituted a just society was written not with ink but with the Spirit of the Living God, not on tables of stone but on tablets of human hearts’.

One such human heart is that of Mary. The Spirit of the Living God infuse her song; her words saturate our world.

Chris Gollon - Madonna and Child (2013)

Today we are drawn into a moment of rejoicing and song.

It’s a moment which flows from the intimacy of Marys’s response to the message of an angel.

It’s a moment which reflects the hopes and promises of all the ages.

Mary’s song is first heard by an expectant older mother, Elizabeth: it’s an intimate moment of greeting and blessing, of recognition and joy.

Mary’s song echos through the generations bearing us up with our own cries of hope and protest, praise and delight. 

Mary journeyed from Nazareth to the remote hill country to give and receive kindness and affection. These woman in their first and second trimesters, share the same hopes and anxieties; the same physical changes and sensations of pregnancy. And in the midst of the expected gift of life, there is immense delight, excitement and energy. 

There is awe and wonder, joy and dignity. The name of their Lord is on Mary’s lips; promises of God are being fulfilled.  Words of praise and gratitude overflow into a song of hope and radical change. 

We make her declaring our own as we sing or say the Magnificat: Mary gives thanks for what God has done for her and she expresses God’s generosity towards her. 

She goes on to draw out the consequences for the world. The one whose name is holy will make known mercy from one generation to another. And mercy is revealed in deliverance from poverty, exploitation and domination. 

Mary - this determined, trusting, courageous and joyful woman - makes the voice of the prophets her own. The poor are lifted up and the rich sent away empty; the hungry are filled with good things and the powerful are brought down.  

Her song is a powerful declaration of what salvation looks like: relationships are transformed, imaginations are renewed and resources are redeployed.  This song calls us to embody the compassion and justice of God; the flourishing of the whole of creation is a promised fulfilled in the pursuit of equity.

We are to make Mary’s song our own - committing ourselves to feed the world and banish fear; embracing the lonely, vulnerable and fearful; challenging those gifted with economic and social capital. 

The prophet Isaiah has steer words to say to those in positions of authority: denounced their lies and superficial religion; he challenged the abuse of power and the exploitation of the poor.  He looked forward to a time of peace - when we could set aside our reliance on military might and the false gods of wealth.

Isaiah isn’t all doom and gloom: he looked forward to a day of rejoicing and righteousness and praise. 

In the passage we hear this morning, that this work of redemption is likened to the shoots from the earth. From the smallest seeds; planted, unseen, in the womb of the earth, new life and hope springs up.

Mary praises God because in her womb God’s word is enfleshed: new life and hope will be brought forth. From this small place their will be righteousness for all nations. 

In the fullness of time, God’s Son is sent, born of a woman.

Redemption breaks in in the cries of an infant; in a babe at his mother’s breast.

A Son is born under the law so that we might know adoption and grace.

Blessing is found in the fruit of Mary’s womb.

We are blessed by God’s love dwelling with us in flesh of our flesh. 

Blessing is found in the Son who makes us all children.

We bless as we come receptive to the gift of the Spirit, crying in our hearts.

A cry that is a channel of love.

Mary’s song rejoices that her body will birth the love of God in a tiny child; perhaps tinged with the fear that a sword will piece her soul too.

Her cry speaks of the power of God to raise up the powerless, isolated and exploited.

That power is made perfect in the weakness of human flesh: birthed and fed; teaching and healing; celebrating and rebuking; dying and rising. 

That power breaks through in us too: as we break bread, we do this in remembrance of our living Lord; and the Spirit’s power enables us to change the world for the better.

Our world cries out: for that gift of peace and love: a world where fires rage in the Amazon and sea birds swallow plastic; a world of zero hours contracts and food banks; a world of the homeless and refugees.

Cries are heard:

Her name is Yvette Abaka: a 50 year old mother of two. She has witnessed six years of war in the Central African Republic. NGO funding helped her and other women to start a bakery;  These breadwinners have created small, vibrant economic networks, bringing divided communities together.

Our world cries out:

His name was Perry Jordan Brammer: aged 15, stabbed on Willan Road Tottenham on 30th August. Members of the public who witnessed the attack gave him first aid. As he fought for his life. He died a week later.

Cries are heard: when groups such as London Citizens prioritise personal relationships; when institutions work together to work for the common good. Listening to listening to communities; combating knife crime, improving mental health and campaigning for the living wage.

Like Mary, we sing songs of praise and protest, hope and vision. We make her joyful song about God’s with boldness and tenacity.

We respond to cries: singing increases our capacity to act; the Spirit strengthens us to seek justice, compassion and peace. We commit to Mary’s manifesto of struggle and change with hope and courage. 

Some truths aren’t self-evident. They are written with the Spirit of the Living God; written on human hearts formed within Christ’s body.

The body Mary carries in her body is God with us. That body will teach and heal, console and provoke. That body will be beaten, mocked and lifted up on a cross. That dying body destroys death and brings new life. In broken bread, we are fed, restored and strengthened by his body; we become his body, receiving dignity and purpose.

We sing out in places of vulnerability and fear; we stand in solidarity with suffering and anxious. As his body we cry out for those seeking healing and hope; we act of those seeking justice and peace. May our lives be blessings of love.

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Crying out in song

The text of a sermon preached at the Cathedral Eucharist on Advent 4 - reflecting on the ubiquity of Christmas songs and the way that music can hook us back into childhood memories or cultivate a sense of community. It's Mary's song which takes centre stage. It's family words challenge us to think about the cries of our world and our part in singing God's song of justice. The readings were Micah 5:2-5a, Hebrews 10:5-10, Luke 1:39-45 [46-55 sang by the choir]

December is the season, more than any other month of the year, when our lives accompanied by a communal soundtrack. The Christmas classic is as ubiquitous as tinsel, mince pies and festive jumpers.

