Every year for the last ten years, the significance of Holy Week became more and more real to me.
Perhaps it was the AU/AUSOT community.
Perhaps it was Park Place Church.
Perhaps it was Doug Berky's Holy Week programme.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
I've played the role of the good church kid for a long time.
I've played the role of the dutiful minister for not as long, but long enough.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Even through the years of worship wars
Even through the years of watching parishioners rip their ministers to shreds
Even through the years of watching religious teachers tear each other apart
Even through the years of rejection
Even through the years of endless meaningless debates with academic theologians
Even through the years of being of the wrong gender, age, nationality and personality type
Even through the years of ridiculous politics
I still came home to church
Even if more wounded and broken than before.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Don't get me wrong
I will still be at a church this weekend
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister still lives somewhere inside and need a sense of normality)
Don't get me wrong
I won't be there simply out of duty
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister misses all that is sacred of the rituals way too much)
Don't get me wrong
I'm not there because I haven't thought of leaving
(Even the good church kid and the dutiful minister gets tired of fighting for no real reason)
Don't get me wrong
I simply am searching for my own meaning of Church that isn't bound
By the trappings of the good church kid
Or the dutiful minister
Or the wounds and the brokenness of the years gone by
Or the false pride that the Church never did, and never would be able to hurt me
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
More importantly,
Jael needs to find Church again
Not Jael the good church kid
Or Jael the dutiful minister
Or Jael the wounded and broken
Or Jael the angry church-leaver
Just simply,
Jael
Perhaps that's why, just for a change, it's ok to be churchless on Holy Week this year.
Because sometimes, we all need to be a little unsettled.
(Just for the record:
In case you're concerned, Jesus and I are doing ok. But the church stuff... Yeah, that. I've managed to botch)
Showing posts with label Holy Week. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holy Week. Show all posts
17 April 2014
11 April 2014
"Remember Your Baptism"
11 April 2004
I remembered being immersed in that water, and coming out feeling nothing different. The rational part of me knew that was normal, but a part of me wanted to feel different.
But that was the beginning of everything.
For years before then, I had been thinking about the blessing that came when God changed a person's name in the Bible.
Abram to Abraham.
Sarai to Sarah.
Jacob to Israel.
And I had wanted that blessing, but I felt like there had to be a reason or occasion for that blessing.
Easter Sunday was rolling around that year. My brother and I had decided we wanted to be baptised that Easter Sunday. And I had brought up the name thing, so my mum got involved with the process of looking for a new name.
We wanted names that started with the letter J to keep with our legal names. For some reason, my mum didn't want me to pick the name Jezebel (I wonder why). And so we kept searching.
Then one day she said she stumbled upon the name Jael and told me to look up what it meant. Everything that Google found said it meant "mountain goat" or something along those lines.
So we took it to my pastor, and in his best attempt to parse the Hebrew name, we came up with "Ja" sounding like Yahweh or Jehovah, and "El" sounding like El Shaddai -- something along the lines of calling out to God.
And then I read the story of Jael in Judges 4. I was impressed by the strength that woman possessed to be a part of Kingdom work, so mountain goat or not, Jael was the name to be. It was short and simple, and I grew to like it more and more.
But... Well, back to that time of immersion in water baptism.
I came out of the water feeling nothing different. What I didn't realise was that that was the beginning of what I now affectionately call "all that crazy".
At the time, I thought it was a momentous occasion because... well, there was that name change thing. And the guy I thought I was going to marry at the time (all grown-up at 18-years-old) was there as well.
More importantly, my BFF was there. She wasn't a church-goer and we didn't share the same faith, but she was there because she knew it was important to me. And to this day, even though she still wouldn't say we share the same faith, she reminds me constantly of that water baptism. That commitment I made, that even if she didn't completely understand, to surrender my life and call to my belief and my faith. Juan, you really are the best.
But even more importantly, that was the beginning of "all that crazy".
You see, I didn't know it at the time, but later that year, I would move to Anderson, Indiana for college.
And Anderson, Indiana was the beginning of "all that crazy".
Good crazy, I should probably add.
And there was no turning back.
10 years, a whirlwind of life experience and a whole collection of passport stamps later, here I am in Auckland, New Zealand, remembering that baptism.
There was nothing special about that water.
And I didn't come out feeling any different.
But things were becoming different.
