Holy disruption

 Third of Lent: Exodus 20:1-17 and John 2:13-22

 

Image: YouTube still

The Prince of Egypt is a beautiful animation of an ancient story. 

A story of the struggle for freedom in the face of power and oppression.

It’s an epic narrative which blends the emotional intensity of human relationships with the presence of God. There is awe and mystery and intimacy. A God speaking in fire and cloud and in a still small voice.

The film ends with the moment that God speaks in today’s reading from Exodus.

It  ends with the giving of the Ten Commandments.

What makes for a cinematic finale is actually the beginning of a new phase of understanding God’s character and relationship with humanity, with us.

Here is a God who is loving and merciful. A God whose words demand a degree of courage and humility. 

For God speaks words which redirect our hearts towards love; words which name the damage done when our hearts are ruled by selfish desires.

Moses Delivering His Ten Commandments by David Courlander. 

The words that God speaks reminds the people of their story. 

The Lord God brought them out of slavey and into freedom. 

This God is the great I am: who was and is and is to come. There is no other. 

The words that God speaks forms a people with identity and belonging and purpose.

The Lord God has given them a way to live. To turn away from that - to give other gods, idols, desires and prizes central place - would have repercussions on future generations.

To remain faithful to God’s ways would be a blessing of love to not just the third or forth generation, but the thousandth. 

The Greyhound might be one of the few, if not the only, pub in north London with the ten commandments on the walls. 

And yet perhaps those words which God spoke ought to be just at home  convivial meeting place as in a place of worship.

These words: 

Honouring God’s name and embracing the command to rest. The holiness of God blessing and setting aside and hallowing the rhythms of time.

Honouring one another: in family relationships, in preserving life and in faithfulness.

Honouring community: not stealing, speaking falsely or coveting that which belongs to another.

All these words, held within a covenant of love.

A covenant of love, which as it was lived out and interpreted, included provision for widow and orphan; which released those in debt; which acknowledged that the earth was the Lord’s. 

Before the presence of God, and in the company of one another, God’s people are called to live in faithfulness to the commandments.

Jesus Cleanses The Temple by Jhoti Sati

What then are we to make of today’s episode from John’s Gospel? So soon after turning water into wine at the wedding feast, Jesus is overturning tables in the temple.

If God’s response to our failures to love it to keep on loving, perhaps we need to be alert to that fact that that’s not always comfortable; for the Lord comes to the Temple as a refiner’s fire.

Is this perhaps a form of holy disruption? 

Does it reveal something new? Does this action draw us more deeply into the mystery of God’s ways of loving?

This story feels familiar to us - the other Gospels place the episode in the final week of Jesus’ life; but John sets it at the beginning.

Here, Jesus doesn’t talk about the Temple as a den of robbers; nor does he remind his hearers that it should be house of prayer for all nations.

Whilst not naming exploitation or exclusion, Jesus seems to be saying something about himself, as well as the Temple.

Amidst the noise and hubbub and habits of trade, the Temple’s purpose, as a place of intimate and awesome encounter with God, has been obscured.

Alexander Smirnov - The Cleansing of the Temple

In the midst of this whirlwind of disruption, the bystanders ask for a sign to explain this action; they want to debate it.

Jesus doesn’t given them a ‘sign’ or miracle; instead he gives them something more like a riddle.

“Destroy this temple”, he says,  “and in three days I will raise it up.”

To take this literally sounds preposterous or outlandish.

The people don’t understand. John breaks the narrative wall to turn his gaze on us; to say to us, that Jesus is talking about his own body.

Here, at the beginning of his ministry, Jesus is making a bold statement about where God’s presence dwells.

Here, in flesh and blood, God is with us. 

But what Jesus reveals about himself - and the natures of God is the depth of loving.

Stations of the Cross - Alice Sielle

He points us to this arrest, death and resurrection.

In this holy disruption in a holy place, Jesus overturns what we thought we could say about God’s presence with us.

The God who’d led a people from slavery to freedom is leading us from death to life. 

The God whose commandments call us to faithfulness, rest, honour and obedience doesn’t stop loving when we make mistakes.

Instead, this God remains steadfast; dwells with us in Jesus; and through him loves and heals and forgives. 

This God puts out all our misdeeds; and makes us a clean heart.

