pebbles

 

There’s a man in a white house who seeks to manipulate everything to his personal gain, whose behaviour has made the world a more dangerous place. And there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I don’t even possess one single, solitary say in the land where he lives.

What I can do, what I did do this morning, is take shelter from the storm in God. To hide until the storm is past—one day, the waves the man is making in the world will have ceased; but the storm within me can be calmed much sooner. A child in their safe and secret place.

And so, this morning, I sat with God—in God—in silence; in prayer, which is a state of paying attention, of becoming more aware. We sat, together, God and I. And, like an autistic child with his pebbles, I took out whoever came to my mind and held them there, on my palm, to show God, ‘Look, look how utterly wonderful this one is!’ And in the silence shared between us, God simply said, ‘I know, I KNOW.’ Not, ‘I made them’—no need to take credit, though in fact God did make them; no need to take anything away from my wonder. And then, like an autistic child with her pebbles, God held out whoever came to God’s mind—and to be fair, they would not have come to my mind had God not shown them, for God’s collection of (unlikely) treasures is far greater than my own. But there is a level of trust there, between two persons, safe enough to show the other what matters most to them, which is usually beyond words.

And in the world beyond, I could not tell you what, if anything, had changed. But a storm had blown itself out. And that is why I need to return to this place on a daily basis in this stormy season.

Peace be with you

and also with you.

 

glory

 

Church was glorious this morning. Not slick—we don’t do slick—but real, and, glorious.

At Communion, in this Eastertide, we are using Eucharistic Prayer G, which includes the following words:

‘How wonderful the works of your hands,

O Lord.

As a mother tenderly gathers her children,

you embraced a people as your own.

When they turned away and rebelled

your love remained steadfast.’

It was precisely as I was saying these words that the youngest member of the congregation today, held in her mother’s arms, decided that she had a lot to say, and say with conviction. Glorious. I almost lost it in giggles at the perfect timing of this illustration, of what it means to say these words about God. Of who we are:

children in arms, sometimes wrestling against the love and security we need;

needing—and free—to express ourselves;

loved.

Glorious.

This is Church. The life of faith, from birth to death, embodied, enacted, given voice.

After that service we had a time of baptism preparation with two families, for a girl born in lockdown and the little sister of a big brother who had been born in lockdown. We role-played our way through baptism, its significance, and the connections between the symbols of oil, water, and a little candle, and everyday life.

This, too, was glorious.

And now, the sun is shining, and I am on annual leave.

Glorious.

 

un/aware

 

I wonder when you first became aware of the presence of Jesus?

Perhaps you were a child. If you are old enough now, perhaps it was kneeling by your bed saying your prayers before bed, though I suspect this generation has all but passed. Though if you are a Boomer or Gen X, and grew up in the UK, your mental image of Jesus was probably shaped by pictures like the one shared below, which hangs near the front at St Nicholas’ Church. Scandinavian Jesus, with flowing blonde hair and beard and blue eyes. Bjorn Borg at Wimbledon.

I wonder when you first lost awareness of Jesus?

It may have been in the wake of a bereavement, the death of someone you loved. Or in the suffering they endured before dying. It may have simply been that life, in all its busyness, got in the way. Or that the more you learnt about the world, whether its injustices or the wonders described by science, that the stories you heard told in church became implausible. For too many, it may have been a growing awareness of the gulf between what the Church proclaimed and how the Church acted, or between what the Church proclaimed and what Jesus proclaimed; and if this is your story, I am truly sorry. For others, who remained in church, it may have been that church itself changed, and something that had been deeply important to you was left behind (this, too, is bereavement).

I wonder when you became aware of Jesus’ presence again?

And, how that awareness grew. Often, as something intangible, a sense inside the body, that might be described as a burning—warming—of the heart, long before the understanding catches up. An integration of the life lost within the life we have now.

This repeated process, of becoming aware of the presence of Jesus, losing that awareness, and later becoming aware again, is the process by which we move from a naïve faith to a more mature faith; from rules (that train us) to freedom to love well; and from a dependency on certainty of knowledge, to peace with not needing to have all the answers. The disciples on the road to Emmaus move from not recognising Jesus, to seeing him, to not seeing him but now having a faith deeper than sight.

This is the process by which we leave behind that which has served us well (enough) in the past (even Scandi Jesus) but will not (cannot) serve us now. And how we differentiate between Jesus, and all the trappings.

This is the Way. And as we walk on it, we are accompanied by Jesus, whether we recognise his presence (at times) or not.

 

on playfulness

 

Playfulness can unlock things that other approaches cannot.

The Gospel set for this Sunday, Luke 24.13-35, is playful. The story takes place on the third day after Jesus’ death by crucifixion. Two of his apprentices are walking together, and as they do so they are ‘talking with each other about all these things that had happened.’ These things that had happened can mean these things that coincided or walked alongside each other. This is playful language. The hopes and dreams of the Palm Sunday crowd, the repeated confrontations with the authorities over the following days, the rumour mills operating on overtime throughout the city, the sad awkwardness of the Last Supper, the terror of Gethsemane, the numbing disorientation of Calvary, the death of their Messiah, the emptiness of the Sabbath, and the incomprehensible insistence of the women; all these things have walked alongside each other over these days. And as the two apprentices walk alongside each other, throwing all these things that have walked alongside each other back and forth between them, Jesus came near, coincided, and walked alongside them.

Moreover, they will tell him about the apprentices who did not see Jesus. These two apprentices who do not see Jesus, walking right alongside them. Their friend and teacher, and the one at the very epicentre of the events they are discussing, is, in their eyes, a stranger; and, even among strangers, uniquely uninformed and unaware.