Remember your baptism
I remembered being immersed in that water, and coming out feeling nothing different. The rational part of me knew that was normal, but a part of me wanted to feel different.
But that was the beginning of everything.
For years before then, I had been thinking about the blessing that came when God changed a person's name in the Bible.
Abram to Abraham.
Sarai to Sarah.
Jacob to Israel.
And I had wanted that blessing, but I felt like there had to be a reason or occasion for that blessing.
Easter Sunday was rolling around that year. My brother and I had decided we wanted to be baptised that Easter Sunday. And I had brought up the name thing, so my mum got involved with the process of looking for a new name.
We wanted names that started with the letter J to keep with our legal names. For some reason, my mum didn't want me to pick the name Jezebel (I wonder why). And so we kept searching.
Then one day she said she stumbled upon the name Jael and told me to look up what it meant. Everything that Google found said it meant "mountain goat" or something along those lines.
So we took it to my pastor, and in his best attempt to parse the Hebrew name, we came up with "Ja" sounding like Yahweh or Jehovah, and "El" sounding like El Shaddai -- something along the lines of calling out to God.
And then I read the story of Jael in Judges 4. I was impressed by the strength that woman possessed to be a part of Kingdom work, so mountain goat or not, Jael was the name to be. It was short and simple, and I grew to like it more and more.
But... Well, back to that time of immersion in water baptism.
I came out of the water feeling nothing different. What I didn't realise was that that was the beginning of what I now affectionately call "all that crazy".
At the time, I thought it was a momentous occasion because... well, there was that name change thing. And the guy I thought I was going to marry at the time (all grown-up at 18-years-old) was there as well.
More importantly, my BFF was there. She wasn't a church-goer and we didn't share the same faith, but she was there because she knew it was important to me. And to this day, even though she still wouldn't say we share the same faith, she reminds me constantly of that water baptism. That commitment I made, that even if she didn't completely understand, to surrender my life and call to my belief and my faith. Juan, you really are the best.
But even more importantly, that was the beginning of "all that crazy".
You see, I didn't know it at the time, but later that year, I would move to Anderson, Indiana for college.
And Anderson, Indiana was the beginning of "all that crazy".
Good crazy, I should probably add.
And there was no turning back.
10 years, a whirlwind of life experience and a whole collection of passport stamps later, here I am in Auckland, New Zealand, remembering that baptism.
There was nothing special about that water.
And I didn't come out feeling any different.
But things were becoming different.
Remember your baptism
29 March 2013
Holy Week Treasure Trove
In the days when I worked at Church of God Ministries, we were used to getting phonecalls about the medical conditions or the passing of a minister or retired minister. I remember one of the ladies saying once, "It always happens in threes." She was referring to funerals, of course.
Holy Week this year has been one of those. It happened in threes--not funerals in our case, just... life. You know, the usual big upheavals. And because I take, "i carry your heart," the words of great ecclesiologist, e.e. cummins, way too seriously some times, this week... Well, for lack of fancy vocabulary, this week just plain sucked.
My worldview was shaken all over again as I lived into the life of a family in the midst of pain.
My take on gender roles and the feminist movement that had been slowly taking shape over the last few years were suddenly ripped apart and splattered all over the walls as if a druggy vandal had gotten hold of ugly red pain, and I no longer knew where I stood.
My understanding of social injustice shifted as my own tears mingled with those that I wiped away. The perhaps unintentional actions of one or two can so greatly hurt another.
Too many answers I was looking for.
Too much hurt to carry.
Too many situations that will remain unresolved for a while.
Too many nights of crying, "Why, God?" and "My shoulders aren't big enough for these."
In the midst of it all, I heard the words of the One that called me to this place.
"My child, remember when I brought you here, all I asked from you was to love this land and these people. I'm the one with the answers. You're the one with the skin on to carry My love."
And I began to remember the One had always been at work.
I saw it in the whanau that showed up every day to make sure there was food in everyone's stomachs, and to help calm the upheavals.
I saw it in the simple thank yous and the return of laughter to the dining table and the bedrooms.
I saw it in the tickle fights and the big hugs.
I heard it in the "How are you?"s that demanded a longer-than-five-second response.
I heard it in the "Call us anytime, even if it's 2am."
I heard it in the simple reminders to continue to be who we were created to be, not what circumstances want us to become.
