A survey for the Mental Health Foundation has suggested that people are growing more and more anxious. A poll of 2,000 adults found 77% found the world more frightening than in 1999. The charity described a "culture of fear" in which the media and politicians fuelled a sense of unease. But one sociologist has said the campaign could become a "self-fulfilling prophecy" making people even more anxious. The report, In the Face of Fear, found more than a third of people say they get frightened or anxious more often than they used to. One of the reasons for the increased fear was the economic climate but the charity said it believed there were other factors at play. The report said "worst-case-scenario language" sometimes used by politicians, and others around issues such as knife-crime, MRSA, bird-flu and terrorism can also have a detrimental effect on people's wellbeing.
In the gospel, Mary Magadalene is faced with fear. The world is or must be a scary place for her. She has witnessed the most awful thing happening. Her hopes dashed, her heart broken, she stands at the place of death and weeps. She has every right to be scared it seems. And she too is guilty of using ‘worst case scenario language.’ ‘They have taken my Lord away,’ she says, ‘and I don’t know where they have put him.’ How on earth can things get better? All she has in the gardener to confide in. ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’ he asks. ‘Who are you looking for?’ Maybe the gardener can help. ‘If you have taken him away,’ she replies, ‘please tell me where you have put him and I will go and remove him.’ And then one word from Jesus as he speaks her name. Then, and only then, does her fear fall away. Then and only then does her anxiety subside. Then and only then does she recognise Jesus.
We do live in a world in which there appears to be so much to be fearful about. Society changes, as it always changes, and very rarely do we think it changes for the better. We worry about so many things. We get anxious about so many factors. We know, from experience, that being a Christian, believing in Jesus, following Jesus, does not mean an easy life, a comfortable life, or a life that is cushioned from the tragedies and turmoil that come our way. Sometimes, in the midst of our fear, when we are close to tears or standing at the place of death, it may be difficult to see Jesus in the mess that we have found ourselves. But he is there, calling our name. His words lift us from the depths of despair and we, like Mary, are messengers, telling others what we have seen and heard.
Readings: Acts 2:36-41; John 20:11-18
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Monday, 13 April 2009
Easter Monday
So there’s a bit of bother at Downing Street. David Cameron wants an apology from the Prime Minister concerning the recent e-mail slurs that an adviser, David McBride, had sent, back in January. He quit his job after his unfounded claims about Mr Cameron and shadow Chancellor George Osborne became public knowledge. Mr Cameron is said to be ‘absolutely furious’ about what he claims are blatant lies made about the Tory Party. The Tory Party want an investigation and a guarantee that such material will never be written again from Downing Street. Lies, slurs, dirty tricks, dirty words, stories and tales. Another day in politics!
The gospel reading today is filled with a slur too. The news that the tomb of Jesus is empty and the claims that he has risen from the dead provoke the chief priests and elders to begin their own slur campaign, and the news soon goes around that the disciples of Jesus have stolen the body. There are bribes involved, and a considerable amount of money crosses hands. Not so much Cash for Questions or Cash for Honours but Cash for Lies. This is the beginning of conspiracy. For there have always been people who deny what we believe about Jesus, and there have always been people who, beginning from the very day of resurrection, have denied the resurrection of Christ from the dead. After all, it is a bold claim, a courageous claim, a dangerous claim. Yet is a claim that we continue to make. It is the central tenet to our faith. Without the Resurrection, our Faith would be very different indeed.
In the reading from the Acts of the Apostles, on the Day of Pentecost, fifty days after that Day of Resurrection, Peter speaks boldly in the streets of Jerusalem. ‘God raised this man Jesus to life, and all of us are witnesses to that,’ he says. He and the others disciples have been transformed from a timid, hopeless, broken hearted group of individuals who hide themselves in fear – to bold, hopeful, courageous people, filled with the Spirit of God, who cannot hold themselves back in sharing the message of Christ raised from the dead. And so we must move on too. For our lives are changed now. There is no looking back. As the apostles move on to Galilee, where Jesus will meet them, we too must move on, for the Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!
