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.

God is dead

 

Holy Saturday.

To be dead is not to no longer exist. It is not even to no longer be conscious. To be dead is to dwell in the realm of the dead, a separate but connected dimension to the one we are familiar with. The Jews called this realm Sheol, the Greeks and Romans called it Hades. Every culture has its own name. Those who sincerely believe that death is the end of existence are a vanishingly small minority, even in the post-secular West.

God is dead.

How can God be dead!? God is dead because God wills it so. Because God is willing to experience being dead.

How can God return from the dead? Again, because God wills it so, and death cannot hold God against the divine free will.

Why is God dead? On one level, God is dead because human inhumanity put God to death. That is, we banished God, not into nonexistence but into exile into the realm of the dead, where we are not (yet) and so do not have to deal with God (for now).

But we were only able to kill God because God was willing to die. So, again, why is God dead?

Everything that exists, seen and unseen, exists because God created it. Willed it into being and saw that it was good. God is beyond creation, not so much that God is outside of the universe as that the universe exists within God, within the love of God. This is what is meant by the transcendence of God.

But that which exists within the love of God has freedom and has not always used that freedom to love as it is loved. And so God entered into creation, in Jesus, the full expression of God and of humanity. This is what is meant by the imminence of God. Jesus showed us what it is to love; but more than that, everywhere he went is transformed by his presence, by Love incarnate: is set free from unloving. Anywhere he did not go could not be so redeemed. And so, in Jesus, God descends to pass through the world, the realm of the living; and descends further still to pass through the realm of the dead; and ascends again to pass through the heavens, the realm of the gods.

God is dead so that Jesus may be the Lord of the living and the dead, the redeemer of every realm.

 

contemplation

 

Good Friday.

We spent an hour contemplating the wounds of Christ and placed our own drop of blood (red glass beads) on, or near, the cross in symbolic recognition that our wounds (the wounds we have inflicted and the wounds we have suffered and endured) are taken up in his, and transformed by Love.

 

there is a green hill

 

Good Friday.

There are two hills in my parish on which a large cross is processed and erected every Good Friday.

The hills are formed of (what is locally known as) Magnesian Limestone. They date from the Permian Period, some 275 million years ago, a period that saw three or four massive extinctions concluding with the one known as the Great Dying. Of course, the continents and seas were different then, to how our world looks now.

I understand this cognitively; but when I climb the Tunstall Hills today I do not understand myself to have any part in their distant past, or distant future, only in their present.

Between 3.00 p.m. on Good Friday and sometime before dawn on the following Sunday, we who confess dependence in God proclaim that, in Jesus, God is dead.

Not that God has experienced death and so is able to identify with our experience of death. We confess that God is dead.

God will not stay dead, for death simply is not strong enough to hold God captive. Nonetheless we proclaim not that God died once upon a time, some two thousand years ago, but that God is dead.

We confess this because faith is not a cognitive belief, such as my understanding of the hill from where I can stand at the foot of a cross and look down on St Nicholas church; faith is experiential. As we walk through the Triduum of the evening of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and the early hours of Easter Sunday, we are drawn into those events.

And, being drawn into them, they shape us in particular ways, in union with God, in and with and through Jesus.

Do not rush through these hours. Do not rush to proclaim, He is risen!

Do not push away the God who would draw us into his death, for there is no other way to be drawn into his Life.

 

Good Friday

 

Good Friday.

The ground behind the vicarage rises steeply, such that I can stand at my kitchen window and look out on the hedge that demarcates the boundary between our family home and the church above and beyond. The hedge is made of many things, but mostly Pyracantha shot through with bramble, sharp as hell, an encircling crown of thorns. The longer I am willing to stand and watch, the more I see. Robins, wrens, sparrows, blue tits, blackbirds, all in their turn darting in and out. The crown of thorns is a haven, protection from marauding local cats, a nesting place to nurture young, a living thing of beauty.

The wounds of Christ are the place where power is made perfect in weakness. For there is no greater weakness than a man tortured and subjected to public execution. And there is no greater power than the ability of Love to draw to those wounds every wound that has ever been inflicted, every wound that has ever been suffered, and to cleanse them such that what is inflicted is forgiven and what is endured is beautified.

Such is the mercy of God, to endure the worst that we inflict and to be one with us in what we suffer, that we might be one with God in the glory of Life.

The more we can bear to watch, to hold our gaze and not turn away, the more we will notice. Such wonder! What mystery!

 

the company of Christ's pilgrim people

 

Jesus said, ‘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.’

John 13.34, 35

It should not come as a surprise to hear that I have an interest in films that explore the life of faith. One of my favourites is The Way (2010), written, directed and produced by Emilio Estevez and starring his real-life father, Martin Sheen.