And then yesterday morning, I realised how much I needed a little bit of liturgy to bring calm back into my week. Nina and I were both half awake when I first brought up the idea of trying to pull together a Seder meal, but we pulled it off anyway, and the whanau showed up when they showed up. It wasn't anything fancy, and halfway through the liturgy, I started beating myself up over not taking the time to find a more first-timer-friendly text.
But it wasn't so much about the meal or the liturgy itself.
It was taking time to remember the sacred things.
It was taking time to share stories.
It was taking time to affirm each other in our journey.
It was allowing these ladies to be the "church mums" I've missed.
It was allowing them to speak into my life.
It was allowing them to ask about my story, and to half-heartedly admit I was more qualified for what I do than I like talking or thinking about.
It was allowing them to say, "You may be a nerd, but you are OUR nerd."
It was allowing them to affirm my call as a woman in ministry, and to hear them say, "We know this isn't an easy calling, but you are OUR pastor, and we will do pastoral care for our pastor."
And in the silence of the night as the dust of the wilderness settled for a bit, all that's left was to whisper a word of thanks as I remember the One that started this business of footwashing.
Holy Week this year has been one of those. It happened in threes--not funerals in our case, just... life. You know, the usual big upheavals. And because I take, "i carry your heart," the words of great ecclesiologist, e.e. cummins, way too seriously some times, this week... Well, for lack of fancy vocabulary, this week just plain sucked.
My worldview was shaken all over again as I lived into the life of a family in the midst of pain.
My take on gender roles and the feminist movement that had been slowly taking shape over the last few years were suddenly ripped apart and splattered all over the walls as if a druggy vandal had gotten hold of ugly red pain, and I no longer knew where I stood.
My understanding of social injustice shifted as my own tears mingled with those that I wiped away. The perhaps unintentional actions of one or two can so greatly hurt another.
Too many answers I was looking for.
Too much hurt to carry.
Too many situations that will remain unresolved for a while.
Too many nights of crying, "Why, God?" and "My shoulders aren't big enough for these."
In the midst of it all, I heard the words of the One that called me to this place.
"My child, remember when I brought you here, all I asked from you was to love this land and these people. I'm the one with the answers. You're the one with the skin on to carry My love."
And I began to remember the One had always been at work.
I saw it in the whanau that showed up every day to make sure there was food in everyone's stomachs, and to help calm the upheavals.
I saw it in the simple thank yous and the return of laughter to the dining table and the bedrooms.
I saw it in the tickle fights and the big hugs.
I heard it in the "How are you?"s that demanded a longer-than-five-second response.
I heard it in the "Call us anytime, even if it's 2am."
I heard it in the simple reminders to continue to be who we were created to be, not what circumstances want us to become.
And then yesterday morning, I realised how much I needed a little bit of liturgy to bring calm back into my week. Nina and I were both half awake when I first brought up the idea of trying to pull together a Seder meal, but we pulled it off anyway, and the whanau showed up when they showed up. It wasn't anything fancy, and halfway through the liturgy, I started beating myself up over not taking the time to find a more first-timer-friendly text.
But it wasn't so much about the meal or the liturgy itself.
It was taking time to remember the sacred things.
It was taking time to share stories.
It was taking time to affirm each other in our journey.
It was allowing these ladies to be the "church mums" I've missed.
It was allowing them to speak into my life.
It was allowing them to ask about my story, and to half-heartedly admit I was more qualified for what I do than I like talking or thinking about.
It was allowing them to say, "You may be a nerd, but you are OUR nerd."
It was allowing them to affirm my call as a woman in ministry, and to hear them say, "We know this isn't an easy calling, but you are OUR pastor, and we will do pastoral care for our pastor."
And in the silence of the night as the dust of the wilderness settled for a bit, all that's left was to whisper a word of thanks as I remember the One that started this business of footwashing.
07 April 2012
Holy Saturday (thinking space)
After the frenzy of activity this week that began with shopping for chocolate eggs, it is now Holy Saturday.
The living space/office is still a disaster from prepping for this week, and I should probably clean. But for right now, I just need to sit and take in the melancholy of all that has happened.
Somewhere between baking matzoh and reading scholarly reflections on the significance of this week, I was hit with the realization that what we are remembering is a universal event ordained by a God who loves the world and not just one group of people. (Don't worry, we're not going to get into the details of universalism here. At least, not in this post.)