Readings: Acts 2:14. 22 -33; Matthew 28:8-15
The gospel reading today is filled with a slur too. The news that the tomb of Jesus is empty and the claims that he has risen from the dead provoke the chief priests and elders to begin their own slur campaign, and the news soon goes around that the disciples of Jesus have stolen the body. There are bribes involved, and a considerable amount of money crosses hands. Not so much Cash for Questions or Cash for Honours but Cash for Lies. This is the beginning of conspiracy. For there have always been people who deny what we believe about Jesus, and there have always been people who, beginning from the very day of resurrection, have denied the resurrection of Christ from the dead. After all, it is a bold claim, a courageous claim, a dangerous claim. Yet is a claim that we continue to make. It is the central tenet to our faith. Without the Resurrection, our Faith would be very different indeed.
In the reading from the Acts of the Apostles, on the Day of Pentecost, fifty days after that Day of Resurrection, Peter speaks boldly in the streets of Jerusalem. ‘God raised this man Jesus to life, and all of us are witnesses to that,’ he says. He and the others disciples have been transformed from a timid, hopeless, broken hearted group of individuals who hide themselves in fear – to bold, hopeful, courageous people, filled with the Spirit of God, who cannot hold themselves back in sharing the message of Christ raised from the dead. And so we must move on too. For our lives are changed now. There is no looking back. As the apostles move on to Galilee, where Jesus will meet them, we too must move on, for the Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!
Readings: Acts 2:14. 22 -33; Matthew 28:8-15
Friday, 10 April 2009
Maundy Thursday
Rosie Mason has one of the world's oddest job titles and is employed for just one day each year. Mrs Mason, 55, from Leicester, is the Queen's supplier of Nosegays - the sweet-smelling bouquets carried by royals as she hands out the Maundy Money today. Monarchs have been handing out gifts on Maundy Thursday since the 13th Century. In centuries past, the sovereign would give money to the poor and wash recipients' feet on. The nosegay's role was to ward off unpleasant smells. Foot-washing ended with James II in the 17th Century but the tradition of making the posies remains "It has to be one of the world's oddest job titles," said Mrs Mason. “The nosegays are only carried at the Maundy service so I only work on them for one day every year," she said, adding that her work as a florist keeps her busy the rest of the time. But her job as the Queen’s Supplier of Nosegays is just for once a year!
Tonight the smell of feet will fill the air and there is no bouquet of flowers in sight to ward off unpleasant smells. How disgusting, how unappetising, how coarse, how common! Why, in the midst of our eating and drinking, would we dare to break with etiquette, why dare to break social norms and acceptable behaviour, and get our feet out? Why? Because on the night he gathered with his friends in an upstairs room, Jesus left the table and taking bowl and water and wearing a towel around his waist, bends to the feet of his disciples and washes their feet in a gesture that is so out of the ordinary it takes even his disciples by surprise. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘You will never wash my feet.’
But this is not a one-off. This is not an isolated gesture, it’s not a party trick, or a novelty, neither is it a once a year event, a gesture to look back on, smile at, gasp about or be lost in melancholy moments. Jesus is very clear about what he is doing and why he is doing it. ‘Do you understand what I have done to you?’ he asks. ‘You call me Master and Lord, and rightly so; so I am. If I, then, the Lord and Master have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have given you an example that you may copy what I have done to you.’
The command is there to continue what he has done, to copy his example, to carry on his work, to fulfil his command. The mandate has been set before us. It’s what we must do! And not just once a year either! The command to wash one another’s feet is one that should characterise our lives, it is one that should fill our lives, so that we become a stooping people: stooping low to serve, showing no partiality, no picking and choosing, no turning of our backs. I can’t decide to wash the feet of someone ‘respectable’ who looks as though their feet are clean but ignore the man I passed on Bute Street today, half cut, looking half human, gobbing in the street, staggering on his way, the smell clinging to his clothes. But that is the challenge, that is where Jesus wants us to be. Serving whoever comes our way. How difficult, how challenging – yet also how wonderful and beautiful it is too. It also means, of course, that there can be no picking and choosing of who serves us. Sometimes it is as difficult to have your feet washed as it is to wash the feet of someone else. Peter discovered that. ‘Not me, Lord.’
