lurchersontheedge

I will never forget the look of desolation in my dad’s eyes when he took my mum to one side and told he was being made redundant. I will never forget the sadness and the tears of that evening. I will never forget the indignity of that proud man being numbered at the dole office.

I will always remember that he never ever lost his faith and hope that things would get better. I will remember his passionate commitment to social justice.

I will always remember that he cared passionately for those he thought ‘less fortunate’ than himself, and my mum’s exasperated look at the number of waifs and strays it was possible to invited for lunch, even when we did not have food to go round.

I will remember that he believed passionately that men and women are equal, that regardless of where you start, everyone had the right to have the best opportunity possible.

I will remember when I graduated from Newcastle University, his cheers amongst the silence when I got my degree.

He more than any other informed my understanding of the world; and today he would rage. He would be angered at the fact that the Labour Party he worked so tirelessly for had allowed Benefit Cuts Monday to happen with with a mute soundbite and abstention or two.

And he got all of this not from the Labour Party but from his single-parent mum and the chapel he attended. From the Bible that he loved and the community that he served. He was a community activist, liberation theologian and class warrior all rolled into one.

I am glad he is not around to see today.

But today I stand alongside side him and others of his generation and say we can make a difference. We can change this. We can speak truth to power and make sure those in power are brought love if necessary.

I can stand in no other place, otherwise I will not have remembered. In not remembering, I will cease to be me.

Luke 23:50-56

⁵⁰ Now there was a good and righteous man named Joseph, who, though a member of the council, ⁵¹ had not agreed to their plan and action. He came from the Jewish town of Arimathea, and he was waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God. ⁵² This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. ⁵³ Then he took it down, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a rock-hewn tomb where no one had ever been laid. ⁵⁴ It was the day of Preparation, and the sabbath was beginning.^{[o] 55} The women who had come with him from Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how his body was laid. ⁵⁶ Then they returned, and prepared spices and ointments. On the sabbath they rested according to the commandment.

Thought for Holy Saturday

Jesus was buried. It is mentioned in Scripture almost as a footnote. This is because we have for the most part learnt to do without Holy Saturday; it is almost as if we move from the final breath to the first gasp of Easter air without a pause. Pause today and take stock; for somehow in the darkness, light has escaped: it has redefined the darkness and there is now no reason to be afraid. Only in the stillness and the waiting will we be able to see this and begin to remember that darkness and light are both the same to the one who made us. That is God’s story, and with grace it might become ours.

Holy Saturday

Prayer

God of hope and stillness

God of grace and glory

Darkness and Light are both the same to you; help us to appreciate that

In the Name of Jesus Christ the Lord. Amen.

As she cradled the battered body of her broken boy, Mary lifted her eyes to the heavens, from where help seemed not to come. Her lips moved and almost inaudibly, she whispered; my soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God, who is my salvation. These words spat out mingled with others that she knew from her Scriptures, I say to God, my rock, ‘Why have you forgotten me’ and ‘For you are the God in whom I take refuge; why have you cast me off?

As her tired hands held his cold ones, hope faded. The dreams that she had nurtured as his unborn body grew with her womb collapsed as her eyes took in the bloodied and beaten corpse. Hope had died. Her imagination as he had played with his brothers and sisters had soared as she had created a world in which injustice would be no more and Israel would be restored came crashing down as she held, in her arms, yet another victim of Rome’s intolerant justice. 

Mary knew the stories of old: how God had rescued her ancestors. She had lived them through the celebration of Passover and the other festivals. She had seen in the vibrancy of her son that God still acted in the praises of those who could not see, in the dance of those who could walk and the breath of Lazarus, his friend. And yet, the hands that had shaped the mud to put on the eyes of the blind man and the feet that had partied at his bar mitzvah and at the wedding at Cana had been stilled. The lips that had tasted the wine and the hair that she had stroked when he was child and adult were palled and flat.

For Mary the stories of old could not take away the mind-numbing reality that death had come and for her would never be nothing at all. she remembered other deaths too, of Joseph; and what she would have given for that kind, strong and generous man to be with her now. She had lost Elizabeth and Zechariah too, and the wild man, John, with whom Jesus played in the Jordan when they were young.

The face of the ancient priest, Simeon, flooded unwanted into her mind. This is beyond piercing, more painful that could possibly be imagined. Nothing had prepared her for this.

