Seeing differently

Sunday September 25, 2022: Amos 6:1a, 4-7, 1 Timothy 6:6-19, Luke 16:19-31: a sermon preached at St Mary's and Christ Church

 

Last week began with words from Archbishop Justin on the nature of loving service, those we remember; whereas those who cling to power and privilege are long forgotten [Her Late Majesty's Funeral].  The week ended with a “mini-budget” and an MP [David Lammy] saying ‘I have a joke about trickle down economics. 99% of you won’t ever get it’. 

 

It’s a joke which we know isn’t funny. As the psalmist says, we trust in a God who gives bread to those who hunger, and the poor are still waiting for justice.

 

A sermon isn’t a lesson in economics or Trussenomics.. Rather it is an opportunity to see our world, its systems and priorities through the lens of scripture. The contrast is stark. Today, we hear of the prophet Amos pointing out that weath and revelry pass - alas, he cries, for those who’re at ease, secure, notable and rich - but who are not grieved at the plight of others.

 

We hear too from Timothy the familiar words said at funerals: taking us to the heart of the human condition ‘we brought nothing into the world, we take nothing out’ Therefore, we are to be content with food and clothing, and take hold of the life that is life. Loving service now - and hope in death, the gate of glory.

Paul warns the younger man Timothy that love of money can supplant love of God and obedience to God’s commandment: hearts turn inwards, swayed by harmful desires; succumbing to greed rather than generosity, comfort rather than compassion. But riches are uncertain and what we have we should be ready to share. 

 

We know that we are facing a cost of living crisis and that the most vulnerable are already suffering. Putting profit before people and selfishness over stewardship is cruel. As the CEO of the Children’s Society puts it: ‘billions in tax savings for high income earners is going to do nothing to help families bearing the brunt of this crisis’ [from Twitter 24 September]. 

 

Whatever our capital p  politics, it hurts us to see what God sees; in the words of Amos, we should be grieved at the plight of others. To acknowledge the brokenness and brokenness, the systems of greed and exploitation is part of our call to be capital p prophetic. 

 

In the parable Jesus tells, the unnamed rich man chooses not see what is in front of him as he feasts sumptuously - he neither acknowledges Lazarus nor alleviates his suffering. Lazarus is visible, human, real; longing for a crumb, consoled by the presence of dogs.

The Rich Man and Lazarus - James Janknegt

 

In this story, death is the gate of a great reversal: the wealthy, gluttonous foodie thirsts  in agony; the poor man is comforted by Abraham.  There is a chasm  set between them. 

 

Lazarus cannot be sent to do the richman’s bidding: neither in offering soothing water nor in warning his brothers. The wisdom of Moses and the prophets should be enough for us: love God and neighbour - alas for those who are rich.

 

There is an urgency to this uncomfortable story: it highlights what’s at stake; strips away the illusion that our choices are endless. It’s a story about wealth, the temptations of riches and the apathy induced by material comfort. It challenges us - whatever our financial position - to see the world as God sees it: to see the reality of suffering,  need and ultimately human dignity.

 

The richman couldn't not see Lazarus - he may have considered whether he was lazy or ‘deserving’ poor; wondered what led to his circumstances; tossed him spare change occasionally. He may have considered, as he entertained wealthy friends, how to solve ‘the problem’ of street homeless. He may have noticed him, but not truly seen him. 

 

Jesus invites us to see each other: to recognise our shared humanity, dignity and worth; to see the kinship between us. The one who is God with us, invites us to risk the cost and vulnerability of being in relationship with others; to hear their stories and see in their faces something of our own fear and fragility, indeed our own mortality. 

 

To see Lazarus, the richman would not only glimpse something of his own fractured dignity; to acknowledge his circumstances, privilege and complicity in the suffering of others. To see would be to admit ‘we bring nothing into the world, we take nothing out’; that to cling to power is to be forgotten; it is to be grieved at the plight of others, to be content with what we have and to share.

 

One of the refrains of Moses and the prophets is that love of God, true fear and awe of God, is the beginning of wisdom. If we show such reverence - to the one in whom we live and move and have our being - we cannot not have the same reverence for others: our fellow human beings who bear God’s image and indeed the whole of creation. 