It’s playful.

Playfulness involves both the imagination and the body. The way the storyteller, Luke, describes the two apprentices discussing all these things that had happened draws on the imagery of tossing a ball back and forth between them. ‘The press of the crowds. Catch!’ ‘The Temple tension. Catch!’ ‘The taste of roast lamb and bitter herbs. Catch!’ ‘Um...Grief. catch!’ ‘Er...Total incomprehension. Catch!’ Luke doesn’t say that they were actually throwing a ball, but when we are wrestling with too many things—and too many emotions—at once, doing so might help.

They arrive at Emmaus towards the end of the day, as the day is bent and bowed, with age. They press upon the stranger to stay the night, and put together supper. And Jesus does something physical: reclines at the table, takes hold of the bread, acknowledges, with gratitude, its God-given goodness, tears it so it can be shared, offers it to his host companions (companion: literally, one with whom we share bread). Unhurried. And this is the moment their eyes are opened. The moment of recognition. Not in his exposition on the road—though that certainly did something—but in simple, and repeated, actions. Again, when we wrestle with disappointment and confusion, receiving bread and wine in Communion is an anchor, enabling us to see Jesus in circumstances where we are kept from seeing him.

It is at this point, too, that they realise that their hearts had burned within them as he spoke on the road. That something deep inside was reaching out to Jesus, even when they were unable to recognise him. The body does what the conscious, controlling, mind could not. Bypasses the intellect, which follows slowly behind like a dullard. Playfulness, again.

I wonder when you have been disappointed, in your faith? When you have lost someone you loved, or something that felt central to what you believed was taken away from you? Or when you found yourself simply and utterly confused by it all?

I wonder what stories you can tell of encountering Jesus in just these times? Or what stories you might one day tell? And I wonder what place playfulness had, or might have, in the process?

 

on metaphor

 

It is often said that autistic people can’t recognise metaphors. But that isn’t true. Some autistic people struggle to grasp metaphor, just as some allistic people (that is, people who aren’t autistic) struggle to grasp metaphor. Moreover, autistic struggle to grasp metaphor might be quite different from allistic difficulty.

An example. I am perfectly aware that, when the scientific community speaks of the cloud creating a platform that enables researchers located in different parts of the world to collaborate, ‘cloud' and ‘platform’ are metaphors.

But the reason we turn to metaphors is, surely, that they convey a superfluity of meaning. And whereas other people might be able to recognise the metaphor and filter out most of the meaning, as an autistic person I need to acknowledge all the possible meanings.

Cloud coverage varies dramatically from day to day. When we speak of ‘the cloud,’ do we mean that some days the information available to us is overwhelming, or that sometimes access is unreliable? Probably not—though both these things are true, and so, if this is not what we consciously intend by the metaphor then it is an unintended benefit. Or are we drawing on a biblical image, ‘the great cloud of witnesses,’ to convey the idea that the cloud connects us to the experience of generations who have gone before us, on whose work our work builds (a platform, if you will)? Again, this might be unlikely (biblical literacy is not as high as I would like) but it fits. Or perhaps we mean that digital information surrounds us, but is invisible. This would be an imprecise metaphor, as clouds are not invisible. And yet I suspect that this self-evidently imprecise use might come closer to the choice of metaphor. Here, each piece of data might be considered a water droplet, which coalesces with others; but if so, the clouds would make more sense than the cloud.

As an autistic person, metaphor doesn’t work, for me, as a shorthand; it works as a door (metaphor alert) into a bigger world, a world I have to stop to explore, each time I come across it. The issue isn’t that I can’t recognise a metaphor, but that I can’t skim read. As it is, when I read, my brain uses measurable time and energy recalling the meaning of each and every word (to use a metaphor, I don’t have a mental dictionary that stores words in alphabetical order [itself something that escapes me] and with their meaning; let alone a ‘frequently-used words’ filing cabinet at the front of my brain) and metaphor slows things down even further. Because I love language, and precision that ‘literal’ language cannot always get to without the help of ‘poetic’ language, I am perfectly happy to move slowly and appreciate the scenery (metaphor alert).

But, no, metaphor does not elude me.

What about you?

 

against Christian Nationalism

 

I want to offer some reflections on the Gospel reading set for Holy Communion today, John 3.31-36, in the light of serious misuse of biblical texts by political figures in recent days.

In this passage (which you can read in full below) Jesus makes several claims about the nature of God:

God is true;

he gives the Spirit without measure;

The Father loves the Son and has placed all things in his hands; and

whoever disobeys the Son will not see life, but must endure God’s wrath.

God is true:

God is the ultimate reality, and measure of what is inherently good—in marked contrast to the provisionality of any human culture or empire, which reflects goodness partially and imperfectly. This reaching-beyond what we can see and touch around us—beyond what we can grasp—in search of deeper truth is inherently human, across cultures. It calls for fidelity to something that is more weighty, more permanent, than our brief moment. The belief that we possess—that we are—the pinnacle of truth and beauty, the measure against which all others are to be judged (and found wanting) is hubris.

he gives the Spirit without measure:

The Spirit is the Life of God, shared, sent out into the world, to animate everything that is, to draw it back into the Life of God, as breath is exhaled and inhaled again and again. Genesis describes human beings as the humus of the earth, animated by the breath of God. And God gives this Spirit—this Life—without measure. In contrast, Capitalism measures everything, assigning a value, and seeking to control, to hoard. As if it is possible to hoard breath, to breathe in and in and in without ever breathing out. A scarcity model, in which we must compete with one another for the necessary goods of life. Yet we are all alive, on this Earth we share; not one of us asked for this. The idea that we must earn the shelter and food needed to sustain life is the antithesis of divine love. God gives without measure, to all, not asking who is worthy, who is deserving, who has or has not earned the right. Those who have seen and heard, who testify that God is true, reject the idea that we must hoard what is needful for ourselves.

