Showing posts with label pilgrim people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pilgrim people. Show all posts

Thursday, 14 November 2019

And did those feet?


A sermon for All Saints Sunday Evensong.

The author Tracy Chevalier, writes that when she is researching a new novel, she often does what her characters do [she explores this in The Guardian]

In preparation for Girl with a Pearl Earring - about the Dutch artist Johannes Vermeer - she took a painting class.

For her latest novel, A Single Thread, set in the 1930s, she learned some needlepoint, the craft of her heroine Violet Speedwell. 

Violet is making cushions and kneelers and during her summer holidays walks between the cathedral cities of Salisbury and Winchester.  



Chevalier also undertakes the literary pilgrimage as she begins the editing process. As she walks, she sees sights which would have been familiar to Violet - the prisons and the hospitals.

She notices the moments where life mirrors art: the place where Violet and Chevalier planned to sit, but where other walkers have already bagged the spot. 

She notices how very different life and art can be: the post-war suburbs the changed cropping patterns and the real-life layout of an imagined pub.

The novelist’s way echoes the desire to walk ancient footpaths and increasing popularity of cathedral pilgrimage sites. There is a desire to make connections and to make sense; to belong in a way which extends beyond the present moment.

Yesterday’s Guardian listed some of the well-trodden and lesser known paths:  St Finbarr’s Way; the Welsh Camino of St Cadfan; the ways of St Hilda, St Augustine and St Duthac. The ways the saints trod across Cornwall and Northumbria as well as the way to Walsingham, home to England’s Nazareth.

No wonder Dixe Wills opens her article with the words of Blake’s famous hymn, Jerusalem: And did those feet… a hymn which we will sing this evening.

Blake’s words invoke an ancient mythology that Jesus’ walked these mountains and pastures.

And yet the feet of God’s saints have walked upon this land; and the body of Christ still moves step by step through streets and woodlands.

To walk is to move at the pace of the Gospel: to walk that land takes time and risks interruption; place is measured by the human stride; we notice things, the changes and continuities.

This evening we gather as friends, as brothers and sisters, as strangers and pilgrims here on earth.  

We gather to pause to be caught up in this interlude of praise and prayer.  We bring with us the longings and fears that mark our faces; the hopes and sorrows that shine in our eyes. 

We celebrate that light shining forth in the lives of people across the generations who lived and died in deep attention to God and to others.  In the power of the Spirit, they bore witness to the love of God made manifest in Jesus Christ.   

We do not know all these saints by name. Yet the brightness of lives and their faithful prayers inspire us; their commitment challenged injustice and revealed the hope of a better world. We too are called to make known the glory of God's Kingdom.

The Saints we celebrate placed trust in God; they lived in and for his love - at moments of decision, moments of tenderness, moments of loss; in moments of contemplation and in the work the undertook.

Theirs is a holiness rooted in God’s love and forgiveness; a holiness that inspires and raises us up; it offers mutual encouragement.

Hebrews presents a list of very human saints: judges, kings, and prophets - those who sought justice, righteousness and mercy.  Gideon and Barak wrestled with doubts. Samson relied on his immense strength and was seduced by beauty. Jephthah and David wavered in faithfulness to God seeking their own gratification with dire consequences.  

Yet, God's Spirit restored them; they learnt courage, humility and wisdom.  Alongside them are the men and women who are unnamed and unknown to us, but who walk with us as God’s pilgrim people.  

In them we find hope; for God works through us despite our weakness.  They are commended for their faith, not their goodness.  In them, something of the light of God shines forth.  They are our companions. They inspire us to persevere when we waver or feel overwhelmed.  

Like them, we are to look to Jesus. He is a pioneer because in him, death is defeated; he is the perfecter of faith; he is our hope.  In his life, death and resurrection God’s Kingdom breaks in. 

Isaiah's vision is inspirational; but for it to become a reality we have to embrace the challenge of aligning our lives, our world with God's new creation. Through the Spirit, that same power is at work in us as we run the race set before us.

Isaiah speaks of the promise of new heavens and a new earth. Jerusalem is to be a joy and its people a delight.  Hopes will be realised and blessings will be poured out on all people.  No more distress, suffering, tears and death; no more exploitation and destruction. 

Instead God draws all things to himself in stability, refreshment and peace.  Our singing of Jerusalem is not an exercise in nostalgia or triumphalism. It can be something rather more hopeful and disruptive. 

Blake names the darkness and brutality that marks our landscape; and also a hope that heaven will touch earth. Beneath the text of his poem, he wrote a verse from Numbers:  "Would to God that all the Lords people were Prophets"



And perhaps that the bows and arrows, the shield and chariot are invoking: a spiritual armour which equips us to fulfil God’s purposes in the world. 

Each Evensong, we hear the honest cries of the psalmist; we hear the prophetic call to justice in Mary's song; we hear Simeon rejoice in the light of Christ.  Worship inspires us to build trust, to seek justice, to cultivate patience, to learn forgiveness.  Worship inspires with the beauty of holiness; holding the curious, the fearful, the joyful and the brokenhearted in abundant love.

As God's saints, we are not called to random acts of goodness but to intentional acts of witness.  Giving an account of the hope that is in us; the hope that creation will be renewed; that the signs of God's Kingdom are made known in love, justice and compassion.  We do that in the power of the Spirit praying within us; inspiring us; filling us with joy and delight, compassion and wisdom.