 

We are all impoverished by the incapacity to grieve the plight of others;  by the trading contentment for what we have for craving more than we need; by exchanging short term profit for long term sustainability. 

 

To see in this way demands personal commitment and collective effort. It means finding ways to reduce or cross the chasm between want and plenty - a chasm we create and reinforce through the policies and politics we choose. It is unsettling because it demands courage and imagination, but Jesus subverts the norms and hierarchies we live by, crossing the chasm of life and death to bring new life.

 

In the book The Spirit Level  Richard Wilkinson and Kate Pickett argue that inequality has a damaging effect on society: ‘eroding trust, increasing anxiety and illness, encouraging excessive consumption’. Equality, they argue, is better for everyone.  The Joseph Roundtree Foundation called for more research on the policy and tax implications of their work - some of that includes recognition of our interdependence and need for security; reducing stigma and increasing commitment to the common good.

 

To take hold of life that really is life might mean bearing the burdens of others, being content with what we have and confronting privilege. We trust in a God who crosses over the chasms we construct and maintain - in Jesus we are shown a way of selflessness and loving service. As Archbishop Justin said, we are shown who do follow - losing our lives in order to gain them.

 

We have everything we need: created and creaturely goodness; the gift of forgiveness and the hope of blessing; we have the life, death and resurrection of Jesus; we have power of the Spirit gathering us together as one. Dare we offer healing love to our world - in what we spend, in how we protest, in what we campaign for, in who we see and who - and what - we serve. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2022

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

More than "table manners" - honour and dignity

 

August 28, 2022: Proverbs 25:6–7, Hebrews 13:1–8, 15–16 and  Luke 14:1, 7–14

Image: Louis Kahan - Jesus at the Wedding in Cana

People watching is a fascinating pastime: waiting in a queue, sitting on a park bench, taking the tube or anywhere you find yourself noticing the world passing by. 

We take in elements of their identity, their appearance and style; maybe wondering what their life story is or what’s running through their mind; are preoccupied with their phone or immersed in a book.

We catch something of their body language and their mood; do they seem content or anxious. We take in their interactions with others - friendly, dismissive, courteous, oblivious.

Likewise, perhaps others are watching us. 

There are times perhaps when we’ve felt uncomfortable, unwelcome or a bit awkward.

In today’s Gospel, Luke tells us that Jesus is both being watched closely; but also the one who is watching, observing, noticing what’s going on around him. 

He is people watching in a situation that highly recognisable to us: at social functions, school canteens, work lunches, leaving do-s, family parties, perhaps also our own dinning rooms. 

There are signifiers of social status or importance; indicators of belonging and popularity. Those who are gathering their posse; those sitting on their own. Perhaps we do have scanned the room for a friendly faced; looked at a seating plan with dread; or been asked to move or told, no we’ve no space for you.

Jesus observes those who’re watching him; and decodes what is going on in that room; he notices what underlies the table manners.

The historian Ingrid Rowland wrote a book called The Lost Art of Eating in which she notes that food is about identity, community, social status and conscience, as well as nutrition and appetite.  Who we eat with and how much, when and where are all markers of those things. She says that food is ‘the all sufficient metaphor for power’. 

Perhaps that is what Jesus notices too: the desire for social capital mapping onto the desire for wealth.

In his ministry, he feeds thousands when a small offering of bread and fish are given away; he prepared grilled fish for disciples after a night’s fishing. He talks about feasting and fasting; he eats with friends, disciples and those he meets on the way;  he sits at table with outsiders on the fringe and leaders at the centre. As guest or host, he notices when food builds community or undermines it. 

As he observes the social drama around him, he poses a challenge.

Drawing on the wisdom of Proverbs, he speaks of honour and humility. 

It could be heard as a way of gaming the social system: assume the worst place at the table to get invited to a better one. 

Instead of a new social strategy, he is pointing to the reversal of God’s ways with the world. We often use the word ‘kingdom’ to describe what that looks like - the world as the sphere of God’s influence or aligned to God commands. 

Jesus’ way of  people watching invites us to pay attention to what is going on around us - to give them our full attention rather than thinking only of our interests or place.  