I guess it really began nearly 2 years ago in what became known affectionately amongst ourselves as "The Blue Church" in Berlin that we visited on Ascension Sunday. The service was in German, but it wasn't long before my limited German vocab combined with my background of working with liturgy kicked in and I was able to follow along with the order of worship.
The service ended with the congregation reciting The Lord's Prayer together in German. It struck me then that even though the version of the Lord's Prayer I knew was in English, the reality was that the prayer could well have came into existence way before the English language even became established.
Suddenly my personal relationship and understanding of Yahweh became so small compared to vastness of church history.
I have a tendency to make comparisons or liken God to things. Arthur often throws in the reminder that God isn't bigger than, or stronger than or _________ than. God simply is; we are the ones who need to throw in the comparisons so that the limitations of our human mind is better able to grapple with the reality of God's existence. We are the ones who need to stick attributes to God--male or female, big or strong, for or against. We are the ones who need to sort it out, need affirmation of whether we are right or wrong in God's eyes. When the reality is, God simply... is. I am.
The reality of God is hit again this week as I threw matzoh dough in the oven, remembering the last Seder meal I got to be a part of. Between the road-kill that was used as the sacrificial meat and some of the less than reverent conversation happening, it probably wouldn't make it on a list of orthodox practices. But the orthodoxy and the reverence came not out of how the ritual was carried out, but that the act of gathering together for a meal to remember one of Jesus' last acts on earth mattered enough to this group of friends that even with all our unorthodoxy, it was one of the most sacred gatherings I've attended.
A year later and I'm in a whole different context, gathering with a whole separate group for this same act of remembrance. And once again I find myself thinking, the Gospel is bigger. God is bigger. And again, I'm reminded that God simply is. I'm the one that needs to stick attributes to God to help me make sense of that reality.
Earlier this week, I read something a dear friend of mine, Hannah Adams Ingram, wrote. Hannah is a scholar that I have a great deal of respect for simply because of her willingness to dig into areas that most of us would be tread cautiously around. Her Holy Week reflection made me confront some of the ways I've thought about Holy Week that I didn't realise weren't congruent with my personal theological conviction of a universal Gospel.
Growing up basically on the Equator, I had never experienced the seasons. In the days before Anderson and what I now think of as the beginning of my spiritual awakening, Good Friday and Easter were simply part of what we did in church. These 2 days bore as much significance for me as going to church every Sunday because that's what we did as a family.
Then Park Place and Seminary helped me pull apart more of the significance of Good Friday and Easter. Anderson winters probably pale greatly in comparison with Russian winters, but by the time February comes around, we're all ready for spring and new life and warmer weather, especially for this island-girl. It was in those years that I began to realise that until I can begin to grapple with the hopelessness of Good Friday, the significance of new life on Easter probably doesn't hold as much water. Easter became about pretty spring flowers, new life and Easter dresses because it was finally warm enough to wear dresses without freezing.
As much as I think Easter Egg Hunts are the cheesiest and laziest way to get away with pretending we give a crap about helping kids learn about the meaning of Easter, I'm caving because... well, I'm cheesy and lazy this year. Hey, I've only been here less than 7 months. Cut me some slack. But this week, Jonny, in his whimsical way, made me think about why we even include chocolate eggs in the Easter story. The reality is, Easter has often been associated with spring and new life, and the eggs were part of some pagan spring rituals. But here in the southern hemisphere, Easter doesn't mean spring just like Christmas meant water-fights at the beach more than snowflakes and sleigh bells.
Growing up, all my ideas of Christmas and Easter revolved around ideas from the northern hemisphere. I never thought to make a conscious effort to separate those ideas from culture or weather climates because the tropical minorities seemed to always give in to thetemperate northern hemisphere whose voices were louder.
But if I still want to hold on to my theological stance of a universal Gospel, maybe it's time to give my ideas of Christmas and Easter a little more distance from culture and temperate.
I was curious about how Kiwi culture would influence my worldview when I decided to move here. The shopkeepers still throw me looks of curiosity because I clearly look Asian but sound so American, so I still need to work on my accent. But those are only surface changes. There's still work to be done with the heart to reclaim indigenous faith practices, and to make sense of this universal Gospel.
The living space/office is still a disaster from prepping for this week, and I should probably clean. But for right now, I just need to sit and take in the melancholy of all that has happened.
