Advent Vision
Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green
at Advent Carols, St Mary, Putney
You may have heard of a drag opera singer by the name of Keith Jurosko. He plays a 105 year-old Soprano, called Gabriella Tonnoziti-Casseruola. In his career he’s only once ventured into the outside world as Gabriella, when he had to fit in an interview with the BBC between acts in Edinburgh. During the taxi ride he became aware of the cabbie fixedly staring at him in the rear-view mirror and became increasingly uncomfortable. When they pulled in at the studio, a little anxious and embarrassed, he made to move off as quickly as possible but the driver pulled him back with his finger. ‘With your height’, he said, ‘and the weight of your chin, I’d recommend a hat with a broader brim’.
The temptation to judge people on first appearances is well known, but even with our own people, do we see them as they really are? Advent is the season of ‘watching’ and ‘waiting’'; the season of preparation for Christmas, for the coming of Christ. The challenge for disciples like us is to ‘stay awake’, to maintain our attention like the wise virgins. As our readings have led us this evening, it’s a season of darkness, almost of pre-creation, as we await the Light of the World, the divine spark present at that first moment of creation.
We’re being asked, then, how attentive are we in our vision? How do we see the world in its true light, people for who they are? We’re also mindful this year of an election, which has come like a thief in the night: how do we find the light at the end of the tunnel? And how do we see the future of Britain? In our present darkness, how do we see clearly, and in the light of Christ?
Well, imagine, for a moment, that you are about to get a new son-in-law. While he seems like his heart is in the right place, you notice that he is a little unpolished, not exactly common but a little lacking in manners and social graces. He is perhaps over-familiar, brusque, sometimes bordering on rude, always a bit juvenile. You don’t like his accent or the clothes he wears; you feel your daughter has married beneath her.
But imagine you have a change of heart. Reflecting on your son you realise you’re being a little old-fashioned. Perhaps you feel for the sake of your daughter that you ought to try harder. Now you see him as straight-forward rather than vulgar, spontaneous not undignified, friendly rather than brash, youthful not juvenile.
What has happened here? Perhaps you’re deluding yourself – he’s just obnoxious. But I’m trying to describe a situation here where someone might be trying to see more accurately, but also more justly and more lovingly. This may be a struggle. Between the son’s actions, and our own temperaments, we may return to our prejudices, lazily resort to stereotyping or caricaturing him in our own mind. Pride and prejudice. The attempt to see him as fairly and as kindly as possible is an on-going task, which requires persistence and attention. It’s the basis for most nineteenth-century literature. But in the end it means us adjusting our own character.
Of all our senses the one we are most likely to be duped by is our vision, precisely because it seems to be the most reliable. We think we see objectively. Our vision, though, is imperceptibly loaded with all kinds of presuppositions and judgements. When we see a taxi-driver we expect a certain sort of person. A tattoo, a hoodie, a haircut, a short skirt, an accent - all of these create tribal judgements in our minds.
I’ve always enjoyed the 1950s U/Non-U distinction, popularised by Nancy Mitford in distinguishing upper and aspirant classes. So one would say “I left my glasses on the mantelpiece by the mirror, when I got up from the settee in your lounge”, while the other would say “I left my spectacles on the chimneypiece by the looking-glass, when I got up from the sofa in your drawing-room”. I’m sure you know which is which. My point though is that even inconsequential words are social carriers of judgement and prejudice. Of course, the whole U/Non-U business is altogether Non-U.
How do we learn to see more clearly - to see more justly, more lovingly - when we’re seeing ‘through a glass darkly’ as St Paul says; or ‘through a dirty mirror’ if your translation is non-U. Iris Murdoch described this saying: ‘The difficulty is to keep the attention fixed upon the real situation and to prevent it from returning surreptitiously to the self with consolations of self-pity, resentment, fantasy and despair… It is a task to come to see the world as it is’.
‘The people who have walked in darkness have seen a great light’. In the season of Advent we usually think about the people who point to that great light, the light of Christ. We begin with patriarchs and prophets and then turn to John the Baptist and finally Mary. I want to consider John the Baptist briefly, just because he gives us a method for seeing the world more clearly. Now you might think “Well, John the Baptist went around naked, eating locusts and honey.” I don’t take advice from immodestly dressed gentlemen with peculiar appetites. But John shows the sort of attentive vision we’ve been talking about in two ways.
Firstly, he has taken himself out of the world in order to see it more clearly. He’s stepped back, retreated. And from this place he sees the politics, the hypocrisy and is not afraid to speak the truth. He calls the people to repentance and asks them to lead moral lives - he put himself in a place where he can think independently – and has the courage to speak out.
This is no less true for the church today. Simone Weil wote: ‘Christianity should contain all vocations without exception since it is catholic. In consequence the Church should also. But in my eyes Christianity is catholic by right but not in fact. So many things are outside it, so many things that I love and do not want to give up, so many things that God loves, otherwise they would not be in existence... Christianity being catholic by right but not in fact, I regard it as legitimate on my part to be a member of the Church by right but not in fact, not only for a time, but for my whole life if need be…’
It’s said that she received baptism on her death-bed but what more powerful sign of Christian redemption could there be than a refusal of the sacraments, to stand with the people who walk in darkness, in solidarity with those whom the Church has not recognised but are full of the grace of God?
The second lesson from John the Baptist is his self-effacement. John the Baptist points to Jesus. In every art work you see of him shows this with his bony finger stretched out away from himself. John the Baptist is not mesmerised by his own light, but points out towards the true light that enlightens everyone. “He must increase, but I must decrease”. This is the fundamental Christian virtue of humility and as Iris Murdoch wrote, ‘The humble man, because he sees himself as nothing, can see other things as they are’.
This Advent we’re called to attentive watching. This requires us to avoid prejudice and stereotypes, to not assume that a taxi-driver is unable to offer fashion advice. But also to question our own assumptions, to learn to look at our Son-in-law, our difficult acquaintance, with justice and love; to understand ourselves better so as to see others more clearly and kindly. The goal though is not merely self-improvement – the great religion of our age – the goal is directed towards the other. The point is to see the world and other people more clearly for their sake.
This Advent we may need time to retreat from the world to seek truth; to find the courage to speak the truth in love; And above all that supreme virtue of humility, of pointing away from ourselves and giving to God the glory; what we might understand as praise, which many of us, so keen to hold on to our own glory, find very difficult. May we be found watching and waiting, sober and vigilant; give light to our eyes, O Lord; as we prepare for the coming of the Light of the world at Christmas.