There is a story told by a Methodist Minister of fifty years of a dream he once had. He thought he was a tourist in heaven and wandered into the museum of that holy city. There was some old armour there, much bruised with battle. Many things were conspicuous by their absence. I saw nothing of Alexander’s nor of Napoleon’s There was no Pope’s ring, not even the inkpot that Luther is said to have thrown at the Devil, nor Wesley’s seal and keys…I saw a widow’s mite and the feathers of a little bird. I saw some swaddling clothes, a hammer and three nails and a few thorns. I saw a bit of fishing net and the broken oar of a boat. I saw a sponge that had once been dipped in vinegar, and a small piece of silver…Whilst I was turning over a common drinking cup which had a very honourable place, I whispered to the attendant, “have you not got a towel and a basin among your collection?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not here. You see they are in constant use’
Read the gospel of John and you will find no account of the institution of Eucharist: it appears to be substituted by the washing of feet - because in a way, they are the same thing: an example of Jesus’ giving of himself to us. And if we too gather regularly at the Mass, to do as Jesus has commanded us to do – for that is why we do it – then we too should be filled with the courage and compassion to wash the feet of others, willingly, lovingly, regularly. We are servants of one another.
Oh yes, this night is a once in a year event, but the things that happen this evening, and all through the next few days are ‘Through the Year,’ Through our Lives’ things. For yes, there will be times when we will feel so intimate with Jesus, so close, so loving as though reclining at table with him, enjoying his company. There will be times when we will be aghast at the things he says. There will be times when we will want to argue or remonstrate, when we may want to take another way, a different way. There will be times when we will have our Gethsemane moments, when we will struggle like Jesus with what God wants us to do. There will be times when we will like Jesus, be left alone. There will be times, too, when, like the apostles, we will fear and fall away and distance ourselves from Jesus and even, at times, abandon or betray or disown him – God forbid. There will be times when we will feel as if we are put on trial, or like the apostles as though events are running away from us, as though they are out of our control and all we can do is stand by and watch. There will be times when we will experience our Golgotha moments of darkness and destitution, and our Holy Saturday moments too of waiting and waiting and feeling helpless and hopeless and not knowing what to do or where to turn and we will not be able to move on or move anywhere, when we will want to lock ourselves away. And there will be times too when we will be filled with the joy of the resurrection, with the joy of the empty tomb, of the unbelievable joy that Christ brings.
But tonight, tonight, of all nights, we will have our feet washed, and we will watch and wait with Jesus, and we will receive from Jesus’ hands the bread and wine, his body and blood, the gift of himself. And we will be challenged to move on from this night and take what we receive in this Mass, on this night, into our lives. Are you brave enough, foolish enough, are you trusting enough to move on? Are you inquisitive enough and thirsty enough to find out more and experience more and grow closer to Jesus? Do you dare to come close? And do you dare to have your feet washed? And do you dare to wash the feet of others?
On his death bed, St Francis said, ‘Let us now begin to serve the Lord for up to now we have done nothing.’ In serving the Lord we are called to serve one another.
So let us begin.
Tonight the smell of feet will fill the air and there is no bouquet of flowers in sight to ward off unpleasant smells. How disgusting, how unappetising, how coarse, how common! Why, in the midst of our eating and drinking, would we dare to break with etiquette, why dare to break social norms and acceptable behaviour, and get our feet out? Why? Because on the night he gathered with his friends in an upstairs room, Jesus left the table and taking bowl and water and wearing a towel around his waist, bends to the feet of his disciples and washes their feet in a gesture that is so out of the ordinary it takes even his disciples by surprise. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘You will never wash my feet.’
But this is not a one-off. This is not an isolated gesture, it’s not a party trick, or a novelty, neither is it a once a year event, a gesture to look back on, smile at, gasp about or be lost in melancholy moments. Jesus is very clear about what he is doing and why he is doing it. ‘Do you understand what I have done to you?’ he asks. ‘You call me Master and Lord, and rightly so; so I am. If I, then, the Lord and Master have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have given you an example that you may copy what I have done to you.’
The command is there to continue what he has done, to copy his example, to carry on his work, to fulfil his command. The mandate has been set before us. It’s what we must do! And not just once a year either! The command to wash one another’s feet is one that should characterise our lives, it is one that should fill our lives, so that we become a stooping people: stooping low to serve, showing no partiality, no picking and choosing, no turning of our backs. I can’t decide to wash the feet of someone ‘respectable’ who looks as though their feet are clean but ignore the man I passed on Bute Street today, half cut, looking half human, gobbing in the street, staggering on his way, the smell clinging to his clothes. But that is the challenge, that is where Jesus wants us to be. Serving whoever comes our way. How difficult, how challenging – yet also how wonderful and beautiful it is too. It also means, of course, that there can be no picking and choosing of who serves us. Sometimes it is as difficult to have your feet washed as it is to wash the feet of someone else. Peter discovered that. ‘Not me, Lord.’