In Jesus, we are not cast away from God’d presence; in him the covenant of love is extended.

This God calls us back from sin, selfishness, misdirected desire: and says:

If ye love me - keep my commandments. This God promises to renew us with his Spirit.

© Julie Gittoes 2021

Holy Tears

The texts of reflections from this morning's worship in Hendon. Sadly, the church wifi went down towards the end of this part of the service. 

Sinai: from creative commons

They journeyed. They entered the wilderness. There they camped. 

A place of escape; but not the destination. Open space; open skies.  Guided by cloud in the heat of the day; by fire in the cool of the night. 

And did the remember what God had promised Abraham? That they’d be blessed; that they’d be numerous than the stars; more numerous than the sand. Blessed to be a blessing. 

Sinai: wikipedia

They journeyed. They camped.  Freedom was uncomfortable in this strange land. They longed for the tastes of Egypt; of garlic and melons, fish and cucumbers. And yet, in this strange landscape, their needs were met with manna and quail. Freedom meant having enough.   

As they camped there before the mountain, did they know that that covenant would be renewed? 

Image: Yoram Raanan

Moses was one who led them: he’d demanded their freedom; he'd heard their grumbles; and still he spoke for them. He knew the wilderness. He’d learnt to turn aside once before.

In a wilderness like this, he’d dared to look; he’d stood on holy ground. Where the presence of love burned in the world and did not consume it. There in flame I AM spoke. The one who was, and is and is to come. 

Image: Rae Chichilnitsky

And I AM will touch his heart again; I AM will give voice to commandments and renew this covenant.  Obey and keep says the voice of I AM; guide these people through the wilderness that they may know a way of promise and peace.  

And will they honour the name of I AM; will they honour each other? For way back when, when Abram said ‘yes’ and Sarah laughed, a promise was made.  A people  grew like sand and stars; brothers dreamed and brothers parted; plenty turned to slavery; and yet God said, there is way of love.

Image: Richard McBee

Moses went up the mountain. The Lord called to him. I AM speaks and Moses listens. This is neither a burning bush nor an overshadowing cloud. It is just him. On this mountain. In this wilderness. Waiting. Breathing. Listening. But he must also speak.

Image: Lisa Fahey

He must speak of I AM who carried this people on eagles’ wings. I AM is like this majestic bird; carrying them from a place of bondage; preventing them from falling; drawing them home to Godself.

But fledglings must learn to fly. Before wings grow strong, the mother eagle swoops down and carries them up. Higher, this time. Until they grow accustomed to the air currents; and the beating of their own wings.  

Image: Ercole de' Roberti

The same is true for God’s people. We must listen to the voice of love, and obey it; we must adjust to the breath of love, and take flight on it this vortex of air. Keep it, this way of promise and peace.

Image: Nasa

For God loves the whole world.  This orb of life. Fragile. Diverse. Full of beauty and creativity, gifted freedom; yet consumed with the desire to acquire and control. I AM says they whole world is mine. Yet, with you I make a covenant out of all peoples; blessed to be a blessing; a light to lighten the nations. 

Image

More treasured than keepsakes, mementos and souvenirs; even more precious than the heirloom, or gift or childhood toy. This is how God looks on his chosen people; precious and beloved. Called to obey God’s voice and keep the covenant in order to draw others back to Godself.

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This is a holy nation: drawing near to the refining fire of God’s love; this is a kingdom of priests mediating something of God’s justice. And yes, the people embrace this call; and yet we know that for centuries the prophets continued to challenge and recall them to God’s ways of mercy and compassion.

Yet here in the wilderness there is a willingness to trust and obey; a willingness to listen and act; to receive a promise in order to bring hope; to embrace a covenant in order to bring light in darkness; to receive a blessing in order to bless.

The grace of this convent - this way of promise and peace - is a sign to the world of God’s love of humanity. 

We are heirs in faith; heirs of the promise of this kingdom. In Jesus, this promise and peace is extended to all.  So their answer is on our lips: everything that the Lord has spoken we will do. 

Will we seek after the lost sheep; will we go into the harvest?

Be bold and be brave in the way of promise and peace; bringing good news and raising others up.

Stock image

Jesus left the wilderness and came to his own. He walked amongst them. He went about in their towns and cities; we walked the land, step by step. 