The Father loves the Son and has placed all things in his hands:

God loves—is Love—and whatever lacks love is not of God. This love is all encompassing: Jesus calls us to love our neighbour and to love our enemy—for only love can transform enmity into friendship. Love is relational: hence, the Father and the Son. The Son is Jesus. Son language—Son of God, Son of David, Son of Mary, Son of Jospeh—reveals that God loves human beings so much that he resolved, from the beginning, to become one of us. One with us. God has a human ancestors, a human mother, a human kinsman redeemer. God, who is true, trusts humanness. This is stunning. And, in love, the Father has placed all things into Jesus’ hands. There is nothing that God has not entrusted to Jesus. To believe this is to not need to attempt to take anything into our own hands; and attempting to take control demonstrates the gulf between what we confess with our lips and believe in our heart.

whoever disobeys the Son will not see life, but must endure God’s wrath:

‘Earthly’ things are at odds with ‘heavenly’ things. Both are located within the heart. Earthly wrath looks like unbridled anger, raining fire on our enemies. But the wrath of God simply refers to God’s settled opposition to injustice. There is no violence in this resolute opposition, but a non-violent standing with all who suffer injustice. Jesus does not call down angel armies to destroy the Romans, but takes into himself our earthly wrath—our injustice; for the earthly, here, is the inverse of the heavenly—and neutralises it. Jesus reveals God to be non-violent. When we read of violence attributed to God in the Bible, we are not witness to the nature of God but we are witness to the reality that even those who know God can misunderstand, misheard, misrepresent God. These passages give us reason to doubt ourselves, not God’s goodness. Yet, we are addicted to violence. It cannot save us, cannot give life; but, rather, keeps us from the life God longs for us. We cannot know peace through killing our global neighbours, but inflict pain on ourselves as well as them. If we refuse to see this, God’s wrath—settled opposition to injustice—does not abandon us to our own self-destruction, but ensures. Indeed, Jesus claims, it abides with us: makes itself at home, testifying to our choosing death, testifying to the life God longs for us to choose instead. Truth that is deeper than the surface reality we see around us. Trusting that we can only endure this guest for so long before we are won round. Before we repent, turn around—see from a heavenly, not earthly, perspective—and give our lives to making amends.

Christian Nationalism has nothing to do with Jesus. Cannot see or hear him. Yet, Jesus remains. And in him, I hope.

John 3.31-36

“The one who comes from above is above all; the one who is of the earth belongs to the earth and speaks about earthly things. The one who comes from heaven is above all. He testifies to what he has seen and heard, yet no one accepts his testimony. Whoever has accepted his testimony has certified this, that God is true. He whom God has sent speaks the words of God, for he gives the Spirit without measure. The Father loves the Son and has placed all things in his hands. Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life; whoever disobeys the Son will not see life, but must endure God’s wrath.”

 

on peace

 

‘When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’’

John 20.19

‘Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’’ John 20.21

‘A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’’ John 20.26

Twice, just three days after he was tortured and executed, and again seven days later, Jesus says to his apprentices, ‘Peace be with you.’

This would appear to be important, the heart of his message. The word ‘peace’ means wholeness, to be at one with (within) yourself. How can someone so recently and so thoroughly broken apart proclaim wholeness?

It has been said that trauma is not what happens to us, but what happens within us in the absence of empathetic witnesses. (This is why doctors’ bedside manner matters so much in emergency care.)

Jesus went through unimaginable pain, but—contrary to popular belief—was not alone. We know that several of his female apprentices and at least one of the men were at the foot of the cross. The others stood at a distance, looking on, as much as they could bear. Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus will lower Jesus’ body from the cross, wash it and anoint it with spices, and lay it in a tomb. Several of the women saw where they laid him. When the women later return and find the tomb empty, Peter and another apprentice—traditionally identified as John but perhaps Lazarus, who himself had walked out of a tomb and would have a particular interest in witnessing that again—ran to the tomb to see for themselves. That they were not taken there by the women, but ran straight there, implies that they, too, had been participating witnesses in Jesus’ burial.

Most of all, it has been claimed that on the cross, God—the Father—could not bear to look. Songwriters have penned words, describing the Father turning his face away. But this is to fundamentally misunderstand the text. When Jesus cries out, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ he is not describing his experience but praying a psalm, Psalm 22, exploring the appearance of abandonment, precisely to reach out and hold fast to the God who is, in fact, there with us and for us. As he hangs from the executioners’ scaffold, the sky turns black. When God descends, as on mount Sinai, he cloaks himself in thick darkness, so that the people do not die of fright. The sky turns black because the Father has come to hold his Son’s outstretched hand and look upon his beautiful face.

Jesus does not suffer and die alone, but surrounded by empathetic witnesses. And he returns, showing his wounds, not simply to prove that it is he and not some other, but, in a safe space, to take his apprentices back to their own place of unbearable suffering, where each one of them felt abandoned and without empathic witness, and therefore experienced trauma.

Jesus takes them back, right into that place, so close, so real, that they can reach out and touch his wounds. And in revisiting that place, not alone but with the one who has died and been raised to life again, they, too, are empowered to let go. To lower the defences they have thrown up to protect themselves. To experience healing. To be brought back to a place of wholeness.

This is what Jesus does for them.

This is what Jesus wants to do for us, too.