There is a story told by a Methodist Minister of fifty years of a dream he once had. He thought he was a tourist in heaven and wandered into the museum of that holy city. There was some old armour there, much bruised with battle. Many things were conspicuous by their absence. I saw nothing of Alexander’s nor of Napoleon’s There was no Pope’s ring, not even the inkpot that Luther is said to have thrown at the Devil, nor Wesley’s seal and keys…I saw a widow’s mite and the feathers of a little bird. I saw some swaddling clothes, a hammer and three nails and a few thorns. I saw a bit of fishing net and the broken oar of a boat. I saw a sponge that had once been dipped in vinegar, and a small piece of silver…Whilst I was turning over a common drinking cup which had a very honourable place, I whispered to the attendant, “have you not got a towel and a basin among your collection?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not here. You see they are in constant use’
Read the gospel of John and you will find no account of the institution of Eucharist: it appears to be substituted by the washing of feet - because in a way, they are the same thing: an example of Jesus’ giving of himself to us. And if we too gather regularly at the Mass, to do as Jesus has commanded us to do – for that is why we do it – then we too should be filled with the courage and compassion to wash the feet of others, willingly, lovingly, regularly. We are servants of one another.
Oh yes, this night is a once in a year event, but the things that happen this evening, and all through the next few days are ‘Through the Year,’ Through our Lives’ things. For yes, there will be times when we will feel so intimate with Jesus, so close, so loving as though reclining at table with him, enjoying his company. There will be times when we will be aghast at the things he says. There will be times when we will want to argue or remonstrate, when we may want to take another way, a different way. There will be times when we will have our Gethsemane moments, when we will struggle like Jesus with what God wants us to do. There will be times when we will like Jesus, be left alone. There will be times, too, when, like the apostles, we will fear and fall away and distance ourselves from Jesus and even, at times, abandon or betray or disown him – God forbid. There will be times when we will feel as if we are put on trial, or like the apostles as though events are running away from us, as though they are out of our control and all we can do is stand by and watch. There will be times when we will experience our Golgotha moments of darkness and destitution, and our Holy Saturday moments too of waiting and waiting and feeling helpless and hopeless and not knowing what to do or where to turn and we will not be able to move on or move anywhere, when we will want to lock ourselves away. And there will be times too when we will be filled with the joy of the resurrection, with the joy of the empty tomb, of the unbelievable joy that Christ brings.
But tonight, tonight, of all nights, we will have our feet washed, and we will watch and wait with Jesus, and we will receive from Jesus’ hands the bread and wine, his body and blood, the gift of himself. And we will be challenged to move on from this night and take what we receive in this Mass, on this night, into our lives. Are you brave enough, foolish enough, are you trusting enough to move on? Are you inquisitive enough and thirsty enough to find out more and experience more and grow closer to Jesus? Do you dare to come close? And do you dare to have your feet washed? And do you dare to wash the feet of others?
On his death bed, St Francis said, ‘Let us now begin to serve the Lord for up to now we have done nothing.’ In serving the Lord we are called to serve one another.
So let us begin.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Wednesday in Holy Week
Do you have trouble with sprouts? Are you averse to cabbage or swede or tinned tomatoes or sweetcorn? Do you remember pushing the plate away as a child or refusing to eat your greens? A new survey has revealed that the memories of our childhood eating habits have a huge impact on our tastes in later life. Almost half of the people questioned in the survey admitted not trying the food in adult life that gave them their earliest ‘bad flavour’ memory. A Smell expert from Cardiff University said that flavour was actually a mixture of two senses - taste and smell - and in many people these were inherently conservative. "We spend our formative years being fed with things that are sweet and quite bland,’ he said. ‘Once we have established what foods we need to survive, why change it? We often don't want to take that risk.’ In other words, why be left with a bad taste in our mouth?
The meal in tonight’s gospel reading is, of course, a well known one. The room has been carefully chosen, the table prepared, and the food determined by Jewish ritual. Imagine the tastes and the smells. Imagine the scene. That carefully chosen upstairs room is the place that Jesus shares the Passover with his disciples. And in the midst of this traditional fare, this important celebration, this cultural ritual of the Jewish people, Jesus gives it a new meaning. He takes bread, he takes wine and offers the food to his disciples as his body and blood. The food he gives is the gift of himself and an eloquent image of his self giving love. What better food could we wish for?