He taught in synagogues: opening the scroll, declaring liberation for all held captive. He proclaimed good news: in him the kingdom of heaven drew near, touching earth and transforming lives. 

Image: unknown

There was something attractive and compelling about these words.  In Jesus the holy one, the great I AM had come near. He came alongside us in our suffering and sorrows; he came to the places of loneliness and despair and was in solidarity with us. 

Jesus loved. In him the heart of God spoke. In him, the love spoke and acted, living out the answer to our deepest longings. In him, this way of promise and peace is extended to all; we walk as members of Christ’s body, we are Spirit-led in making this love visible in the world. 

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And crowds were curious. They were drawn to the life and love they saw in Jesus. They were attracted to this good news of freedom and hope, of peace and healing. And yet, they were vulnerable.  They were harassed and helpless.

Icon found here

And Jesus looked on them - and we see in him emotional at the very dept of his being; a physical sensation that leads him to act. We are to look on the world as Jesus looked on the crowd: to be moved with gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, all-consuming love. We are to be jolted out of complacency or disconnection - and to see them with love.

These sheep - God’s flock - were harassed and helpless; scattered, stressed, vulnerable; crying out with hurt and longing.  In need of compassion and hope. We are to see each other differently, with the eyes of Christ; to respond differently with the love of Christ. 

There is longing and the season is ripe. Jesus responds to the crowd at the level of authentic human response; he will pour out love for them and us, going to the very depths of suffering and death to bring new life. 

Jesus sees their need and also calls others to pay attention. To see what is happening - and to listen to human cries and to obey God’s call. 

Image found here

And they followed him; and he called them.  And as we hear their names, we know that they like us are not perfect. There is humility in this list - we know some of the details of their lives: they were stubborn and argumentative; they were ambitious and misunderstood; they denied and betrayed. 

Yet these flawed human beings, like us, are capable of extending great love in our gestures - small, persistent and effective. And yet, they too are sent: they are sent to share the same space as Jesus. They too are to walk the land; they share is vulnerability and poverty; they share the journey and the resting places. They will face opposition and will raise others up.

They go and they make known a kingdom. Not only do they speak words of love and kindle hopes for justice; they bring the kingdom near. 

There are tangible signs of release as people are restored to dignity; as of healing breaks in. There are tangible signs of promise, as mercy is extended to those who have suffered; signs of hope as penitence is met with forgiveness. 

What will it take for the kingdom to come near today?

Image: The Artist's Tears - Jimmy C (James Cochran)

Do we see those holy tears? 

Tears of how racism has impacted on the identity of individuals; or how as whole we are less than we might be because of the exclusion of some. Tears of social and economic inequality - which means some bear the disproportionate impact of lockdown; which means as a society we suffer. 

Tears of repentance as we seek to learn, to listen to understand and to be better stewards of this kingdom. A kingdom which speaks, in the empty, desolate and vulnerable places of promise; a kingdom which speaks in the corridors of power and the places of plenty, of justice and peace. 

Image found here

But we have this treasure in clay jars: the frailty of our human nature demands a constant recalling to the claims of the gospel for creation; for the raising up of others to new life; and a gentleness in understanding ourselves and others. We have a gospel to proclaim; a way to walk in; a kingdom that is near to us. 

Miriam Therese Winter:

Be bold in the claiming of the gospel for the whole creation. 

Be brave in the lifting up of the life of God in every place.

Be firm in carrying the holy name of Jesus Christ into the place of worldly power.

Be gentle in the understanding of ourselves and one another. 

And may songs of the Creator sound with love in all the earth,

the tenderness of Christ Jesus cover the wounds of the people

and the truth of the Holy Spirit rise free in every age. Amen. 

© Julie Gittoes 2020

Let freedom ring

This is the text of a sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral at Evensong on 19 August. The texts were Exodus 2:23-3:10 and Hebrews 13:1-15 - both readings speak of the faithfulness of God and the call to liberation. 

Today, the American city of Detroit will be full of song and celebration as people gather to honour the Queen of Soul in her home town. It was here, in the church her father led, that Ree Ree as she was known locally began her singing career and her spiritual life. 

Aretha Franklin: 2009 inauguration - Ron Edmonds/AP

On a crisp, bright day, almost a decade ago, Aretha Franklin stood on the steps of the Capitol. Wrapped in a thick grey coat, paired with a striking hat, her gloved hands held the microphone, and she sang. 