Somewhere between baking matzoh and reading scholarly reflections on the significance of this week, I was hit with the realization that what we are remembering is a universal event ordained by a God who loves the world and not just one group of people. (Don't worry, we're not going to get into the details of universalism here. At least, not in this post.)
I guess it really began nearly 2 years ago in what became known affectionately amongst ourselves as "The Blue Church" in Berlin that we visited on Ascension Sunday. The service was in German, but it wasn't long before my limited German vocab combined with my background of working with liturgy kicked in and I was able to follow along with the order of worship.
The service ended with the congregation reciting The Lord's Prayer together in German. It struck me then that even though the version of the Lord's Prayer I knew was in English, the reality was that the prayer could well have came into existence way before the English language even became established.
Suddenly my personal relationship and understanding of Yahweh became so small compared to vastness of church history.
I have a tendency to make comparisons or liken God to things. Arthur often throws in the reminder that God isn't bigger than, or stronger than or _________ than. God simply is; we are the ones who need to throw in the comparisons so that the limitations of our human mind is better able to grapple with the reality of God's existence. We are the ones who need to stick attributes to God--male or female, big or strong, for or against. We are the ones who need to sort it out, need affirmation of whether we are right or wrong in God's eyes. When the reality is, God simply... is. I am.
The reality of God is hit again this week as I threw matzoh dough in the oven, remembering the last Seder meal I got to be a part of. Between the road-kill that was used as the sacrificial meat and some of the less than reverent conversation happening, it probably wouldn't make it on a list of orthodox practices. But the orthodoxy and the reverence came not out of how the ritual was carried out, but that the act of gathering together for a meal to remember one of Jesus' last acts on earth mattered enough to this group of friends that even with all our unorthodoxy, it was one of the most sacred gatherings I've attended.
A year later and I'm in a whole different context, gathering with a whole separate group for this same act of remembrance. And once again I find myself thinking, the Gospel is bigger. God is bigger. And again, I'm reminded that God simply is. I'm the one that needs to stick attributes to God to help me make sense of that reality.
Earlier this week, I read something a dear friend of mine, Hannah Adams Ingram, wrote. Hannah is a scholar that I have a great deal of respect for simply because of her willingness to dig into areas that most of us would be tread cautiously around. Her Holy Week reflection made me confront some of the ways I've thought about Holy Week that I didn't realise weren't congruent with my personal theological conviction of a universal Gospel.
Growing up basically on the Equator, I had never experienced the seasons. In the days before Anderson and what I now think of as the beginning of my spiritual awakening, Good Friday and Easter were simply part of what we did in church. These 2 days bore as much significance for me as going to church every Sunday because that's what we did as a family.
Then Park Place and Seminary helped me pull apart more of the significance of Good Friday and Easter. Anderson winters probably pale greatly in comparison with Russian winters, but by the time February comes around, we're all ready for spring and new life and warmer weather, especially for this island-girl. It was in those years that I began to realise that until I can begin to grapple with the hopelessness of Good Friday, the significance of new life on Easter probably doesn't hold as much water. Easter became about pretty spring flowers, new life and Easter dresses because it was finally warm enough to wear dresses without freezing.
As much as I think Easter Egg Hunts are the cheesiest and laziest way to get away with pretending we give a crap about helping kids learn about the meaning of Easter, I'm caving because... well, I'm cheesy and lazy this year. Hey, I've only been here less than 7 months. Cut me some slack. But this week, Jonny, in his whimsical way, made me think about why we even include chocolate eggs in the Easter story. The reality is, Easter has often been associated with spring and new life, and the eggs were part of some pagan spring rituals. But here in the southern hemisphere, Easter doesn't mean spring just like Christmas meant water-fights at the beach more than snowflakes and sleigh bells.
Growing up, all my ideas of Christmas and Easter revolved around ideas from the northern hemisphere. I never thought to make a conscious effort to separate those ideas from culture or weather climates because the tropical minorities seemed to always give in to the
But if I still want to hold on to my theological stance of a universal Gospel, maybe it's time to give my ideas of Christmas and Easter a little more distance from culture and temperate.
I was curious about how Kiwi culture would influence my worldview when I decided to move here. The shopkeepers still throw me looks of curiosity because I clearly look Asian but sound so American, so I still need to work on my accent. But those are only surface changes. There's still work to be done with the heart to reclaim indigenous faith practices, and to make sense of this universal Gospel.