Sheen plays Tom Avery, who, despite a successful career as an ophthalmologist, does not see eye-to-eye with his son Daniel (played by Estevez). Daniel travels to Europe to walk the Camino de Santiago, the Way of St James, much to his father’s disapproval. Tragically, Daniel is caught in a storm crossing the Pyrenees on his first day walking and is later found dead. Tom flies to the south of France, to bring his son’s body home. But something causes him to change his mind. Instead, he has Daniel cremated and sets out to walk the Camino carrying his son, scattering his ashes along the way.

Along the way, Tom falls in with other pilgrims, each one walking the Camino for their own personal reasons. Joost, from the Netherlands, is hoping that his wife will fall in love with him again. Sarah, from Canada, is trying to escape an abusive husband. Jack is a writer from Ireland, who has writer’s block. At first, Tom resents their intrusions into his deeply personal endeavour. But over time, a transformation takes place. Through a series of misadventures, they become unlikely friends.

When you were baptised (if you have been baptized) you passed through the parted sea with the Israelites, over three thousand years before you were born. If, like me, you were baptised as a baby, you were carried over in your mother’s arms.

When you were baptised, you died with Christ and rose again with him; participating in events two thousand years before you were born. When you were baptised, you became a member of the company of Christ’s pilgrim people. You may have wandered very far from Christ in the intervening years. I have baptised forty children at St Nicholas’ and few of the parents have continued to bring them up in the faith; but Christ is faithful, even when our parents are not, even when we are not.

The invitation is deeply personal, but it is not private. In baptism, we begin a lifelong pilgrimage in the company of others. Some, we will journey many miles together, over many years; others, we will come across from time to time; still others, we won’t meet, but they, like us, have walked or will walk the Way.

We walk the Way with others, and they are, at times, and often to begin with, deeply annoying. As are we to them. For we all carry our own pain. We are all broken. Joost. Sarah. Jack. Tom. You. Me. But the mandate we have been given (the mandate that gives Maundy Thursday its name) is to love one another. To love one another, even those parts that are unlovely.

For this to happen requires no more or less than that we walk the Way. That we follow the example of Jesus, who showed us what love looks like. But walking the Way is more than imitation, essential though that is. Through the act of walking in the Way, we are empowered to love by the Holy Spirit. This is not a matter of what we do, but of what is done to us as we respond. Over time, we become more like Jesus.

And this is key: it takes time; indeed, it takes a lifetime. If we are not there yet (and we are not) it is because we are not there, yet. But we are on the Way.

 

Holy Week

 

The shadow of the cross falls across the whole of Holy Week.

At the start of the week, Jesus visits the temple, and there, with the words of the prophet Jeremiah on his lips, he clears the space, upturning tables, driving out animals, sending the daily mechanisms of the sacrificial system into exile. Jeremiah had called the people in his own day to repentance, accusing them of trusting in the temple itself rather than in living rightly before God, pleading with them, could they not see? Had the house that bore God’s name not been turned into a den of thieves in their eyes—as in Jeremiah’s eyes, as in God’s eyes—a people who acted with shameful impunity?

In these days, Jesus will claim the temple as symbol of his own body, that would be torn down and rebuilt in three days—by which he was speaking of his resurrection—and also predict that the temple buildings themselves would be thrown down—the Romans would accomplish this in 70 AD/CE. And in the temple, Jesus enacts the consequence of misplaced confidence.

On the Monday of Holy Week, the cross is the instrument by which the temple will be destroyed.

The next day, Jesus returned and seeing a fig tree, looked for fruit. But it bore him none, and he cursed the tree, an action that puzzled his apprentices.

Three things to note, two concerning biblical imagination and one concerning botany: curses are temporary restrictions, in contrast to blessings; trees symbolise a person or people; and a fig is a kind of inverted flower that is pollinated by a fig wasp that dies in the process—and which also hosts parasitoid wasps that do not pollinate.

The fig tree represents the nation of Israel. They have not proved fruitful. But if a fig tree bears no fruit, it is pollinators that are missing. The (parasitoid) leaders of the nation have not been willing to lay down their lives for the common good. In contrast, Jesus will die for the people, but not before he has pollinated the fig tree. From the cross, he will cry, ‘Father, forgive,’ and cancel the curse, transforming it into blessing.

On the Tuesday of Holy Week, the cross is the fig tree, the curse that will become a blessing through the actions of the fig wasp. It is also the pole on which Moses hung a bronze serpent, that anyone who had been bitten by a poisonous serpent might gaze upon it and be healed, foreshadowing the seed of Eve who would crush the serpent’s head and have his heel bitten.