She sang: ‘Let freedom ring’. 

Let it ring, ring ring… let freedom ring.

President Obama closed his eyes; and a vast audience was moved to tears. This was an historic moment but also a prophetic one.  Her voice expressed the hopes and heartbreak of many; it distilled the struggle against segregation and the legacy of slavery.  

Over recent days, tributes have woven together her life story with the impact she had on others. It has been said that she was the voice of America: she toured with Martin Luther King and at his funeral, her rendition of "Precious Lord" gave voice to the bewilderment and resilience of grief. 

Let freedom ring.

Pain and trauma were re-voiced in blues and soul; jazz and gospel expressed out a vision which defied abuse and turned heartbreak into strength.  Hers was the voice which spelt out R-E-S-P-E-C-T, enabling generations to voice their own cry for equality regardless of race or gender.  This voice was gift, crafted by skill and underpinned by character; flawed and flawless, hopeful and human. 

Respect!

In the words of Barak and Michelle Obama’s tribute: Every time she sang, we were all graced with a glimpse of the divine… In her voice, we could feel our history, all of it and in every shade - our power and our pain, our darkness and our light, our quest for redemption and our hard-one respect.

Let it ring… let freedom ring.

This cry is voiced in the scriptures which shaped Aretha’s life and shapes ours. The journey towards freedom is fraught with struggle - with power and pain, the darkness and light. The book of Exodus names the groaning and cries of a people who are enslaved.  The misery and suffering of the Israelites is observed by God; by a God who seeks to deliver them.  

How is that redemption song voiced? How does freedom ring? God works through flawed humanity to restore hope. A flawless glimpse of the divine is made real in human lives. Aretha embodied that in song. Moses embodied it in a call to lead.

The Jewish poet Yakov Azriel retells the family story of Exodus; inviting us to stand with Moses as something mysterious breaks into the mundane; as human curiosity meets divine holiness. He writes:

In the shadow of a burning bush, and in

Its light, we gaze beyond the desert dune.

Moses at the Burning Bush Rembrandt (1606 – 1669)

Moses' story is as complex as that of the Queen of Soul. A Hebrew by birth, given up for his own safety and raised in Pharaoh's palace; living in privilege yet aware of the injustice of the regime. His intolerance for abuse and exploitation leads to an act of violence. He's a man fearing for his own life yet his own people mistrust him.  The Moses we encounter tonight is a shepherd fugitive.  

Now he looks and turns aside: a bush ablaze yet not consumed. In Azriel’s words:

In the bush's shadow, and its light a thin

Unbroken thread of grace is seen...

There in the burning bush we see a flame of freedom.  God does not coerce Moses; rather he ignites his curiosity.  This isn't a dazzling display of power and glory. In shadow and light of an intriguing phenomenon, there's a thin line of grace which enables Moses to gaze beyond the desert dunes. In the darkness of exile there are glimmers of light and new purpose.

He hears his name.

The soles of his feet touch the heat of holy ground.

He hides his face.

His words: Here I am.

A voice: God’s ‘I am’.

The Burning Bush Dali (1904- 1989)

God chooses to act through one who already burns with a passion for justice. Moses will cry out for freedom in the face of systemic oppression.  The voice from this blazing bush is an invitation to us to; a call to courageously enact the possibilities of God’s goodness. This voice is, in the words of one Walter Brueggemann, ‘a flaming warrant for truth to power’. 

Moses goes on to express a number of objections to this challenging call. His reluctance is met by the assurance of support from his brother - and by God’s very self. God’s faithfulness as expressed in ‘I am’; the one who was and is and ever will be.  

God works through our passions and our voices can be threads of grace. Exodus tells one story of slaves and fugitives whose lives are marked by hope and blessing. Yet cry for freedom to ring out has not ceased. 

It’s no less daunting for us than it was for Moses to both stand on holy ground and respond to this call of radical transformation: of relationships, structures, priorities and communities. Our second lesson reminds us that this is about the whole of our life; but it also reminds us that we depend on the love of God.

The writer of Hebrews reminds us of God’s love in words which echo the voice from the flaming bush: Jesus is the same, yesterday, today and for ever. Jesus is ‘I am’, God with us.