We are to embody Isaiah's vision - walking in the world as God's saints.  Be passionate, generous, forgiving encouraging and prophetically defiant.

© Julie Gittoes 2019

Thursday, 15 June 2017

Come, eat my bread


A sermon preached at Guildford Cathedral on the feast of Corpus Christi: Genesis 14:18-20; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; John 6 51-58.  The refrain ‘Come, eat my bread’ is a translation of Homo quidam by Thomas Tallis. Preaching on the Eucharist in the light of bread - what we waste, buy, lack and give - is particularly poignant in the light of the catastrophic fire at Grenfell Tower. 

Come, eat my bread - because everything is ready!

Toasted, it’s a breakfast staple. It’s the main component in a sandwich lunch.




Garlic bread, ciabatta, sourdough, rye: taken, broken and shared over dinner, perhaps with a word of grace.

Bread is the epitome of ordinary. But, from the days of Melchizedek, when combined with a glass of wine, bread is an expression of blessing, celebration, conviviality, peace and fellowship. 

Yet, in the face of this abundance,  32% of bread purchased in the UK is thrown away. That’s 4.4 million tonnes of edible food wasted as1000s queue at food banks. 

Bread is the stuff of painful paradoxes: we buy too much because we fear running out; but a cheap commodity is easily discarded.   The factory “white-sliced” competes with the artisan or homemade loaf for time, cost, energy, skill and taste.   



Is it that we’ve lost touch with the process of making bread? 

Have we lost respect for this ordinary, life-sustaining food?  

Do we squander this gift of creation and work of human hands?

Everything is ready.  Come,  eat my bread.



The bread we break tonight - this fusion of flour, kneading, resting and baking - is a sacred mystery.  We take ordinary bread so seriously, that through the power of the Spirit it becomes more than. More than material stuff - a gift of grace, of Christ’s presence with us - and in us.

Yes, this bread is blessed, broken and shared by human hands; Yes, this bread is placed into human hands to be touched, taken and eaten.  And yet, in this wonderful sacrament the King of kings has given himself to us for heavenly food.


On Maundy Thursday, we entered into the solemnity of betrayal, denial and death; tonight we enter with thanksgiving into the deep joy of Christ’s nearness to us and his promise to be with us for evermore.  

Every Eucharist is a repetition - but it’s never the same.  Paul wrote to the Corinthians reminding them of what he had received and passed on to them: that Jesus took the blessing and breaking of bread, and imbued it with a new reality. 



Even before those words were written down, Christians - followers of the way - had broken bread together. It’s not only a command ‘do this’ - it is relationship ‘this is my body, my blood’. It’s more than memorial, it’s proclamation. It’s not just what we hear, it’s who we are: ‘The body of Christ’.

Come, eat my bread and drink the wine I have mixed for you.

‘Was ever another command do obeyed?’, wrote the liturgist Gregory Dix. 

Today, in prisons, parishes, homes, hospitals, universities and refugee camps; at weddings and confirmations, at a death bed in hours of darkness and as rays of light breakthrough our Lady Chapel window. 

Over centuries in trenches, monasteries, slums, portacabins and palaces; in the face of persecution and influence, on the edges of the known world.  And Sunday by Sunday by unremarkable Sunday from Melbourne to Cairo, Beijing to Oslo, Guildford to Mexico City. 

Come, eat my bread.

This pattern of ‘non-identical repetition’ is like the continuity and difference in a Bach fugue or Jazz improvisation. The liturgical repetition ‘do this’ is just the beginning. This great feast of Corpus Christi directs our attention to Christ with us so that we might be sent out to be his body. 

Our communion with God and one another is renewed in this wonderful sacrament.  Heaven and earth touch; divisions cease; we glimpse the peace of God’s Kingdom. For a moment our alleluias resound with saints and angels.

This night we extend the moment of communion - my seconds, by minutes -  to ponder with reverence, praise and wonder ‘for with blessing in his hand, Christ our God to earth descended, our full homage to demand’.  But what we see, what we honour, is who we are. The Body of Christ.  

As we process with beauty and honour, with music and song, with rose petals and footsteps, we remember that Christ is with us - reigning over heaven and earth. That is our ultimate reality.  We reverence Christ’s nearness in ordinary bread, on steps looking out over the community. There we are challenged and inspired to walk in his steps, on this earth, as a pilgrim people. 




Yes, the profound mystery and wondrous reality is that ‘Word-made-flesh, true bread he taketh by his word his flesh to be’. But the equally profound and wondrous reality is that we have been grafted into Christ. By the power of his Spirit we are to both know within us and also show forth in our lives, the fruits of redemption. 

What that looks like has been demonstrated by St Clement's Church - and others - which have opened their doors in response to the fire at Grenfell Tower.  To those who have no bread, they said ‘come’.  ‘Come’ find refuge, breakfast, consolation; ‘come’ bring toiletries, clothes and food; ‘come’ pray, rest and know that you are not alone - in the immediate catastrophe and in the long term. 

In the power of the Spirit, may we too show forth God’d healing and reconciling love; may we too be with others as Christ is with us: in the mundane and in the crisis; in celebration and sorrow; in abundance and in need.

Jesus said, ‘I am the living bread’. The bread that he gave for the life of the world was his flesh.   

Come, eat that bread.
Everything is ready.
Come.


© Julie Gittoes 2017