Throughout this week, Jesus is staying with his friends Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, in Bethany, just outside Jerusalem. At some point in the week, they host a dinner in his honour. At that dinner, Mary of Bethany takes a rare and expensive perfume and anoints Jesus with it in preparing for his burial. One of Jesus’ apprentices, Judas Iscariot, the one who would betray him, took offence. He blurts out that the perfume could have been sold for 300 denarii and the money given to the poor. He did so, not because he cared for the poor, but because he was a thief, helping himself from the common purse that was his to steward. No one would notice, if he were to take ten percent for himself. It is Jesus’ defence of Mary that appears to seal Judas’ decision, and he gets his ten percent cut elsewhere, betraying Jesus’ whereabouts to those who sought to arrest him privately, away from the crowds, for thirty silver coins.

On the Wednesday of Holy Week, the cross is the common purse, reading the thoughts of our hearts and inviting us to share in the common good, to love our neighbour as ourselves.

On Thursday, Jesus instructs two of his apprentices to prepare the Passover meal they will eat together in the rooftop guest (upper) room of the home of a secret ally. This meal is known to us as the Last Supper. With a large group of his apprentices and friends, Jesus commemorated the night on which their ancestors had fled from Egypt. They had been instructed to make unleavened bread, for there would not be time to let the dough rise. This was to be their last supper under the oppressive reign of death embodied by the pharaoh. Each year as they joined themselves to the past, they hoped that they, too, would eat a last supper under Roman rule. Perhaps this would be the year. Certainly, there were many who hoped that Jesus would lead an uprising and overthrow the Romans.

They ate bread; and they ate roast lamb, recalling how the god of death—the jackal Anubis—had been unleashed to roam across the land, to carry off each firstborn male, whether human or animal; but was tricked at the door to each Hebrew home by the blood of a lamb smeared on the doorposts and lintel. Only the children of the oppressor—the sons of death—died; and so, death symbolically destroyed itself.

On the Thursday of Holy Week, the cross is the doorposts and lintel of the house of Israel, the outsmarting of death through the wisdom of God.

The shadow of the cross falls across the whole of Holy Week.

Palm Sunday 2025

 

While the Russian army bombards Ukrainian citizens, and the Israeli army bombards the last remaining operational hospital in Gaza, Jesus picks his way down the Mount of Olives riding a young donkey.

The animal is not used to being ridden. It needs the presence of its mother alongside to reassure it in the sea of people. As if it were not hard enough, the crowd are throwing down their cloaks on the ground before them, making the descent treacherous.

When some object, concerned that the hopes of the crowd for freedom and self-determination might get out of hand, Jesus upholds their right to hope and dream, but simultaneously reframes their expectations, slowing things down, refusing to be the populist touchstone. Taking the path of humility, through groves of olive trees.

Note that the olive tree is a symbol of peace; that the oil they produce is an instrument of healing; and that whenever we come across trees in the Bible, they stand symbolically for people.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. Those who share the DNA of their heavenly Father, the one who moves to establish reconciliation and the restoration of conditions necessary for all to flourish in harmony. Russian, Ukrainian. Israeli, Palestinian.

It seems unlikely. As foolish as a man picking his way down a hillside on a young donkey. Yet, this is how peace descends. This is the only way. Divine folly. Not for the faint hearted. You cannot strong-arm your way to peace.

Blessed are the peacemakers.

Lord, have mercy.

 

The Cross

 

The Cross:

a place to explore second chances, finding peace, what we do with our worries, leaving behind any we choose to bring to God …

and to learn about the crucifixion – and why the story does not end there.

 

Luke 23.32-43

Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him. When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.’ And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, ‘He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!’ The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, ‘If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!’ There was also an inscription over him, ‘This is the King of the Jews.’

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, ‘Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!’ But the other rebuked him, saying, ‘Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.’ Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ He replied, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’

 

Have you ever had an answer to prayer?

Have you fulfilled your potential?

Where do you go to find peace?

 

Questions taken from https://table-talk.org/friends/

 

Is there something heavy you have been carrying (for example, anxiety about a situation in your life) that you would like to leave with God?

Take a nail from one of the bowls. Hold it in your hand. Think about the thing that you want to leave behind with God, and ask for the grace (that is, a gift from God) to do so.

Then hammer the nail into the cross, and when you are ready, walk away.

 

The Big Chair

 

The Big Chair:

a space to explore big issues such as who has power to change the world; to think about what we would ask God or what we would do if we were God for one day …

and to learn about Jesus on trial before Pilate and Herod.