For in him, God makes new his covenant and takes notice of human suffering. In Jesus Christ, God’s love reaches out to the vulnerable and marginalised. His teaching challenges the false assurance possessions, status and independence. His love meets us in the depths of despair and humiliation; and heals when we are wounded and fearful.  He bears the agony of the cross and the coldness of the tomb. And freedom rings out in resurrection life.

The writer of Hebrews also reminds us of the very practical demands of letting freedom ring out. Mutual love is revealed in friendship and support; our bodies can communicate tenderness, creativity, compassion and support.  We are to imitate those whose lives have revealed God’s love to us. 

 

Angel Unawares - Kimberly Ramey *

Hospitality is not confined to those we know - but to those with whom our lives intersect in fleeting ways. Those who are imprisoned or on probation, those who seek refuge or who become invisible in residential care aren’t kept at arms length as ‘other’. They are part of us.  We are to be content with what we have - a prophetic message in a world of zero hour contracts and executive pay increases, where human beings are still enslaved and trafficked.

Collectively and individually, we are to let freedom ring out: confronting the power of inequality, abuse, illness and discrimination. In our lives, that thread of grace, the glimpse of the divine, can run on.  It runs on in what ignites our passion for justice; in what kindles our compassion.  

Each of us can take a lead - in acts of service, influencing others, finding allies in campaigning and seeking the welfare of society; in living out R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

May we walk in the light of Christ, by the power of the Spirit at work in us, revealing something of God's love: Let freedom ring out. 

© Julie Gittoes 2018

 

*This painting created by Kimberley Ramey and the narrative accompanying it speaks movingly and honestly of the challenge of Hebrews and moments of hospitality which can be glimpsed or lost; sharing the image and the link to her work to read more about this.

Water, love and witness

This is the text of a sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral on Sunday 19th March: the texts were Exodus 17:1-7, Romans 5:1-11; John 4:5-42. The narrative about the Samaritan woman at the well is one of my favourite stories - full of intrigue and vulnerability.  Approaching it in the light of "The Woman of Lockerbie" added another dimension - particularly when set alongside Moses' leadership and Paul's vision of redemption. Water, love and witness flowed through the texts.

Water flows through today’s readings.

Water and love.

Love that reconciles.

Water that witnesses.

Witnesses to a love that heals. 

Our first reading gives us a glimpse into what that looks like in a gritty way: it’s an all too human scenario. People are tired, thirsty, irritable and quick to pick a quarrel. 

They’d been journeying by stages: a familiar routine of walking for many miles, pitching camp; some lighting fires, others seeking a water source. 

On this occasion, patience was wearing thin; the people wanted water immediately and their complaints escalate.  

Quarrelling over practicalities quickly became an expression of testing God’s faithfulness. 

As a leader, Moses cries out to the Lord with brutal honesty. 

He names the rising tensions which made him feel threatened; and in the face of his frustrations he takes responsibility - what am I to do with this people? And all this is couched in prayer.

Moses was a reluctant leader: perhaps that heightens his sense of dependance on God and on others in the fulfilment of the task entrusted to him. 

The answer to Moses’ lament is full of assurance: he’s reminded of God’s faithfulness from the flight from Egypt onwards. God will be with him - and will act through him.  

This time, he isn’t enabling escape through water, but the provision of water. And in all this he does not ‘go it alone’; he goes with the elders, with a company of wise and trusted people. 

Water flows. 

Water witnesses to God’s faithful love.

Love which heals tensions.

But the naming of place doesn’t gloss over the difficulties. 

Massah and Meribah:  Is the Lord among us or not?

That question takes us to the heart of human suffering. Last night’s performance of “The Women of Lockerbie” at Christ Church gave voice to that cry. A cry into the void created by atrocity. 

The grieving father, Bill Livingstone says: ‘If there is a God… and sometimes when I lie in bed at night I think that there isn’t… but if there is, he is absent from the world and pays no attention to the needs of men’.

This is a wilderness of a different sort: set 7 years after the Pan Am Flight 103 was brought down by a terrorist bomb, we’re drawn into the lives of those most immediately affected. 

The text encompasses the emotional, physical and physic trauma of grief; to see it enacted means taking time to hear cries of hope, despair, agony and determination. 