It is hard to think of Mary like that. We do not do it very much at all. Good Friday has become mechanical; it has become a means of our salvation: our being made whole. We have stripped away from the Cross the corpse, as we have allowed the crescendo of our Easter alleluias to drown out the cries of the crucified and the agony of the mother who had lost her son. Death had been cleansed rather than allowed to remain jagged. Such torture has no part in our individualistic views of deliverance.

In being like this, we rob ourselves of reality and make our deliverance less than it is meant to be. Death is no longer allowed to be the last enemy; the one that angered Jesus at the grave of his friend. It is not something that then, as now, rips the heart out of families and mourning is invalidated because the man on the Cross is not allowed to be dead.

If he is dead, however, all sorts of possibilities are allowed to happen. That is a strange paradox, the possibilities of death. With the death of God’s Son comes not only the rumour of salvation; of the tangible probability that the older order of sin and death have been swept aside. What also comes is the opportunity to be vulnerable, to be human. For when we confront the deep darkness of death; then and only then can we accept our mortality and the sure and certain hope that we have been liberated.

For that Jesus has to be allowed to die. That is painful. Agony! An agony not just for him, but for us; for most us do not allow ourselves to be confronted by death.

The Shadow of Death has fallen.

My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? This is a question that many, who trust in the God of Israel, have asked down the centuries in times of crisis, whether personal or corporate.

Separation from God is only one kind of separation; although that would seem to Christian and Jewish thinkers to be the deepest most searing genre of division, and it is something we will return to.

Separations happen in all spheres of human relationships: Parents can be estranged from children; siblings can be at odds with each other, marriages can (sadly) collapse because the covenant made between husband and wife is shattered. Separation does not just happen in relationships between individuals. History is littered with examples of countries, cities, towns and villages torn apart. To this list we would need to add businesses, whether small or multi-national. At the heart of such separations lies more often than not individual human failure. The pain of separation is deep and long lingering. It lodges in our memories on a personal and corporate level. I remember quite vividly some of the disagreements I have had with others in the past, and can sometimes recall expressions, feelings, intensity and words. Sometimes every recall of a relationship that has broken can deepen the damage that has been made.  Separation can stunt our ability to move on and grow; although at times it can be liberating.

An example of the former is found in the following story. There was a United Benefice of Churches in rural Suffolk. Four of the churches got on very well, mixing and attending each others’ gatherings. One church, although legally part of the team was emotionally cold to anything the other churches offered. A brave curate asked at that church’s PCC what the problem actually was. The question was met with incredulity, as a formidable warden replied ‘the Vikings’. Further research showed that the enmity between this Parish and the others stemmed from the fact that the others had not warned that village that the Vikings were coming. Such a story, whilst amusing, serves as a reminder that the pain of separations runs more deep than we often dare to imagine; and require deep remedies to resolve.

There are of course other separations, for example when a child leaves the parental home or a friend or family member will not be seen for a period of time. There is also the separation of death.

The Story of God, as uniquely chronicled in our scriptures, is one of covenantal relationship, which is often cherished and sometimes broken. In a seemingly cyclical spiral: God loves and chooses a people, the people love him, and then wander off often creating gods in their own image leading to God allowing the chosen people to separate themselves from him.  I am deeply committed to the fundamental truth that God has demonstrated a capacity to love, cherish and nurture human beings. There is the other fact that we as human beings have verified time and time again that we are unworthy of such generosity. We have the capacity to rebel.  We have the ability to turn the laws of God on their heads. We have the power to live as if there is no God. In little ways, we are able to choose separation from God. We do so to our cost.

There is another kind of separation, one which we avoid for the most part. It is the separation that Jesus experienced on the Cross. It is not though found in the anguished scream quoting from Psalm 22, ‘My God why have you forsaken me’ or in the unfounded suggestions that somehow Jesus thought of himself as dying in failure.

It is the idea first expounded by Paul, albeit in embryonic terms that in some mysterious way, God placed our sin upon his Son that we might go free.

For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.

At the heart of this idea is that by Jesus experiencing a searing separation for God opens for us the possibility of a lively relationship with God, who is our heavenly father.

Part of the problem with such thinking is that it appears a tad too mechanical. It is for this reason that some liberal thinkers have shunned the approach believing that it amounts to a form of perverse cruelty.