To stand alongside us in the place of our deepest hurt, and speak the word we most need to hear, ‘Peace be with you.’

This is a process, not a one-off event. It is the process that Jesus’ apprentices, the Church, are called to participate in. To be a community that is becoming whole, moving from trauma to peace, as we see one another’s wounds—and his—with love.

 

John 20.19-31

‘When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’

‘But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ But he said to them, ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.’ A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’ Thomas answered him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’

‘Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.’

 

on the raising of the dead

 

If we accept, even hypothetically, that God can raise the dead, a question arises about timing. Why is Lazarus raised on the fourth day, and Jesus on the third day, after their respective deaths?

In the epic poem that opens the book of Genesis (and, therefore, the library we know as the Bible) the fourth day is the day on which God calls the sun, moon, and stars, conferring on them a vocation to mark night from day, and season from season. (To ask how there could be days before there was sun or moon is to miss the point: this is not creation, but vocation. A day is a day, and a night is a night, even when the sun, moon, and stars are totally obscured by cloud cover.) In his account of the good news of Jesus, or Gospel, John makes much of the symbolism of deeds done during the day and deeds done at night; between the things Jesus does to bring freedom to others, and the things his enemies plot to take him prisoner. In this, Lazarus is the moon to Jesus’ sun, marking the arrival of Jesus’ ‘Passion,’ of the time (night) where he is ‘done to’ (paschō) rather than ‘doing’ (poiō).

The third day is the day on which God draws land—the soil from which God will draw out the human being—from the flood of sea, which, in the poetic imagination of the Bible represents chaos and death. This is also the day on which God calls forth the first vegetation—the first fruits of the fruit-bearing plants. Jesus’ resurrection is presented as the return of human beings from death, not as a never-to-be-repeated event but as the first fruit of something that will, at some future point, become universal.

So not only raising from the dead, but also the specific timing of these events, is significant; makes a statement concerning the story in which we find ourselves.

 

Easter Sunday

 

This Easter Sunday at St Nicholas Church, we celebrated the resurrection with the ancient practice of baptising someone who has joined our church family since last Easter.

Whenever I speak at a baptism, I try to make a connection between the candidate’s name and the story of faith found in the Bible. And today, with Roxanne, it was easy. Roxanne means radiant, or bright (and she really does live into her name) and in our Gospel reading an angel descends from heaven, ‘His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow.’ Radiant. Now, ‘angel’ means ‘messenger,’ sent by God, sometimes a heavenly being, sometimes a human being. Today we commissioned Roxanne to be a messenger sent by God.

The angel, and then Jesus himself, have the same message for the women: do not be afraid; go and tell.

Do not be afraid, or do not fear, is the most-repeated Instruction we are given in the Bible—which says something about being human. And I wonder who or what you are afraid of?

Some of you might be here today because you know and love Jesus, but you are afraid to tell others about him. I want to say to you that there are half a dozen or more adults who have become part of our church who weren’t part of any church a year ago. If you tell someone about Jesus, they might have been waiting for you to do just that. Even if they aren’t interested, what’s the worst that can happen? Easter tells us that the worst thing that can happen does not get the last word, and God will honour those who trust him with their fear.

It may be that you are afraid of God. Many people are. Many people have been taught that God is quick to disapprove, quick to get angry; that if we step out of line, he will strike us down with a lightning bolt. This is blasphemy. God reveals himself to Moses as full of loving-kindness, slow to anger—and even when he does get angry, he is not violent but moved to pity; faithful to his nature even when we are faithless.

In our first reading this morning we heard Jesus’ friend Peter proclaim, ‘I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him.’ The point is not that if you want to be acceptable to God you must fear him; but that if you are afraid of God, you need to know that you are acceptable to him.

In the Wisdom section of the library we call the Bible, we learn that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. Everything else described as ‘of the Lord’—the arm of the Lord, the mountain of the Lord, the angel of the Lord—belongs to God, not us. The fear of the Lord is giving what we are afraid of to God and saying, this is yours now. That is what Jesus did in the Garden of Gethsemane. Of all the things we might be afraid of—some with good reason—God isn’t meant to be one of them. Jesus comes into the world so that we might know that, in him, God is with us, and for us.

Finally, some of you might be afraid of death. We live in a society that is petrified of dying, that is in total denial of death. It is almost a civic duty to Botox, to not allow yourself to visibly age. But denial is never healthy. The will of the Father is that the Son should become human; should live, and die, as humans do. The Father glorifies the Son for this faithfulness by raising him from the dead. And so we can face our own mortality, because Jesus says to us: Do not be afraid; I have walked this way ahead of you, and I will walk this way again alongside you. I know what lies beyond.

Do not be afraid. That is the message of Easter. That doesn’t mean that we won’t ever be afraid of anything or anyone; it means that we are instructed, again, to place that fear in the hands of Jesus.

That is the message I want you to hear today. Do not be afraid. Go and tell.

Acts 10.34-43

‘Then Peter began to speak to them: ‘I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him. You know the message he sent to the people of Israel, preaching peace by Jesus Christ-he is Lord of all. That message spread throughout Judea, beginning in Galilee after the baptism that John announced: how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power; how he went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him. We are witnesses to all that he did both in Judea and in Jerusalem. They put him to death by hanging him on a tree; but God raised him on the third day and allowed him to appear, not to all the people but to us who were chosen by God as witnesses, and who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead. He commanded us to preach to the people and to testify that he is the one ordained by God as judge of the living and the dead. All the prophets testify about him that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name.’’

Matthew 28.1-10

‘After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’ So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, ‘Greetings!’ And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshipped him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.’’

