Sunday 27 March 2016

Empty tomb, full hearts



The empty tomb is a strange place ... the two tiny rooms lie within an  elaborate 'edicule' [or shrine] now in such poor condition that scaffolding supports it as it awaits its own resurrection. 'Holy Sepulchre'   and 'Resurrection' [Anastasis] are  both names for this Holy Church - and the site we were about to enter spoke both of  the death of hopes and the death of death itself.

Under the stern eye of guardians from different churches, I stand with others from our St George's College group in a queue that trails around the edicule, under the rays of light through the cupola above.  As we wait, some people nearby  sing songs from their homelands, some are clearly deep in prayer, others chat about food and hotels and touristy things, while still others focus on their phones. Yet we are all drawn here by one man, Jesus of Nazareth, and the story of his life, death and resurrection.

After an hour's wait, it is all over in a matter of minutes. Several of us are ushered into the first space where a portion of the original stone which the angels rolled away is kept right here. A brief moment for reflection and we move into the second room - where you see the candlelight in the picture above - the actual place of Jesus' s burial and of his resurrection. The surface of the shelf where Jesus's body lay is protected from  countless pilgrims' hands - and ours  - by a slab of marble. It is cool to the touch - a hard reminder of the lifeless body which lay right here so long ago, . But the candles tell another story  -  the extraordinary energy, the power-full light that blasted through the darkness of death like a laser, and, right here,  released Jesus the Christ into the cosmos, into Love for all time. 

And as we are waved outside by the queue 'manager', I thought of the disciples who ran to the tomb and crouched right here and ran to tell others what they'd seen  and Mary waiting in the mist of mourning, right here.Not recognising the resurrected Jesus in the dim dawn light, it wasn't until he called her name right here that her grief fell away like an ill-fitting cloak.

And so it is with us - with me - it's not easy to recognise Jesus when we are bogged down in busyness or poverty, suffering or anxiety,  depression or fear for the future of the world and our children and their children. 

But as soon as we stop and are still enough to hear him call our name, everything changes. 

Stop today. Right here.

Listen.









Friday 25 March 2016

Nail, bone and blood.

If you go to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem you'll enter through an ancient door - to your right there are steps carved into the rock of Golgotha, and when you ascend these - as millions of pilgrims have done - you will emerge into the Roman Catholic Chapel of the Nailing of Jesus to the Cross - the 11th Station.. 

It is dimly lit, often crowded with pilgrims, some of whom stop and reflect, while others move more quickly to the Greek Orthodox Chapel which is built over Calvary itself, which you can just  glimpse to the left. 

This chapel commemorates the moment when Jesus was nailed to the cross. There is no way we can imagine the anguish of that moment; there was no way the trauma was lessened because of his divinity. All those who loved him could do was keep as close as they could, willing their presence to bring him some comfort, yet knowing he was already moving beyond their reach.

In the shadowy background to the left, there is the chilling image of the man who drove in the nails. Probably it wasn't the first time he had held a man down with the strength of his body and forced nail into flesh, heard splintering of bone, felt warm blood flow. 

I wonder if he had heard of Jesus, if he had been present when he rode into Jerusalem, if, even as he did the deed, he was wondering, 'Who is this man?' 

I wonder if he heard Jesus's words, 'Father forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.' Luke 23.34
Jesus was nailed to the cross two thousand years ago
and yet we nail Jesus to the cross still,
whenever we put ourselves at the centre of our world, 
whenever we ignore those who are poor, in pain, 
homeless or on the margins.

Jesus, forgive us,

Forgive me.

Wednesday 23 March 2016

Washing Judas's feet

A reflection on  John 13.3-16



Washing Judas’ feet

Beneath my damp hands 
are your ordinary feet 
much like the feet of my other 
weary and wary  friends.


The skin is rough,
with tiny cuts from stones still healing.
The heels are cracked.
The toes have dirt in the nails 
just like my feet …

But soon …
too soon
these feet will carry you
along the path of betrayal
along the path which will
bring me to my death,
bring my feet to nailing.                                                             

You wanted something from me    
I could not give.                                                                                                           
You wanted violence and overthrow,
power expressed through battle and bloodshed.

There will be violence,
but I will absorb it as I bleed,
take with me in my dying
the power  you craved …

Love  - which is my Essence -
will prevail.
Resurrection waits
‘neath  Abba’s wings -
and my feet shall spring to dancing.    

            

Saturday 12 March 2016

The Lady in the Van



It's not often  a film is still  percolating in my mind well into the next day but 'The Lady in the Van' , a 'comedy-drama' about an ageing woman who lived for 15 years in the driveway of London playwright Alan Bennett, is such a film.

If you've seen it you may have been affected by it ; if you haven't seen the film, I hope that you'll glean something of its emotional complexity as you read through this list of significant elements which  affected me:

  • the 'not in my backyard' attitude of those living near Alan
  • the cantankerous unpredictability of the 'odd' woman, not given to gratitude or cleanliness
  • the playwright's needy mother sliding into senility 
  • the old woman's brother wracked with guilt, and deferential to his inhospitable wife
  • the threatening figure who extorted money in the darkness of the night 
  • Alan and his alter ego debating the limits of his compassion and the ethics of exploiting the woman as subject matter for his writing 
  • the kindness of the helpers - ambulance man, doctor, and day care worker who were not afraid to touch her dirty hands
  • the patient priest who repeatedly assured her of the limitless forgiveness of God 
  • the stigma of homosexuality in London at that time 
  • the awful blunder of those who could not see that playing the piano was the young nun's way of praying, of giving herself as fully as she could, to the God who gave her that talent ...


There is more of course. 