Such an attitude profoundly misunderstands the God of the covenant, who will go to the ends of the earth, lavish his generosity to the end of its limits and beyond to allow people to be reconciled to him. It misconstrues what Paul knows that it is God himself who suffers to bring together all that is separated.

On the Cross, Jesus is separated. He is separated from those who love him. He is separated from those he loves. He is separated from God who cannot bear to look upon the sin that is yours and mind.

Separation for those who believe in Jesus is though the door to forgiveness. By going through that door we will be free; and will begin life’s greatest adventure. That does not quite mask the pain that separation causes.

The Shadow of separation has fallen.

Denial seems at first glance to be less than betrayal. In the context of the Passion of the Christ this is understandable, for Simon Peter is restored and becomes a model of discipleship; with his belief in Jesus, as the Messiah, the Son of the Living God, gradually evolving; whereas Judas has been simply labelled as beyond the pale. Denial has become something palatable. It does not even rank as betrayal lite.

The denial by the rock, the one upon whom the Messiah will fashion his church, by refusing to acknowledge Jesus to a servant girl and others in the high priest’s courtyard is passed over, except perhaps as part of the story of Peter’s restoration. In a sense there is absolutely no problem with this; repentance needs to be appropriately noted and celebrated. In another sense, though, it is passed over because Peter has become a more likeable character than Judas. This is intriguing in and of itself for this is more to do with what they have become rather than any firm intimation as to their characters from the Gospels themselves.

Denial is though (for Christians) the opposite of making the good confession. The term good confession is one of the phrases used by the Apostle Paul. He employs it to describe the witness offered by Jesus on trial before Pontius Pilate. Confession and witness are theologically loaded terms, for both are related to the word ‘martyr’ and ‘martyrdom’.

In the New Testament, confession, witness and martyrdom come together around the figure of John the Baptist. Those of you familiar with the New Testament stories will remember him as the preacher of repentance, with an unfamiliar set of dietary habits and unfashionable set of clothing. He was Jesus’ cousin, baptised Jesus, and the person who announced who Jesus was at the beginning of his public ministry. His confession (his call to repentance) led to his arrest when those with power were uncomfortable with what such repentance would cost them, and his continued witness led to his death.

The Baptist also made the good confession by declaring that Jesus must increase, whilst he (John) must decrease. Such an attitude, however admirable, serves as a deep and profound challenge to many of us. If having Jesus as the Messiah at the centre of our lives is making the good confession, then many of us, myself included, do not make such a witness.

Speaking personally, it might be that I come closer to denial in terms of my public witness than I do to confession. It is not that I often sit by firesides in the courtyards of high priests, and deny I know Jesus; but I do have to hold up my hands and say sometimes I declare all too often how much I am willing to do for my Lord, and then fail often times to reach the first hurdle.

Denial, confession and witness are public acts. I am too often beguiled into believing that firstly, religion is a private matter with no right to infringe beyond my own pattern of life or that witness, martyrdom and confession are worthy artefacts from the past.

Faith in Christ has never been a private matter. It transcends boundaries and involves calling others to leave their nets, tax collectors booths, and even families to follow one who had no place to lay his head.

Archbishop Justin Welby in his enthronement sermon noted

I look at the Anglican leaders here and remember that in many cases round the world their people are scattered to the four winds or driven underground: by persecution, by storms of all sorts, even by cultural change. Many Christians are martyred now as in the past.

Every Christian is called to make the good confession, regardless of where they are from and who they are. Many of us though live with the shadow of denial.

We are in a good company, with Peter and the other disciples, both men and women, who fled.

We can though, like Peter be restored. To that we need though to seek God’s forgiveness for the times the way we live our lives amounts to us declaring, with oaths, that we do not know the man.

The Shadow of Denial has fallen.

The act of betrayal is always an intimate one. Is it possible to betray someone you do not know? An act of treason can only be committed by someone who seems to belong.

One of the twelve betrays Jesus with a kiss. There is some discussion, within scholarly circles, as to what type of kiss this was. The use of kataphilein has been taken by some to suggest that it is part of a passionate embrace; whereas others suggest that the kiss was on the hand, cheek or even foot. Our Gospel for this year, Luke, intimates that Jesus does not allow Judas to kiss him.