Yet this meal will leave a bad taste in the mouth. Already Judas Iscariot has been planning the betrayal of Jesus. And whilst they are eating, Jesus tells them so…but only in a manner of speaking. In saying that one of them will betray him, the disciples reveal their own insecurities, their own self-doubt. They shock themselves into thinking that they could be the one to let Jesus down, to hand Jesus over, the one for whom it would be better that he had never been born. ‘Not I, Lord, surely?’ Are they…is any one of them…capable of betraying Jesus? And so their distress fills the air. There is a bad taste in their mouth. Jesus says that someone who has dipped his hand in the same dish, someone who has sat at the same table, someone who has enjoyed the same meal with him, will slip out into darkness. ‘Better that he had never been born.’ How final, how severe, how awful.
Yet, this is the meal to which they will return again and again. This is the meal that we share so often: for Jesus has ordered it to be so. Their memories of Jesus betrayal, suffering and death will always be associated with this meal, they will never shake that memory, the taste of death, the smell of betrayal. But it will also be the meal that will assure them of his risen presence. And so we, when we break bread and drink the cup, call to mind the Lord’s death. It is bitter sweet. For although it comes through pain and suffering, it comes with the reward of Christ’s risen life.
I hope you enjoy your food.
Readings: Isaiah 50:4-9; Matthew 26:14-25
The meal in tonight’s gospel reading is, of course, a well known one. The room has been carefully chosen, the table prepared, and the food determined by Jewish ritual. Imagine the tastes and the smells. Imagine the scene. That carefully chosen upstairs room is the place that Jesus shares the Passover with his disciples. And in the midst of this traditional fare, this important celebration, this cultural ritual of the Jewish people, Jesus gives it a new meaning. He takes bread, he takes wine and offers the food to his disciples as his body and blood. The food he gives is the gift of himself and an eloquent image of his self giving love. What better food could we wish for?
Yet this meal will leave a bad taste in the mouth. Already Judas Iscariot has been planning the betrayal of Jesus. And whilst they are eating, Jesus tells them so…but only in a manner of speaking. In saying that one of them will betray him, the disciples reveal their own insecurities, their own self-doubt. They shock themselves into thinking that they could be the one to let Jesus down, to hand Jesus over, the one for whom it would be better that he had never been born. ‘Not I, Lord, surely?’ Are they…is any one of them…capable of betraying Jesus? And so their distress fills the air. There is a bad taste in their mouth. Jesus says that someone who has dipped his hand in the same dish, someone who has sat at the same table, someone who has enjoyed the same meal with him, will slip out into darkness. ‘Better that he had never been born.’ How final, how severe, how awful.
Yet, this is the meal to which they will return again and again. This is the meal that we share so often: for Jesus has ordered it to be so. Their memories of Jesus betrayal, suffering and death will always be associated with this meal, they will never shake that memory, the taste of death, the smell of betrayal. But it will also be the meal that will assure them of his risen presence. And so we, when we break bread and drink the cup, call to mind the Lord’s death. It is bitter sweet. For although it comes through pain and suffering, it comes with the reward of Christ’s risen life.
I hope you enjoy your food.
Readings: Isaiah 50:4-9; Matthew 26:14-25
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Tuesday in Holy Week
There is a well-known saying, ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions.’ It’s a very powerful saying. All of us, at times, are guilty of intending to do so many good things, to have a good heart, with good thoughts and good plans but capable too of putting them off and never getting them done. ‘The intention was there, I intended to do it, I just never got around to it.’
Peter too is in a similar place. His heart is good, his heart is brave, his heart is filled with good intentions. And when he hears Jesus speaking about moving on to a place they cannot follow Peter declares from his heart that he will follow Jesus where ever he goes. And more than that - Peter says, from the heart, that he would lay down his life for Jesus. And he means it. That is his intention. Perhaps hearing Jesus speak on so many occasions about laying his own life down, Peter had immersed the words for himself, he had adapted the values and vision of Jesus; the sayings and turn of phrase were on his lips and in his heart. Little did Peter know that his good intentions would also bring him to his own experience of hell: of darkness and destitution, of tears and pain and separation from the one he loves.
‘Before the cock crows three times, you will disown me three times,’ says Jesus to Peter. How awful, how terrible, how rude of Jesus to belittle Peter’s intentions, to put him down even before he has had the chance to prove his passion or deliver the goods. Yet Jesus sees into his heart, and he knows that his intentions are good. But Jesus knows, too, that he will have to go through this one all on his own.