02 April 2012
Easter: We Have a Problem
Holy Week has, in the last few years, replaced Christmas as my favourite part of the church calendar. This year, however, I'm fretting. Allow me to chronicle my Holy Week experience from the very beginning...
At our leadership retreat in November last year, we decided that every school holiday, we were going to try and plan some activity for the kids centering around the themes of love God, love others. So for Easter this year, since it's right around school holiday for term 1, I thought we'd get the kids to put together food hampers on Palm Sunday and take them to visit the folks in hospice on Easter Sunday.
After weeks of calling around to various places, I was told there isn't actually a hospice on the peninsula. The closest one would be about 20 minutes away in Central Auckland. And since hospices are kind of zoned into districts, because we're in West Auckland, the folks in Central Auckland kept re-directing me to the West Auckland folks, who in turn, told me they only have a site office and don't actually house patients.
Right around then, the folks from St Paul's, the Anglican Church that we rent the building from, contacted Chad to ask if we would be interested in doing something together over Holy Week. Part of it involved me taking fliers to the SUPAkidz (the Bible club we do at Matipo Primary) kids, so Chad forwarded the email to me. St Paul's has a ministry called the Selwyn Group that visits with some of the elderly and shut-ins on the Peninsula. So here I was thinking, problem solved! Now all we have to do is to get the kids to make some kind of craft to take to them, which would have been feasible since up till 2 weeks ago, we were averaging about 8 kids each week.
Jonny, who has been my key resource/idea person suggested that we could do harekeke weaving (Maori flax-weaving) with the kids on Palm Sunday, so here I go again, calling around to different places trying to find someone who could do that with the kids. It wasn't until last weekend when I was at a Scripture Union children's ministry conference that I discovered that Nina, who does SUPAkidz with Steve and I, was able to do it before she had her significant memory-loss. So again, here I was thinking, problem solved!
Then last Sunday came along. Our average of 8 kids grew to 13. I panicked slightly, and ended up sending an e-mail to our contact with St Paul's to let them know that we had a slightly bigger group. They suggested that the since their Selwyn group was kinda small and we don't want 13 kids packed into one house, that we divided up the kids into 3 different groups to do things. I wrote back and said, great idea, we'll find enough adults to come along so that we can split the kids up.
This week, PJ told me excitedly that she knew of a few more families that were thinking of coming to visit this weekend. So I thought, great, we'll make sure we have enough flax for 20, assuming that the 13 who were here the week before would still show up.
We didn't get 8.
Or 13.
Or 20.
We got flippin' 28 kids.
I wish I could have taken a picture of the maxed-out sanctuary today. Or the look on Uncle BK's face when he walked in, shocked, then not sure where he was going to find a seat. Or when Jonny walked in today (late, as usual), found a seat, turned back to me and mouthed, where did all these people come from???
By some miracle, we ended up with enough flax for everyone, managed to keep kids relatively controlled today, and hopefully everyone went home feeling like they learnt something about Palm Sunday. Who knows. I hope they at least found something that would be enough reason to come back next week (besides their parents dragging them here, of course).
Except now I have a problem. I have one week to figure out what we're doing for Easter. The Easter Egg Hunt will still be on, but I'll probably need to go to a wholesaler for candy. It really is a great problem to be having (I'll admit that I left church tonight with a stupid smile on my face), but it still is a problem. I'm only hoping I don't do my head in trying to get Holy Week sorted that I completely miss the point of it in the first place.
But for now, it's time for bed. There's lots of work to be done, but I have a feeling if I stay up any longer, I'm going to end up doing myself in analysing every part of the WCF story, trying to figure out what it is that's drawing the crowds in.
Because at the end of the day, I know it only happened because there's a Sovereign One at work.
Easter: We have a problem.
Those of you who pray, we'd really appreciate you thinking of us this week.
At our leadership retreat in November last year, we decided that every school holiday, we were going to try and plan some activity for the kids centering around the themes of love God, love others. So for Easter this year, since it's right around school holiday for term 1, I thought we'd get the kids to put together food hampers on Palm Sunday and take them to visit the folks in hospice on Easter Sunday.