There is the uncomfortable realisation that I may well have reacted as those who lived in the street did - instead of being  the Good Samaritan' I would have tried to avoid her and wished she were somewhere else. And that's not a 'good look'  - this part of me that holds back from reaching out.

I would have been discomforted by her 'difference'. 

Perhaps you would too.

It's not easy for us as human beings to learn to welcome and love those who seem 'other',  to get to know them enough to find beneath the veneer of dirt or disease or ethnic diversity, the fundamental humanity which connects us all. It's only when we begin to share our stories, that we begin to discover our similarities and build relationships that  can sustain us as we venture through this life and prepare for the next...

It's worth a second viewing this film - a second round of battling with my own 'alter ego' - the part of me that wants an easy life even though I also want to grow more like Jesus. He opened his arms wide for her - just as he did for us all two thousand years ago on the cross.

Now through his Spirit, he challenges me -and you -  to risk opening our arms wide and see what happens ...





Tuesday 8 March 2016

MORNING GLORY

 I was stopped in my tracks this morning by a stunning display of glowing purple flowers blanketing the bush in the old hospital grounds near where we walk our dog. The flowers were all turned towards the risen sun, their petals unfurled and their colour given vibrancy by the cooler, clear air.

What an irony that such beauty should be displayed by what many regard as a weed -  MORNING GLORY [aka convolvulus] is one of those plants which tends to spread without hesitation as far as it can, climbing, clambering, covering everything around it, a gardener's nightmare if left unchecked

But in this untended part of the city, this aptly-named plant brought a welcome brightness to begin the day that I wanted to savour.

And I just wanted to stand for a few moments and enjoy it and smile.


Saturday 5 March 2016

Aah - cricket at Pukekura Park



It was 4pm - a light breeze, not too hot, convivial company and a battle between NZ and the Aussies!  The little gem which is Pukekura Park in New Plymouth was hosting the third and final T20 match between the White Ferns and the Southern Stars. A taste of heaven on earth!

But Perhaps the team names are unfamiliar because they belong to the women's cricket teams, the equivalent of the 'Black Caps' and the 'Baggy Greens'[ one way of describing the Aussies - but it really relates to the Test side].

We [ the White Ferns] were already 2-0 up in the series so this was a 'dead rubber' - but it gave several women the chance to gain experience in the cauldron of international cricket before they all head off to the World Cup in India in a couple of weeks time. [No - it's not just the men's teams competing at the T20  - there are ten women's cricket teams as well and Australia and New Zealand women will meet again in pool play.]

It was an idyllic three hours [ apart from the result - we were 20 runs short of the Aussie total,  so we lost] and we are reminded how fortunate we are to be able to watch cricket in such a superb setting.

After we went home, though, I started to think about inequality - the way, even in developed countries, systemic sexism continues. These women cricketers train hard, have high skill levels, provide an entertaining game to watch and are healthy role models for young women. Yet their public profile and their remuneration cannot compare with those of their male counterparts.

Far worse examples of inequity exist in other countries of course. Countless women remain no more than chattels, or are powerless to find a way through embedded cultural practices which put them and their girl-children at risk. But there is hope : one pathway to equality is via education when it is made available to girls. Another developing pathway is through sport, and the impending Olympic games will remind us again of the opportunities sport can offer to increase gender equality around the world.

Perhaps seeing the emergence of women's sports teams at the T20 World Cup and the Olympics will give disadvantaged women some hope. 
Perhaps our women will make connections with others around the world and be blessed by knowing they are doing their part in building freedom for women, even if it is one small step at a time.

And perhaps we will pay more attention to the radical equality that permeates the New Testament. After all, Jesus shattered cultural and religious rules, suffered ridicule, resentment and ultimately death, because he drew the marginalised closer and gave the women he met the power to live as full human beings. Good news indeed.








Friday 4 March 2016

FORGOTTEN WORLD




The 'Forgotten World' lies in the back country of the North Island of New Zealand between Stratford and Taumarunui. Over the last four years, some entrepreneurial Kiwis have leased an old rail-track and built a thriving business offering visitors an insight into the stories, beauty and struggles of the local environment and its inhabitants.

We drove modified golf carts on the rail-track through stunning country - native bush, hills stretching away in the distance, even glimpses of the mountains of the central high country. We saw evidence of fossils from 14-17 million years ago, left in the sedimentary rock before the upthrust of this land through tectonic activity.

And all the while we were learning a little about the people who had worked so very hard to construct the track and push west in the early years of the twentieth century: the surveyor who died of peritonitis, in spite of friends' efforts to ride for days to get help; the women who raised children and stock and somehow survived; the vast unnamed numbers of men who were deemed unfit for service in WW1 but who nevertheless cut timber for sleepers, built trellis viaducts of untreated wood and then packed them with soil, using wheelbarrows not bulldozers!


Of most of these people, little trace remains: the occasional grave marker, fading unnamed photos in the pub at Whangamomona, the chimney standing alone in the paddock and snippets of stories meandering down the years.

But the fruit of their hard labour endures: there's the literal fruit - heavy laden old apple trees, their fruit sharp and refreshing, and round the corner, the 'best plums in the world'. And there are the tunnels - we went through twenty on our 83km journey - some of them lined with bricks made on site from local clay - all of them required the removal of tons of earth - again with no modern machinery. Working in the pitch black, damp and bitter cold for a meagre wage, these folk have left us an example of courage, persistence, camaraderie, and good old Kiwi ingenuity. The fruit of their spirit lives on; we were blessed to have witnessed it that day.


What will be the example we leave behind, I wonder?
What stories will remain in the memories of those who follow us ?
Will our 'fruit' bear witness to the Godly fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness,generosity, faithfulness and self-control? I pray so.