 

Maundy Thursday

 

In the Church calendar, we are in the days leading up to Easter. These are among the holiest—that is, set apart for a special purpose—days of the year (this is where we get our word ‘holiday,’ days set apart as special, different from everyday days). On Thursday evening, I will be speaking about Jesus with his apprentices on the night of his betrayal and arrest. You can read the text, from John’s biography of Jesus, below. My attention is caught by these words: ‘One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean.’

I don’t know how often you have a bath, and for what purpose. I have a bath about twice a year, not to wash my body—I do that in the shower, and also have a basin in my bedroom—but as an act of self care, running the bath as deep and as hot as possible, and soaking in it.

In the Instructions of Moses, we find that there are certain states of being that cause a person to be ritually impure, and that their restoration to the wider community requires a ritual bath.

Being ritually impure has nothing to do with moral wrongdoing. It is, rather, a codified way of engaging with the reality of death. Certain states of being are, psychologically, rehearsals for death, including ejaculation and menstruation—not because these things are ‘dirty,’ or even shameful, but because in both instances, the person loses mastery of their bodily life-fluids. Contact with a corpse, and being a corpse, also result in ritual impurity. Ritual washing marks the restoration of purity, symbolising the limit to which death cuts us off from life.

Dying made a person ritually impure; but the community handled the corpse in such ways as to make the person ritually pure again, ready to meet their Maker. In Jewish tradition to this day, this begins with gently washing the body, removing anything that is not a natural part, such as jewellery or nail varnish, while saying certain prayers and psalms and other passages of Scripture (holy writing). Then the body is fully washed, either by submerging it in a mikvah (ritual bath) or by pouring a large amount of water (the equivalent of 48 pints) over the corpse. Finally, the body is dressed in linen, ready to return to the earth from which it came.

We should not assume that contemporary Jewish tradition is the same as first-century Common Era Judaism; but neither are they unrelated.

When Jesus says that Peter has had a bath—in fact, not washed himself but that he has been washed—he is referring to the washing of a body after death. Though this is not described, in relation to Jesus’ blood-streaked corpse, in the Gospels, it is implied. This practice is mentioned by the church historian Luke in his Acts of the Apostles, where he notes that the deceased Dorcas is washed by the women of her community, and also that Paul and Silas have their bloodied backs washed by the jailer in Philippi immediately before he himself is baptised.

Jesus is saying that his apprentices have been joined with him in his death. They have been washed, made ritually pure again, in preparation to stand before God—symbolising the real but temporary separation from God that death demands. Having been full-body washed, all that remains needful is to have their feet washed. In Genesis, God visits Abraham in human form (that is, in a form Abraham can see, and relate to) and Abraham welcomes God by washing his feet. An act of welcome and hospitality. The tradition later arose that Abraham welcomes the dead into Paradise (and Jesus tells a parable, or micro story that gets under the skin, where Abraham does exactly this). So, Peter is already made ready to enter Paradise, and Jesus now takes the Abrahamic posture of welcoming him.

This is what we enact in baptism, the candidate dying with Christ (Jesus, the One sent by God to rescue his people), united with him in his death and in his mighty and glorious resurrection.

This, then, is the drama of both our baptism—a one-off, unrepeatable event—and the Thursday of Holy Week—to which we return annually—that we rehearse our physical death, that, when it comes, we might die in the confidence that this parting is temporary; that the community of faith, and the God whose faithfulness we look to, will take us in their hands and hold us with dignity and love. As we, in turn, are to do for our brother's and sisters.

By such love, confident in the face of death, we shall be known.

John 13.1-17, 31b-35

‘Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, ‘Lord, are you going to wash my feet?’ Jesus answered, ‘You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.’ Peter said to him, ‘You will never wash my feet.’ Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.’ Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!’ Jesus said to him, ‘One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.’ For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, ‘Not all of you are clean.’

‘After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, ‘Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord-and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.

‘When he had gone out, Jesus said, ‘Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, “Where I am going, you cannot come.” I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.’’

 

Holy Wednesday

 

Wednesday of Holy Week

Today, the Wednesday of Holy Week, is sometimes known as Spy Wednesday, recalling the contract between Jesus’ apprentice Judas and the chief priests, by which he becomes a double agent for them.

Money has been a recurring theme across the week—whether or not to pay the tax due to the emperor; whether to pour out fragrant ointment or sell it and give the money to the poor; and now thirty silver coins.

Thirty silver coins is the worth placed on a slave in the discussion of recompense in the Instructions of Moses:

‘If [an] ox gores a male or female slave, the owner shall pay to the slave-owner thirty shekels of silver, and the ox shall be stoned.’ Exodus 21.32

This transaction makes Jesus Judas’ slave, and the chief priests the owners of the ox that gored him to death—that is, responsible for the actions of the Roman auxiliaries who would torture and execute Jesus.

And Jesus is, indeed, Judas’ slave, for he comes not as master but as slave of all. Even of Judas, who will prove to be a wicked master, one who would trade his slave’s life for money. ‘Jesus, you are a worthless slave; worth more to me dead.’

And here, again, Judas is right; for Jesus is better to him dead than alive—having absorbed and neutralised he sting of death; having descended into hell, broken its doors from the inside, and returned victorious, never to die again. For Judas will deeply regret his betrayal, and take his own life; but Jesus will go looking for his lost sheep, even through the darkest valley, the shade-realm of the Dead, and—surely—bring his torn-limb-from-limb lamb back on his shoulders.

 

Matthew 26.14-16

‘Then one of the twelve, who was called Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests and said, ‘What will you give me if I betray him to you?’ They paid him thirty pieces of silver. And from that moment he began to look for an opportunity to betray him.’