What is certain is that a kiss is how a disciple would greet their Rabbi or Teacher. It assumes loyalty and fidelity, and adherence to that Rabbi’s pattern of life and teaching.

This is why the action of Judas, the one called Iscariot, from the town of Kerioth, has been the focus of such much displeasure. The kiss a sign of affection is translated in the garden into one of disloyalty and infidelity. To those with long biblical memories, gardens can be a place of delight or a setting for betrayal. Indeed we should never lose sight that within the narrative of God, the story of Jesus is one that sets in motion the repeal of all that happens because of the Fall. The betrayal of Jesus is part and parcel of that.

And yet, this particular act of treachery or betrayal has been magnified out of all proportion. There are obvious reasons for this: how is it that someone who was part of Jesus’ closest group of disciples could hand him over to be crucified? Judas in betraying the Son of God has become the ‘son of perdition’. He has become one who is wholly other. Judas is someone who repels us; not because of who he but because of what he does. He is someone that we do not identify with and often have scant sympathy for. As people who are living through Holy Week, he is the one character we do not want to play. We have sympathetic understanding for Simon Peter warming himself by the fire surrounded by the servants of Jesus’ enemies. We empathise with those who fled at the sight of the armed militia, which belonged to the high priest. But the man of Kerioth is seemingly deserving of no sympathy or understanding.

It is easy on a day like this to get bogged down in the minutiae of what may or may not have caused Judas to do what he did. We indulge ourselves in whether he intended to Jesus to lead a rebellion against Rome rather than follow the way of the Cross. To do that is to an extent to allow ourselves to be let off the hook.

It allows ourselves not to have been part of the betrayal. Yet, we who gather here attempt to follow the pattern and way of life set and exemplified by Jesus of Nazareth. Which of us can truly say that we have not let Jesus down or, yes, at times, betrayed him? Some of us, including myself, will have undoubtedly tried to make Jesus conform to our own image. Some of us, including myself, will have confessed and sung about how much we are willing to give up for Christ, and the next moment living in a way that is totally contradictory to what we have sung. These are not in actual fact small betrayals. They have become small because we have hyperbolised the one in the Garden to such an extent every other one since then can be passed over.

As the shadow of betrayal passes by, I am mindful that the bell tolls for me as well as Judas. As I join Jesus in the Garden, and look into the face of the traitor as he says look my betrayer is at hand, I do not see one who has been hounded through the ages, I see myself.

In the moment, I look into eyes of Jesus as he mouths the words again, ‘Take heart, I have overcome the world’.

The Shadow of Betrayal has fallen

Good Friday – Darkness captures the Light

⁴⁴ It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land^[l] until three in the afternoon, ⁴⁵ while the sun’s light failed;^[m] and the curtain of the temple was torn in two. ⁴⁶ Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.’ Having said this, he breathed his last. ⁴⁷ When the centurion saw what had taken place, he praised God and said, ‘Certainly this man was innocent.’^{[n] 48} And when all the crowds who had gathered there for this spectacle saw what had taken place, they returned home, beating their breasts. ⁴⁹ But all his acquaintances, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things.

Thought for Good Friday

God’s story seems to have come to a shuddering and shocking end. Death does that. It ends things. Death is never ever nothing at all. The final breath is always just that. St Paul’s description of death as the final enemy is utterly appropriate. God’s story had of course come to a shuddering and shocking end before; whether that be in the Garden at the beginning of creation when the first human couple disobey the divine command or when those who were the covenant people chose exile rather than obedience. When the Light seems to have gone, precedents within God’s story are hidden. They are shrouded within the shadows. For patterns and precedents to be discerned, time needs to be taken in the darkness; that requires courage. Courage is always possible even when what is familiar has gone.

Prayer

God of hope and darkness

God of grace and glory

Give us to courage to wait in the stillness

In the Name of Jesus Christ the Lord. Amen.

Maundy Thursday – Darkness comes

Luke 22: 49-43

⁴⁹ When those who were around him saw what was coming, they asked, ‘Lord, should we strike with the sword?’ ⁵⁰ Then one of them struck the slave of the high priest and cut off his right ear. ⁵¹ But Jesus said, ‘No more of this!’ And he touched his ear and healed him. ⁵² Then Jesus said to the chief priests, the officers of the temple police, and the elders who had come for him, ‘Have you come out with swords and clubs as if I were a bandit? ⁵³ When I was with you day after day in the temple, you did not lay hands on me. But this is your hour, and the power of darkness!’