 

Luke 23.1-12

Then the assembly rose as a body and brought Jesus before Pilate. They began to accuse him, saying, ‘We found this man perverting our nation, forbidding us to pay taxes to the emperor, and saying that he himself is the Messiah, a king.’ Then Pilate asked him, ‘Are you the king of the Jews?’ He answered, ‘You say so.’ Then Pilate said to the chief priests and the crowds, ‘I find no basis for an accusation against this man.’ But they were insistent and said, ‘He stirs up the people by teaching throughout all Judea, from Galilee where he began even to this place.’

When Pilate heard this, he asked whether the man was a Galilean. And when he learned that he was under Herod’s jurisdiction, he sent him off to Herod, who was himself in Jerusalem at that time. When Herod saw Jesus, he was very glad, for he had been wanting to see him for a long time, because he had heard about him and was hoping to see him perform some sign. He questioned him at some length, but Jesus gave him no answer. The chief priests and the scribes stood by, vehemently accusing him. Even Herod with his soldiers treated him with contempt and mocked him; then he put an elegant robe on him, and sent him back to Pilate. That same day Herod and Pilate became friends with each other; before this they had been enemies.

 

What questions would you ask God if you had the chance?

Why do you think today’s world is in such a mess?

Does it really matter who is in power?

What is the most significant world issue?

 

Questions taken from https://table-talk.org/friends/

 

This is a space to pray for the world.

You might want to pray about a Big Issue, such as war or climate change, or something closer to home, such as praying for your school or for a friend or family member.

Take a glass bead in your hand and use it to represent your prayer. Place it on the steps, to symbolise presenting your request before God. If you pray for a global situation, you might want to place your glass bead on the map instead.

 

The Charcoal Fire

 

The Charcoal Fire:

a space to explore friendships and fear, why good friends are important, how it feels when our friends let us down, and what we do when we let our friends down …

and to learn about Peter who denied knowing his friend Jesus.

 

Luke 22.54-62

Then they seized him and led him away, bringing him into the high priest’s house. But Peter was following at a distance. When they had kindled a fire in the middle of the courtyard and sat down together, Peter sat among them. Then a servant-girl, seeing him in the firelight, stared at him and said, ‘This man also was with him.’ But he denied it, saying, ‘Woman, I do not know him.’ A little later someone else, on seeing him, said, ‘You also are one of them.’ But Peter said, ‘Man, I am not!’ Then about an hour later yet another kept insisting, ‘Surely this man also was with him; for he is a Galilean.’ But Peter said, ‘Man, I do not know what you are talking about!’ At that moment, while he was still speaking, the cock crowed. The Lord turned and looked at Peter. Then Peter remembered the word of the Lord, how he had said to him, ‘Before the cock crows today, you will deny me three times.’ And he went out and wept bitterly.

 

What is your worst nightmare?

If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?

What do you do when you are feeling down?

 

Questions taken from https://table-talk.org/friends/

 

This is a space for quiet reflection, perhaps on things that have gone wrong in your life.

You may like to stand at the fire to do this or simply sit around the edge of the space.

You don’t need to speak to anyone here. But there might be someone you need to go and talk with later.

 

The Last Supper

 

The Last Supper:

a space to explore storytelling and memory-making, food and family ties, what we would like to be remembered for …

and to learn about why we eat bread and drink wine to remember Jesus.

 

Luke 22.7-23

Then came the day of Unleavened Bread, on which the Passover lamb had to be sacrificed. So Jesus sent Peter and John, saying, ‘Go and prepare the Passover meal for us that we may eat it.’ They asked him, ‘Where do you want us to make preparations for it?’ ‘Listen,’ he said to them, ‘when you have entered the city, a man carrying a jar of water will meet you; follow him into the house he enters and say to the owner of the house, “The teacher asks you, ‘Where is the guest room, where I may eat the Passover with my disciples?’” He will show you a large room upstairs, already furnished. Make preparations for us there.’ So they went and found everything as he had told them; and they prepared the Passover meal.

When the hour came, he took his place at the table, and the apostles with him. He said to them, ‘I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer; for I tell you, I will not eat it until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.’ Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he said, ‘Take this and divide it among yourselves; for I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.’ Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ And he did the same with the cup after supper, saying, ‘This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood. But see, the one who betrays me is with me, and his hand is on the table. For the Son of Man is going as it has been determined, but woe to that one by whom he is betrayed!’ Then they began to ask one another which one of them it could be who would do this.

 

What would be your ‘last supper’?

What do you want to be remembered for?

Who is the most important person in your life?

 

Questions taken from https://table-talk.org/friends/

 

This is a space for conversations. If there are others at the table with you, tell stories about family celebrations, of who and what matters most to you.

You might like to try one of the wafers in the chalice. This is not an act of Christian worship (they have not been consecrated for that purpose) so anyone can do this if you wish to; but please note that the wafers contain gluten.