 

Holy Tuesday

 

Tuesday of Holy Week

Holy Week continues, as we walk the way of the cross with Jesus. Yesterday, I reflected on Jesus’ handling of money, of the difference between the coins that bear the image of the emperor and the human beings who bear the image of God.

On this day, Jesus’ biographer Matthew tells us of a woman anointing Jesus’ head with a very costly ointment. From his perspective, she was preparing his body for burial. From her perspective, it is perhaps more likely that she was acting as a prophet, symbolically anointing a king. Both are true: he is the king who comes to lay down his life.

But the disciples—Jesus’ apprentices—were angry at the waste of money, which they would have given to the poor. Elsewhere we read that Judas was the keeper of the purse, and helped himself from it; but Matthew does not mention this, and, rather, records that all the disciples were angry at the woman. In effect, they were saying, how we would choose to act is more important than how the woman has acted. In effect, they are saying, we are of more value than she is.

What monetary value do we place on a human life? Certainly, the world works not on the basis of everyone having what they need, to life a good life, but on the idea that I am worth more than some and less than others. Wealth breeds wealth, and with it, worldly value.

The woman does not play the game. She relinquishes her stake in it. In this, she does not only prepare Jesus for his burial, but united herself to him, to his death, and to whatever may come after.

Matthew 26.6-13

‘Now while Jesus was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment, and she poured it on his head as he sat at the table. But when the disciples saw it, they were angry and said, ‘Why this waste? For this ointment could have been sold for a large sum, and the money given to the poor.’ But Jesus, aware of this, said to them, ‘Why do you trouble the woman? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me. By pouring this ointment on my body she has prepared me for burial. Truly I tell you, wherever this good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.’’

 

Holy Monday

 

On what we call the Monday of Holy Week, the biographer Matthew tells us that Jesus spent the day in the temple in Jerusalem, teaching, and being confronted by different factions from among the religious leaders of the people.

One such encounter focused on taxation. Noone liked the Romans, but some wanted to see them driven out, while others owed their position of power and authority to Roman patronage. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as the saying goes. So however Jesus answered the question, he was likely to spring the trap and alienate people.

I have in my hand a coin bearing the image of a woman. She is dead now, but for most of my life, she was Queen. Over the course of her reign, five images were made to represent her on coins, from youth to old age: this coin happens to bear the fourth of the five, the coin being made the year before the final image.

I cannot tell how many hands this coin has passed through, from person to person, some of whom might have known each other, others who will never have met before or since. But this coin can be exchanged for something else, anywhere in the United Kingdom—even now, after the woman is dead. It has no currency in the USA, or France, or other places: there, we must enter into a negotiation, establish an exchange rate, what it is worth.

Most people pay little interest in the coins in their pocket; they are more interest in the things the coin can be exchanged for. But for some, coins have a value in and of themselves, are collectable, have a story to tell.

Jesus replied, give to the emperor the things that belong to the emperor, and to God what belongs to God. The implication being that human beings bear God’s image. Not the image of one woman, at different stages of life, but countless faces, male and female, young and old. Not just within one realm, but all across the world. Not simply exchangeable for something more valuable, but of inherent value.

What might it mean to give such images (back) to God? It might look like prayer, bringing people before God, asking God to bless them. People we know well, people whose paths have crossed our path today, people we have never met and in all probability never will.

How might we hold other people in our hand, behold them? Whose image might we see reflected there—the devil? some sub-human creature? or, the God who longs to be One with us?

Matthew 22.15-22

‘Then the Pharisees went and plotted to entrap him in what he said. So they sent their disciples to him, along with the Herodians, saying, ‘Teacher, we know that you are sincere, and teach the way of God in accordance with truth, and show deference to no one; for you do not regard people with partiality. Tell us, then, what you think. Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?’ But Jesus, aware of their malice, said, ‘Why are you putting me to the test, you hypocrites? Show me the coin used for the tax.’ And they brought him a denarius. Then he said to them, ‘Whose head is this, and whose title?’ They answered, ‘The emperor’s.’ Then he said to them, ‘Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.’ When they heard this, they were amazed; and they left him and went away.’

 

Palm Sunday

 

Today is Palm Sunday, the day we remember Jesus arriving at Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, days before he will be put to death. He comes as one of a crowd of pilgrims. Passover, one of the three great festivals of the year, could be observed at home, in any place, but to do so in Jerusalem was special. Jesus comes with others from Galilee, in the north, and those who have joined them on their way. Many in the crowd have seen the things that Jesus has done—the way his interpretation of the Instructions given by Moses captured the attention; the way he healed the sick, brought deliverance to the demonised, restored the marginalised to full participation in the community—and wanted to see what he would do next.

With Jerusalem in sight, Jesus stops, and instructs his apprentices to bring him a donkey and her foal, a colt not yet used to carrying burden. He will ride the rest of the way, down the Mount of Olives. And the crowd interpret this as fulfilling Scripture, the words of the prophet Zechariah:

‘Tell the daughter of Zion,
Look, your king is coming to you,
humble, and mounted on a donkey,
and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’
(Zechariah 9.9)

The prophecy being referenced continues:

‘He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim
and the warhorse from Jerusalem;
and the battle-bow shall be cut off,
and he shall command peace to the nations;
his dominion shall be from sea to sea,
and from the River to the ends of the earth.’
(Zechariah 9.10)

Prophecy is not a foretelling of future events. Prophecy is a poetic form, that holds out a combination of what is and what could be, and invites us to step into the story. A prophetic word about an individual, for example, may combine what the seer sees in them, and how that might play out. To fulfil prophecy is to allow our character to be shaped by it, in some way or other. But to overly-interpret prophecy makes a fool of us. We see this over and again in the ancient Greek tragedies; and in modern stories such as Voldemort’s obsession with Harry Potter and, hence, failure to recognise the danger Neville Longbottom poses him. We see it in the folly of the current US administration seeing the Revelation—a work concerned with events at the end of the first century CE—as licence to wage war today.