Supermarkets set the ‘Christmas vibe’ as play the sentimental schmalz of Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’, and the harmless cheese of Chris Rea ‘Driving Home for Christmas’; the Jackson 5 accompanies the last minute trolly dash with the up beat ‘Santa Claus is coming to town'; we leave to the bell-chimes of Wizzard's ‘I wish it could be Christmas every day’.

On an overcrowded, late running last train, there’s a spontaneous sing-a-long of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I want for Christmas is you’, enthusiasm turning to awkwardness when no one knows all the words; church choirs and music groups gather in their local pub for beer and carols, weaving Slade’s ‘Merry Christmas’ alongside ‘O come all ye faithful’. 

Perhaps we lift the needle to play the old vinyl of Elvis’ ‘Blue Christmas’; or, like me, find ourselves catapulted back to our childhood as Bonny M sing ‘Mary’s boy child’. 

Why do these songs get under our skin? Setting aside our inner music critic, they tap into our memories and emotions. When it’s cold outside, Christmas songs remind us of home; of warmth of friendship and community.  

But there’s complexity too. The songs which put a smile on our face are also the ones which express our loneliness and or the personal heartbreak of  Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’.  Others convey and urgency of protest; weaving together hope for change and calls for action. 

The Band Aid single ‘Do they know it’s Christmas time?’ remains as challenging as it was in 1984. Simon LeBon sings  ‘But when you're having fun / There’s a world /outside your window /And it's a world of dread and fear’. Can we feed the world?

Music is fundamental to celebration but what we sing shapes our hearts and minds. Our scriptures are full of songs of praise and gratitude, lament and protest; justice and hope; they express our human responses and invoke the promises of God’s Kingdom.

Today we are drawn into the intimacy of a precious moment between two women; a moment which has been taken up in our own songs and praise. The angel greeted Mary as full of grace; Ave Maria, gracia plena. Now Elizabeth calls forth blessing; Benedicta tu. Blessed are you; blessed is the child you carry.

The Visitation: Raffaella Sanzio

Mary journeyed from Nazareth to the remote hill country to give and receive kindness and affection. These woman in their first and second trimesters, share the same hopes and anxieties; the same physical changes and sensations of pregnancy. And in the midst of the expected gift of life, there is immense delight, excitement and energy. 

Elizabeth and her unborn son are responding not only to the presence of a beloved younger woman. The Spirit is moving in the face of human recognition to prompt them to rejoice in presence of God. John leaps in utero at the nearness of Jesus in Mary’s womb. There is awe and wonder, joy and dignity. The name of their Lord is on their lips; promises of God are being fulfilled. 

The Visitation 

But words of blessing and trust, fulfilment and joy are not the end point. For on Mary’s lips, words of praise and gratitude overflow into a song of hope and radical change. 

We make her declaring our own as we sing or say the Magnificat every day at Evensong: Mary gives thanks for what God has done for her and she expresses God’s generosity towards her. But she goes on to draw out the consequences for the world. The one whose name is holy will make known mercy from one generation to another. And mercy is revealed in deliverance from poverty, exploitation and domination. 

Mary - this determined, trusting, courageous and joyful woman - makes her own the voice of the prophets. The poor are lifted up and the rich sent away empty; the hungry are filled with good things and the powerful are brought down.  

Her song is a powerful declaration of what salvation looks like: relationships are transformed, imaginations are renewed and resources are redeployed.  This song calls us to embody the compassion and justice of God; the flourishing of the whole of creation is a promised fulfilled in the pursuit of equity.

We are to make Mary’s song our own - committing ourselves to feed the world and banish fear; embracing the lonely, vulnerable and fearful; challenging those gifted with economic and social capital. 

The prophet Micah denounced dishonesty in business and superficial religion; he challenged the abuse of power and the exploitation of the poor.  He looked forward to a time of peace - when we could set aside our reliance on military might and the false gods of wealth.

And foretold that this work of redemption would begin in a small place; in a city which was home to a small clan. In Bethlehem, this marginal place, blessed Mary will go into labour. In this city her firstborn child - God’s own beloved Son - is born. 

Peace breaks in in the cries of an infant; in a babe at his mother’s breast.

Blessing is found in the fruit of Mary’s womb.

We are blessed by God’s love dwelling with us in flesh of our flesh. 

We bless as we become receptive to that gift, and channel that love.

Our world cries out for that gift of peace and love: a world of universal credit and food banks; a world of environmental degradation and refugee crises; a world of homelessness and zero hours contracts.

Our world cries out:

His name was Gyula Remes: aged 43, a Hungarian national working as a chef’s assistant; there was no space for him in a hostel. He died at Westminster Tube Station. 

Cries are heard:

The baby has no name yet, rescued at two days old from a boat carrying 311 migrants off Malta. The mother is only 23; fleeing in hope of a better future; trusting in the immediacy of medical assistance. 

We cry too:

Like Mary, we sing songs of praise and protest, hope and vision. We make her joyful song about God’s with boldness and tenacity.

We respond to cries: singing increases our capacity to act; the Spirit strengthens us to seek justice, compassion and peace. We commit to Mary’s manifesto of struggle and change with hope and courage. 

The body Mary carries in her body is God with us. That body will teach and heal, console and provoke. That body will be beaten, mocked and lifted up on a cross. That dying body destroys death and brings new life. In broken bread, we are fed, restored and strengthened by his body; we become his body, receiving dignity and purpose.

We sing out in places of vulnerability and fear; we stand in solidarity with suffering and anxious. As his body we cry out for those seeking healing and hope; we act of those seeking justice and peace. May our lives be blessings of love.

© Julie Gittoes 2018