We wait with them for one night on a Scottish hillside when:

‘faith is hanging by a thread

again

ready to break

How easily faith is broken’.

Any yet water flows here too.

Those words were spoken by Olive, the leader of the laundry project; a project that sought the release of the clothes found at the crash site with a fierce patience. The washed, ironed and folded clothes and returned them to relatives whose grief filled the air. Why? 

So that they could: 

‘… give love to those who have suffered. 

So evil will not triumph’. 

Water flows in love.

Love that witnesses.

A witness that turns evil into love.

A love in which they could trust. 

Love was their answer to the ‘hate that had exploded over their town’, wreaking havoc their lives with wreckage. Water flowed into suffering. Resilience flowed from the release of emotions. Hate is turned to healing; grief to witness; darkness to light.  

Water flows. 

‘Let the washing begin…’ they say.

‘Hatred will not have the last word in Lockerbie.’

Water witnesses.

Love that reconciles. 

Water wells up.

At an ancient well, in the glare of the midday sun, we hear of living water.

Water offered, received and welling up.

John draws us into an encounter which is full of depth and intensity; vulnerability and disclosure. 

The Samaritan woman is part of a minority group. She was seen as spiritually ‘other,  politically powerless, and socially marginalised. Her identity was marked by fragmented relationships; by rejection, failure and fragile self-image. Alone, she goes to the well.

She needs water.

She longs for love.

She becomes a witness. 

‘Give me a drink’, say Jesus. He thirsts. He thirsts for God’s people to come together. He reaches out across the multiple divisions named by the woman herself. 

He asks for water.

He embodies love.

He brings reconciliation. 

We hear a conversation unfold: a relationship is created which restores trust, goodness and esteem. Perhaps as Jesus holds her gaze, shame becomes dignity. 

The Water of Life - Stephen Broadbent

Water drawn with a bucket. Thirst is quenched in practical compassion.

This is not enough: out attention shifts towards a deeper well. The wellspring of living water. Water with the power to sustain us. It’s an expression of everlasting life. It cannot be contained. Through the power of the Spirit it wells up in us. 

Jesus reveals that if we drink from the fountain of God’s love and compassion, we too become a source of love and compassion. He offers living water. He reveals himself as God with us: ‘I am he’ he says; I am the one is was and is and is to come. I am: the creator of all things, the Word made flesh, the life giving Spirit. 

The moment is disrupted by the disciples blundering in with their own preoccupations and questions. The moment breaks into a fresh movement of witness. ‘Come and see’ says the woman.

Her empty water jar is left behind because she is already living out of the deep well of living water. Her heart is full. She is desperate to share with others what she has received.

Water flows.

Love is revealed.

Witness wells up.

And what of us?

Like the people of Israel, we live with our own narratives of complaint: when projects take longer; when solutions aren’t obvious; when we lose sight of the original vision, or passion or motivation, when it feels as if disaster has struck. 

Yet like Moses, love must be expressed in personal prayer the wise leadership of a community.

Like the women of Lockerbie, we struggle with faith in suffering world: when grief makes its home with us; when the sudden disruption of death makes us howl; when hopelessness is met with kindness; when our love is wounded; when the intimate act of washing begins - of muddy kit, a soiled vest a much loved jumper. 

Yet for us too, hatred is denied the final word in creative and determined acts of trust and care.

Like the woman at the well, we experience hopes and concerns: when we feel excluded and ignored; when relationships are broken; when we get chance to explore the meaning of life and faith; when we discover our calling to love and witness. 

Yet each of us, as witnesses, become agents of reconciliation speaking joyfully of the life and forgiveness we’ve received. 

Water. Love. Witness. 

Like Paul, we are to speak of grace and faith; peace and glory. He speaks of suffering, endurance, character and hope - not to justify any form of human cruelty, hatred or violence, but to remind us that these to no have the last word. Love is the last word. Love revealed in Jesus’ life, death and resurrection; love which restores us, restores broken and sinful humanity.

Just as this sacred place is being transformed, may our lives also be transformed by the holy and healing Spirit. May we who’ve received new life in waters of baptism, witness to God restoring all things in Christ. May God bless our labours at home, amongst colleagues, in our communities.

Water flows through our readings today.

Water and love.

Reconciling love.

Loving witness.

© Julie Gittoes 2017