The crowd sees Jesus as coming to liberate Jerusalem from the Roman Empire, from an external threat of warhorse and battle-bow. But there is a far older prophecy at play here.

Long ago, at the very end of Genesis—the first of the five books of Instruction of Moses—the patriarch Jacob spoke words over his twelve sons. Words that both gave description to the character, and the actions that flowed from that character, and also held out a future possibility, one that might shape their descendants.

Of Judah, Jacob says:

‘Judah, your brothers shall praise you;
your hand shall be on the neck of your
enemies;
your father’s sons shall bow down before you.
Judah is a lion’s whelp;
from the prey, my son, you have gone up.
He crouches down, he stretches out like a lion,
like a lioness—who dares rouse him up?
The sceptre shall not depart from Judah,
nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet,
until tribute comes to him;
and the obedience of the peoples is his.
Binding his foal to the vine
and his donkey’s colt to the choice vine,
he washes his garments in wine
and his robe in the blood of grapes;
his eyes are darker than wine,
and his teeth whiter than milk.’
(Genesis 49.8-12)

Binding his foal to the vine and his donkey’s colt to the choice vine, he washes his garments in wine and his robe in the blood of grapes.

On the night of his arrest and mockery of a trial before the Sanhedrin (the religious leaders of the people) Jesus will describe himself as the true vine, an image of the people of Israel. And here, picking his way down the hill on a colt accompanied by its mother, Jesus binds the foal to the choice vine, as he comes, knowing that his garments will be soaked in his own blood.

But immediately before speaking words over Judah, Jacob had spoken these words over his brothers Simeon and Levi:

‘Simeon and Levi are brothers;
weapons of violence are their swords.
May I never come into their council;
may I not be joined to their company—
for in their anger they killed men,
and at their whim they hamstrung oxen.
Cursed be their anger, for it is fierce,
and their wrath, for it is cruel!
I will divide them in Jacob,
and scatter them in Israel.’
(Genesis 49.5-7)

The priestly caste—those in whose presence Jesus will be tried, whose council will condemn him to death—saw themselves as the descendants of Levi. A tribe so violent against their own kin (when Moses was gone for over forty days and nights and the people made for themselves a golden calf as a sign of the presence of the gods among them, the Levites went through the camp putting thousands to the sword) that they were not allotted their own territory where they might live in concentration, but had to live scattered in small towns across the territories governed by the other tribes.

For good reason Jacob declared, ‘May I never come into their council; may I not be joined to their company—for in their anger they killed men.’

The warhorse and the battle-bow Jesus comes to remove is not the mighty of Rome but the violence at the heart of his own people. And he will do so, not by leading a violent uprising—for violence can never rid us of violence—but by absorbing the very worst that the violence can muster, and cursing it—utterly neutralising it—as he lives into the story in a particular way, holding together humility and authority, laying down his life and being raised up to a kingly rule that will never end.

This, too, is prophecy; is a story to be stepped into. A story that shapes those who respond, laying our tribute before him.

This is where we find ourselves again this Palm Sunday, caught up in the reconciliation of all that has been estranged, that is accomplished in and coming into being through Jesus.

May we, therefore, renounce all violence against our sisters and brothers, against those who live around about us, not least all violence done in the name of God, who stands opposed to any such claim.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.
Lord, have mercy.

on unbinding

 

Some things are a storm in a teacup. Some things are a weather front rattling and entire dinner service. There has been much sound and fury of late claiming that our Christian heritage is being lost to Muslim immigrants. This is racism trying out new clothes. If we are losing our Christian heritage, it is not because some of our neighbours faithfully attend the mosque on Fridays, but because we have become disconnected from the stories that inform and shape Christian faith. There are complex reasons for this, including two World Wars in the last century, the rise of individualist self-expression, suspicion of institutions, scandals within the Church; very little to do with immigration, which has brought us many Christians, who happen not to be white. But a core part of my own vocation is to help people make and strengthen connections between their own lives and the Christian story.

Two weeks out from Easter, the Church tells again the account, found in John’s Gospel, of Jesus raising his friend Lazarus from the dead. This is the moment he goes too far, crosses a line, from which there can be no going back: the event that seals Jesus’ own murder. On Sunday, my colleague Katherine Cooper-Young spoke from this text, focusing on the end of the account, where Jesus, having called Lazarus out of the tomb, instructs the witnesses to remove the grave clothes from him so that he can go free.

Katherine asked us to imagine Lazarus’ life post- this event, an event which changes everything. Though his sisters Martha and Mary are highly articulate, Lazarus himself does not speak in the Gospels, not one word. Yet there are two traditions that claim that, after he was raised from the dead, Lazarus became an evangelist—one who proclaims the good news of Jesus—and a bishop. The Eastern (Orthodox) Church claims that he was run out of town, fleeing to Cyprus, where he was eventually made Bishop of Kition (today, Larnaca) by St Paul. The Western (Catholic) Church claims that the three siblings were pushed out to sea in a boat without sail or rudder, whereupon the winds carried them to France; there, they went three separate ways, proclaiming the Gospel as they went; Lazarus becoming Bishop of Marseilles.