There is both generosity and humility which stretches our imaginations. Once we can imagine the world differently, we might be able to live differently. 

If the metric social honour and disgrace risks self-seeking and shame,  is there a kinder and more generous way?

If we think less about ourselves, might we be more aware of others - their needs, worries, gifts?

If we sit lightly to the company we keep - and where we are at the table - might we make more space for others?

Allowing for a social life of gift - rather than reciprocity - allows all of us to flourish and be treated with dignity.

This is the place where our imaginations are shaped and where habits are formed; the Eucharist is where culture shifts away from self to other. 

In the calendar of saints, today we remember St Augustine: amongst his most famous and memorable sayings relates to the Eucharist: ‘you hear the words, “The body of Christ” and you reply “Amen”. Be then a member of Christ’s body, so that your “Amen” may accord with the truth’. Or receive what you are; become - in the power of the Spirit - what you receive.

Here we share in the life of Christ - letting go of our desire for status. Christ, the host, invites us to sit and eat; we know ourselves as beloved - as does the person extending their hands before us or kneeling after us.

God comes near to us in this gift of broken bread and out poured wine; in the proximity of blessing. The norms of social status laid aside; our dignity is affirmed. We are children of God - fed in this place that our imaginations, hearts and actions might be enlarged: with compassion and generosity, kindness and service.

As members of one body, we receive the gift of community; what ever our differences and gifts, our quirks and vulnerabilities, there is no place for humiliation or exclusion. Here, we pray that we may imagine a different world - where all are regarded with honour - and we dare to take that vision into our lives and work places. 

Here as we gather at one table, we are held in equal honour and dignity: it’s a form of social capital which can help to shape and heal the world. We’re invited into a widening circle of blessing which reflects God’s preferential treatment to the stranger, widow, orphan and poor; embracing the lonely and overlooked as well as the influential and well connected. 

This is the blessing mutual love about which the writer of Hebrews speaks.

Extending care and love to others, whatever their circumstances, is to entertain angels unawares.

Given the pressures and fears about the cost of living and fuel bills - the need for food, warmth and company - we are exploring how we use this space to extend hospitality. 

We’re considering how we can deepen relationships within community in the face of isolation and fear; using the resources we have together to enable relationships and build social capital. 

We are reminded today that even under pressure, we are not to neglect to do good and share what we have: 

At at time when many are fearful and lonely; when our hospitality and are creative industries are under pressure once more; when political leaders debate investment in housing, education, health and social care; when schools and care homes are concerned about budgets; and in many sectors workers are considering strike action it -  can feel overwhelming. 

As people are faith we are somehow to hold fast to the dream of our prophets and poets as we reflected last week; to commit to raising others us; and to extend the welcome we receive at this table to others. 

We all have a part to play at home, at work and in our churches: all of which make up the life of our community. Every seat we off is the one of honour; every conversation can be a sign of hope; every action an opportunity for loving kindness. In the power of the Spirit, we share the love of God revealed in Jesus, who is our guest and host.

For as Rowan puts it in the poem “Rublev” as we bake bread ‘we shall sit and speak around /one table, share one food, one earth’.

© Julie Gittoes 2022

Hold fast to dreams - raise one another up

 Sunday 21 August: Isaiah 58: 9b-14, Hebrews 12: 18-29 and Luke 13: 10:17

Jesus and the Bent Over Woman
by Barbara Schwarz OP. 2014

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

Words from the poet Langston Hughes:

Perhaps it’s something that poets and prophets have in common: they hold fast to dreams. Perhaps, that’s even more important when the land around us is parched, when sewage gushes into seas and humanity is thirsty. 

They hold fast when we want to see longings of our hearts quenched; they dream when we want to see neighbours unburdened, relationships repaired and our city built up. 

Now we need the poets and prophets; to hold the dreams and not let them die or go. 

We need to learn from them in our dreaming: straining against broken wings and barren fields and frozen hearts so that life, like a bird might fly.

Hold fast to dreams.

Hughes was twentieth-century black American poet who was described has having an ‘anonymous unity with his people’. Avoiding both sentimentality and stereotypes he attends to stories of joy and hardship, money and relationships, work and seeking work.