Thought for Maundy Thursday

There are times when most of us will have faced moments that are bleak and seemingly without the presence of light. Maundy Thursday must have been one of those such times for Jesus. At the point of his arrest, Jesus hands over the control of his destiny to others. He is passed from Jewish authorities to the power of Rome, who in turn handed him to Herod, who after mocking him handed him back. It is if no one quite wanted to take responsibility for this particular prisoner’s death. As we reflect on not being in control, I am reminded of Rowan Williams’ observation that most human beings crave control and act as if we are in complete charge of our destiny. Jesus’ willingness to hand himself over stands in stark contrast to how we live our lives at times. As we watch him passed from pillar to post, let us ask ourselves when was the last time we rejoiced because we were not in control.

Prayer

God of hope and powerlessness

God of grace and glory

Help us to be vulnerable

In the Name of Jesus Christ the Lord. Amen.

Holy Wednesday –Patterns of darkness emerge

Luke 22: 1-5

Now the festival of Unleavened Bread, which is called the Passover, was near. ² The chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to put Jesus to death, for they were afraid of the people. ³ Then Satan entered into Judas called Iscariot, who was one of the twelve; ⁴ he went away and conferred with the chief priests and officers of the temple police about how he might betray him to them. ⁵ They were greatly pleased and agreed to give him money. ⁶ So he consented and began to look for an opportunity to betray him to them when no crowd was present.

Thought for Holy Wednesday

 Feasts are very important. They bring people together. This is true in most cultures, and particularly true in Judaism. The Passover is the pinnacle of the year. It is a time when they are reminded of the great deliverance from slavery to freedom; of the covenant made with the God of the universe to be representatives of all that is good and life-giving. Feasts always seem to have an underbelly, which are not good. In the midst of sumptuous foods and laughter, there are those with little to eat and no one to laugh with. Stories always seem to have someone in them whose role it seems is to take the blame. Judas is the one who is held accountable in the story of Holy Week. It is easy for someone to take the blame; it absolves the rest of us of our own responsibility and culpability. As we move ever closer to the feast of Easter, what is it that we would rather not look at and who should we include this year that we have excluded in other years.

Prayer

God of hope and exclusion

God of grace and glory

Be with us when we are blamed

In the Name of Jesus Christ the Lord. Amen.

Holy Tuesday – the Consequence of Darkness

Luke 21:20-24

²⁰ ‘When you see Jerusalem surrounded by armies, then know that its desolation has come near.^{[d] 21} Then those in Judea must flee to the mountains, and those inside the city must leave it, and those out in the country must not enter it; ²² for these are days of vengeance, as a fulfilment of all that is written. ²³ Woe to those who are pregnant and to those who are nursing infants in those days! For there will be great distress on the earth and wrath against this people; ²⁴ they will fall by the edge of the sword and be taken away as captives among all nations; and Jerusalem will be trampled on by the Gentiles, until the times of the Gentiles are fulfilled.

Thought for Holy Tuesday

We are beginning to get to the point in the story when it would be quite easy to ask, why doesn’t Jesus just get out of Jerusalem? You do not need to be that smart to realise how the pieces of the puzzle are going to fit together: that something is going to happen to Jesus looks increasingly probable. Jesus does not leave; instead he continues to tell a story. Storytellers and stories are needed in times of particular crisis. This part of the story looks into the future. One thing should be absolutely clear. Jesus was not a fool. Anyone who looked at how Israel was behaving and had an inkling as to how the Roman Empire dealt with dissent would be able to imagine how things might turn out. Indeed, those with knowledge of God’s story would know Jerusalem had been captured before and the people carried off to places they would rather not have gone. There are always consequences to our actions; both corporately and as individuals. Jesus sees the need to proclaim what the outcome might be. I wonder where the prophets are today who will call us individually and corporately to account. We prefer to focus on the individual, it allows us, as we shall see, to scapegoat. At this point, however the outcome is not inevitable; a course has been set; but that course can be changed. When Jesus looks into my future, I wonder what courses I might feel the need to modify.

Prayer

God of hope and journey

God of grace and glory

Help us to listen to the story you tell and amend our lives accordingly

In the Name of Jesus Christ the Lord