The veracity of these stories does not depend on their historicity (see also: the bones of St Andrew were never carried to Scotland) but on communities of believers making connections between their lives and the story they read together. Communities that saw some transformative hope they wanted to claim for themselves too.

Katherine invited us to call to mind the things that bind us, that tie us in knots, preventing us from experiencing freedom—the life God longs for us, in reaching in and lifting us out from the graves we make for ourselves. To acknowledge those things in the presence of Jesus, who weeps for our pain and who, in compassion, speaks a new life—not merely a restoration of what has been lost, but new possibilities—into being.

Neuroscience would inform us that many of these grave clothes—acts of self-preservation—are wrapped around us in the first seven or so years of life; and though they serve us well at the time—the best we can do—they become unhelpful later on, constraining our ability to respond to other relationships. It is fascinating that Jesus enlists the help of a community—those who have borne witness to grief with tender compassion—in bringing progressive freedom; and that this involves physical touch and movement.

This is a vision of what the church could be.

 

what Lazarus does for Jesus

 

Today marks the start of Passiontide, the two-week run-in to Easter. In this context, passion refers to things that are done to us (Greek: paschō) as opposed to things we do by our own agency (Greek: poiō). Through much of the Gospels we see Jesus doing things—as he describes it, doing (only) what he sees the Father doing. But as we reach the climax of the story, as time slows down (with as much ink dedicated to days as has been dedicated to years of ministry) there is a shift from things Jesus does to things done to him by others. Some of these are loving things; some are hateful, or treacherous, or tragic; and some are deeply mystical.

The Gospel passage set for this Sunday is a long chunk (technical term) from John chapter 11. Here we encounter friends of Jesus, the siblings Martha, Mary and Lazarus. Luke also writes about the sisters in his Gospel (Luke chapter 10).

They are a fascinating family. They appear to live together, and Martha appears to run their home. Culturally, it would seem unusual that neither sister is married, and that Lazarus is not responsible for his unmarried sisters, in the absence of parents. Martha and Mary are both highly articulate, but Lazarus is silent whenever he is mentioned. (Some scholars believe that Lazarus is the ‘beloved disciple’ at the Last Supper—unnamed but traditionally identified as the disciple and later gospel-writer John—in which case he speaks three words, asking a simple question.) These observations lead some scholars to believe that Lazarus has some form of disability, and perhaps learning disability; that he may be unable to speak, or be situationally mute (that is, can speak, but doesn’t, whether by choice or defence mechanism).

Luke’s account of the sisters is almost universally misinterpreted. They appear in the context of Jesus sending out seventy plus disciples, or apprentices, ahead of him, to every village where he intended to go, sent to find persons of peace whose homes might become the hub of a community of disciples—what we would call a local church congregation. Martha is presented as a deacon, as the local minister to the proto-church in her village. Mary is presented as one who sat at Jesus’ feet, which is code for a disciple: which is to say, she is one of the seventy plus Jesus has sent out ahead of him. Martha tells Jesus that there is more work to be done ministering to her village than she can attend to alone, and asks Jesus to find Mary and send her back home to work alongside Martha. Jesus declines, affirming the different vocations—deacon, evangelist—of both sisters. This is a far cry from Martha being in the kitchen and complaining about Mary not helping prepare food.

In John’s Gospel, we meet the siblings again, this time including their brother Lazarus. Jesus has recently been in Jerusalem, but has withdrawn down into the rift valley that is the lowest point on the surface of the earth, crossing over the river Jordan, getting away from enemies who had attempted to stone him. Lazarus falls ill, and the sisters send word to Jesus, most likely through the network he had established across the countryside.

Jesus does not come to the sisters until after Lazarus has died. Their brother’s death turns the sisters’ lives on their heads. Martha, who had ministered in the context of her own home and village, now leaves her village behind to find Jesus on his way. Mary, who had been travelling ahead of Jesus to village after village, is unable to leave the family home. The vocation of each has flipped. Martha has become Mary, and Mary has become Martha. Such is often the way in the wake of death.

Both sisters know that Jesus could have healed Lazarus (could have acted to do so: poiō) but they still trust him. They present to him their faith and hope and need of consolation, a mess of co-existing emotions, feelings and thoughts. Jesus does not respond by doing, but by being moved with compassion, a visceral experience, something, in a sense, done to us (paschō). Jesus is not in mastery of this response, which wracks him like a wild animal. And that raw compassion enables Martha to return home, empowers Mary to leave home, and brings Lazarus back from the dead.

But there is another gem in this passage. Jesus asks the community that has come from Jerusalem to be with—to surround, with love—Martha and Mary in their grief, where Lazarus had been laid, and they take him to the tomb. This echoes what John records in chapter 1 of his Gospel, two disciples of John the Baptiser who were following Jesus: he turns and asks them ‘What are you looking for?’ and when they ask, ‘Where are you staying?’ responds, ‘Come and see.’ (Interestingly, this takes place at the same place where Jesus will first hear news that his friend Lazarus is sick.) Now Jesus asks to see where Lazarus is staying, and invited to come and see. And so the disabled man—the dead man—Lazarus becomes the one who shows Jesus what it is to dwell in a tomb—and to rise from the dead.

Lazarus does for Jesus what Jesus cannot do for himself, but needs to know. Paschō.

We are created to be inter-dependent. And agency matters, what we choose to do with our lives, with our bodies, matters. But we do not have unlimited freedom. Our actions are constrained by the existence of others—not only by what they do, their actions, but by the place they occupy in the world, in the grace of God. The good news is that poiō is only half the story: the other side is paschō. In entrusting ourselves to others, to how they might respond to us—for good or ill—and trusting God to work through all of this, the kingdom of heaven can break into this world through us.