He wanted to hold fast to a dream: that humanity in all its diversity longed for security. The violation of those things offended his conviction that humanity is possessed of the divinity of God. Yet he hoped - he held fast to a dream - that the world and her people could understand each other. 

Isaiah too is holding fast to a dream. It’s a dream of the establishment of peace and security; of social life flourishing across generations. This is God’s dream.

There’s a poetic rhythm to our translation of the Hebrew: rebuild, raise up and repair. 

Holding fast to a dream speaks to places, people and responsibility: rebuilding the places where people live; raising people up and providing a foundation across generations; repairing the breach, those things which have come under strain, through the work of reconciliation. 

Hold fast to this dream is rooted in the sabbath principal: a revolutionary habit of work balanced by rest and liberation. Isaiah words demand that we refrain from self-interest.

Instead, delight is to be found in removing burdens from others: the yokes that are carried are removed by the provision of food and the satisfying of needs.

We might paraphrase Isaiah as a dream of freedom from all that diminishes human life and access to those things which allow everyone to flourish. 

This is God’s dream for human beings - relationships of support not exploitation; it’s God’s dream for the world - waters refreshing the parched places. 

Then there will be light in darkness.

The Word of God is that light - a light that stoops down into darkness in Jesus.

In the exchange we hear in today’s Gospel, dreams are held fast and made real.

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

We know very little about the woman who comes to the synagogue: but imagine for a moment walking in her steps.

Bent over and moving forward, yet seeing only a very little way ahead. 

A world of feet moving around her but without eye contact.

Feeling the heat of the day and cool of the night but not seeing the sun set or moon rise.  The mental and physical labour of each moment; and the isolation of not being seen; of going unnoticed. 

Yet she goes to synagogue; and today a teacher notices her. Jesus breaks off his words and sees her, addresses her; and sets her free. 

His touch relieves the yoke; her body moves in a new way; her perspective shifts; her lips sing God’s praise.

She stood up straight: released from her burdens.

The light breaks in at that moment. The crushed spirit, the hurting body, the lonely soul are met with compassion and restored to community.  The dream of God’s Kingdom breaks in; life is no longer a broken winged bird that cannot fly.

There will be times in our lives when we feel that the yoke of our circumstances weigh us down: financial pressures, grief, loss of agency, illness or injury, isolation.  

May this worshipping community to be palace where we are noticed, beloved, invited, set free.

All of us will know or encounter those who are exhausted, weighed down, marginalised: because of age or ethnicity or sexuality or gender; because of fears about the cost of living, finding a job, passing exams or mental health. 

May this place - and our way of relating day by day - give encouragement, release and dignity. 

God we hold fast to dreams. To God’s dream - a dream that goes beyond a collection of self-interests to the flourishing as humanity as one community, one family. God won’t accomplish it without us; we can’t accomplish it by ourselves. With God we can - and each of us, individually and together, have a part to play in the healing of the world; of setting others free.

That means living some space for God to surprise us. Luke tells us that the leader of the synagogue protested because Jesus stopped teaching, noticed the woman and acted with compassion; he rightly wanted to honour the sabbath, holding the commandments of faith and love. But perhaps like him, we sometimes hold on to what we know and do, that we miss the moment dream becomes reality.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

In Hebrews we’re invited to hold those two things together: our worship and God’s kingdom. In doing so, we honour the hope of sabbath rest and freedom. 

The writer of Hebrews sets out the destination: an unshakeable kingdom. They also plot the the journey thought images that offer security of people and place: a holy mountain, a vibrant city, a diverse gathering and assembling before God. 

Like the woman, we are children of a compassionate God. To be human is to be worthy of love and dignity. 

As we receive the gift and nourishment of the sacrament; as we are touched by words of forgiveness and blessing, may we find ourselves standing upright, set free to praise God. 

As we worship in reverence and awe, may we hold fast to the dream expressed by prophets and poets; the dream of restoration that Jesus brings. May the Spirit move us, equip us, inspire us to restore others to community; to notice those who’re weighed down to respond with compassion. 

In a fearful world, a world where many are denied dignity: hold fast to dreams, heal broken wings, quench parched fields, raise one another up.  Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2022