Already the intentions of another have been planted and they are beginning to come to fruition. Who knows what’s going through Judas’s mind. The Gospel writer paints him in no uncertain language as a thief, and from the time he slips out of the room on the night that Jesus shares a meal with his friends he will forever be known as the one who betrayed Jesus. And Jesus sees into his heart too. ‘What you are going to do, do quickly,’ says Jesus to Judas. Yet Jesus has chosen him too, just as he had chosen Peter and Andrew and James and John and the other odd collection of men, all filled with good intentions.
Meanwhile, we are left reclining with Jesus at table, listening in on the conversation of Jesus with his friends and followers, seeing into their hearts. And Jesus sees into our hearts too. He knows how strong and full of courage we are, how faithful we are, how fascinating and loyal, how filled with good intentions we are. And he knows too how weak and feeble, how so easily distracted, how dull, how misunderstanding, how hot and cold, how confused and confusing we all are at times.
And Jesus moves on, moves closer and closer, closer to the cross. And we too follow, sometimes from a distance, a safe distance, a dangerous distance. We are, of course, unlike those disciples, blessed with hindsight. Yet, we too are looking forward, moving on, and none of us knows what lies around the corner, and where our good intentions will take us. All we know is that Jesus is there as he is here, that what he has done and continues to do is borne from love. He is committed to his people. He never lets us down. He makes up for what we lack, and gives us all we need. And there is plenty of room for forgiveness.
Readings: John 13:21-33. 36-38
Peter too is in a similar place. His heart is good, his heart is brave, his heart is filled with good intentions. And when he hears Jesus speaking about moving on to a place they cannot follow Peter declares from his heart that he will follow Jesus where ever he goes. And more than that - Peter says, from the heart, that he would lay down his life for Jesus. And he means it. That is his intention. Perhaps hearing Jesus speak on so many occasions about laying his own life down, Peter had immersed the words for himself, he had adapted the values and vision of Jesus; the sayings and turn of phrase were on his lips and in his heart. Little did Peter know that his good intentions would also bring him to his own experience of hell: of darkness and destitution, of tears and pain and separation from the one he loves.
‘Before the cock crows three times, you will disown me three times,’ says Jesus to Peter. How awful, how terrible, how rude of Jesus to belittle Peter’s intentions, to put him down even before he has had the chance to prove his passion or deliver the goods. Yet Jesus sees into his heart, and he knows that his intentions are good. But Jesus knows, too, that he will have to go through this one all on his own.
Already the intentions of another have been planted and they are beginning to come to fruition. Who knows what’s going through Judas’s mind. The Gospel writer paints him in no uncertain language as a thief, and from the time he slips out of the room on the night that Jesus shares a meal with his friends he will forever be known as the one who betrayed Jesus. And Jesus sees into his heart too. ‘What you are going to do, do quickly,’ says Jesus to Judas. Yet Jesus has chosen him too, just as he had chosen Peter and Andrew and James and John and the other odd collection of men, all filled with good intentions.
Meanwhile, we are left reclining with Jesus at table, listening in on the conversation of Jesus with his friends and followers, seeing into their hearts. And Jesus sees into our hearts too. He knows how strong and full of courage we are, how faithful we are, how fascinating and loyal, how filled with good intentions we are. And he knows too how weak and feeble, how so easily distracted, how dull, how misunderstanding, how hot and cold, how confused and confusing we all are at times.
And Jesus moves on, moves closer and closer, closer to the cross. And we too follow, sometimes from a distance, a safe distance, a dangerous distance. We are, of course, unlike those disciples, blessed with hindsight. Yet, we too are looking forward, moving on, and none of us knows what lies around the corner, and where our good intentions will take us. All we know is that Jesus is there as he is here, that what he has done and continues to do is borne from love. He is committed to his people. He never lets us down. He makes up for what we lack, and gives us all we need. And there is plenty of room for forgiveness.
Readings: John 13:21-33. 36-38
Monday in Holy Week
There appears to be a rather simple yet ingenious trend at the moment to get people to read. There is now a large growing number of short books called Easy Reads, written by famous authors and celebrities, usually costing just a few pounds, and short enough not to be too daunting for the timid or casual reader. And so there is a challenge on the writer’s part to be economical with words: to give a good read and to encourage people to go on reading.
Tonight’s gospel reading is relatively short. It’s certainly not as long and demanding as the reading of the Passion at yesterday’s Mass and which will be read again on Good Friday. Yes, tonight’s gospel is rather short especially when you consider how much it contains: not one word or image is wasted.
The scene is set at Lazarus’ house: the one whom Jesus had raised from the dead. There is a dinner – what thoughts fill our minds with the image of them reclining and relaxing and sharing in a meal as they talk the night away: a mix of formality and informality. There is the rather ungainly and perhaps embarrassing incident of Mary anointing Jesus’ feet and…then…wiping them with her hair? There is the description of the scent filling the room. There is the squabbling over money, Jesus’ blunt and challenging talk about his impending death and burial, the loaded aside about Judas Iscariot as the one who was to betray Jesus, calling him a thief, explaining how he dipped his hand into the common fund; the snapping of Jesus to leave this woman alone, the plotting of the chief priests to kill both Lazarus and Jesus, the crowds gathering at the doors to see the one who had raised a man from the dead. The gospel reading tonight is dark and rich, it is both colourful and blood curdling. It is sombre, surreal, fragile and beautiful, and it draws us, it fills us with the scent of Jesus, and gives an idea of what this Holy Week may mean. It has been chosen, perhaps, to encourage us to go on, it draws us on, to find out more, to experience more.
And so the scene is set for the rest of the week. The characters and individuals are taking their place in the great drama that is to be unfolded. The ebullient and beautiful gestures, the gnashing of teeth, the murderous plots, the jealousy, the anxiety, the scent of death filling every scene, and Jesus moves on, in his own time, in his own way, closer and closer, closer to the cross.
Tonight we sit at table with Jesus. A dinner is prepared. There is the scent of something in the air, the scent of death hanging over us, and the scent too of something beautiful: the fragile task of preparing to celebrate Jesus’ death and burial. There is the scent also of resurrection in the air. We are after all in the presence of the risen Lord. And yet we too are moving closer and closer to the cross. The Mass tonight is short, the gospel reading is short, the homily too is short (you may be pleased to hear) and all the time we are being drawn in, called on, encouraged to move closer, to discover again, to discover anew, to discover for ourselves the undying love of God who loves us to death.
Readings: Isaiah 41:1-7; John 12:1-11
Tonight’s gospel reading is relatively short. It’s certainly not as long and demanding as the reading of the Passion at yesterday’s Mass and which will be read again on Good Friday. Yes, tonight’s gospel is rather short especially when you consider how much it contains: not one word or image is wasted.
The scene is set at Lazarus’ house: the one whom Jesus had raised from the dead. There is a dinner – what thoughts fill our minds with the image of them reclining and relaxing and sharing in a meal as they talk the night away: a mix of formality and informality. There is the rather ungainly and perhaps embarrassing incident of Mary anointing Jesus’ feet and…then…wiping them with her hair? There is the description of the scent filling the room. There is the squabbling over money, Jesus’ blunt and challenging talk about his impending death and burial, the loaded aside about Judas Iscariot as the one who was to betray Jesus, calling him a thief, explaining how he dipped his hand into the common fund; the snapping of Jesus to leave this woman alone, the plotting of the chief priests to kill both Lazarus and Jesus, the crowds gathering at the doors to see the one who had raised a man from the dead. The gospel reading tonight is dark and rich, it is both colourful and blood curdling. It is sombre, surreal, fragile and beautiful, and it draws us, it fills us with the scent of Jesus, and gives an idea of what this Holy Week may mean. It has been chosen, perhaps, to encourage us to go on, it draws us on, to find out more, to experience more.
And so the scene is set for the rest of the week. The characters and individuals are taking their place in the great drama that is to be unfolded. The ebullient and beautiful gestures, the gnashing of teeth, the murderous plots, the jealousy, the anxiety, the scent of death filling every scene, and Jesus moves on, in his own time, in his own way, closer and closer, closer to the cross.
Tonight we sit at table with Jesus. A dinner is prepared. There is the scent of something in the air, the scent of death hanging over us, and the scent too of something beautiful: the fragile task of preparing to celebrate Jesus’ death and burial. There is the scent also of resurrection in the air. We are after all in the presence of the risen Lord. And yet we too are moving closer and closer to the cross. The Mass tonight is short, the gospel reading is short, the homily too is short (you may be pleased to hear) and all the time we are being drawn in, called on, encouraged to move closer, to discover again, to discover anew, to discover for ourselves the undying love of God who loves us to death.
Readings: Isaiah 41:1-7; John 12:1-11
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