After weeks of calling around to various places, I was told there isn't actually a hospice on the peninsula. The closest one would be about 20 minutes away in Central Auckland. And since hospices are kind of zoned into districts, because we're in West Auckland, the folks in Central Auckland kept re-directing me to the West Auckland folks, who in turn, told me they only have a site office and don't actually house patients.
Right around then, the folks from St Paul's, the Anglican Church that we rent the building from, contacted Chad to ask if we would be interested in doing something together over Holy Week. Part of it involved me taking fliers to the SUPAkidz (the Bible club we do at Matipo Primary) kids, so Chad forwarded the email to me. St Paul's has a ministry called the Selwyn Group that visits with some of the elderly and shut-ins on the Peninsula. So here I was thinking, problem solved! Now all we have to do is to get the kids to make some kind of craft to take to them, which would have been feasible since up till 2 weeks ago, we were averaging about 8 kids each week.
Jonny, who has been my key resource/idea person suggested that we could do harekeke weaving (Maori flax-weaving) with the kids on Palm Sunday, so here I go again, calling around to different places trying to find someone who could do that with the kids. It wasn't until last weekend when I was at a Scripture Union children's ministry conference that I discovered that Nina, who does SUPAkidz with Steve and I, was able to do it before she had her significant memory-loss. So again, here I was thinking, problem solved!
Then last Sunday came along. Our average of 8 kids grew to 13. I panicked slightly, and ended up sending an e-mail to our contact with St Paul's to let them know that we had a slightly bigger group. They suggested that the since their Selwyn group was kinda small and we don't want 13 kids packed into one house, that we divided up the kids into 3 different groups to do things. I wrote back and said, great idea, we'll find enough adults to come along so that we can split the kids up.
This week, PJ told me excitedly that she knew of a few more families that were thinking of coming to visit this weekend. So I thought, great, we'll make sure we have enough flax for 20, assuming that the 13 who were here the week before would still show up.
We didn't get 8.
Or 13.
Or 20.
We got flippin' 28 kids.
I wish I could have taken a picture of the maxed-out sanctuary today. Or the look on Uncle BK's face when he walked in, shocked, then not sure where he was going to find a seat. Or when Jonny walked in today (late, as usual), found a seat, turned back to me and mouthed, where did all these people come from???
By some miracle, we ended up with enough flax for everyone, managed to keep kids relatively controlled today, and hopefully everyone went home feeling like they learnt something about Palm Sunday. Who knows. I hope they at least found something that would be enough reason to come back next week (besides their parents dragging them here, of course).
Except now I have a problem. I have one week to figure out what we're doing for Easter. The Easter Egg Hunt will still be on, but I'll probably need to go to a wholesaler for candy. It really is a great problem to be having (I'll admit that I left church tonight with a stupid smile on my face), but it still is a problem. I'm only hoping I don't do my head in trying to get Holy Week sorted that I completely miss the point of it in the first place.
But for now, it's time for bed. There's lots of work to be done, but I have a feeling if I stay up any longer, I'm going to end up doing myself in analysing every part of the WCF story, trying to figure out what it is that's drawing the crowds in.
Because at the end of the day, I know it only happened because there's a Sovereign One at work.
Easter: We have a problem.
Those of you who pray, we'd really appreciate you thinking of us this week.
23 April 2011
I Wonder...
On the drive to Church for the Good Friday meditations with Doug Berky's masks work tonight, I allowed my mind to wander again.
I wondered about Paul and the other religious teachers.
How inconvenient was it for him to have taken a break from his studies to join the crowds in watching the events leading up to Golgotha.
I wondered about how much effort it would take for him to leave his work to join the crowds in mocking Jesus as he made his way through the crowds carrying his cross.
And when the ground shook, did it also rain?
How inconvenient it would be for him to have to dry off from the rain before going back to his studies again.
And then I wondered about Mary.
I wondered about what might be going through her mind as she stood there watching her son nailed to the cross.
Was she thinking back to the nine months of shame and embarrassment that she went through because she was having a child out of wedlock?
I wondered how much of what was happening did she understand.
Was she comforted that his journey was finally ending, or was she distressed because he wasn't going to redeem himself after all?
I wonder how much murmuring among the crowds went on as she stood there watching her "bastard child" not able to save herself.
Did she feel bad for Joseph too, because he had cared for him like he was his own?
And then I wondered about the disciples, and all the others who were involved in the "Hosanna, Hosanna"s from only a short while ago.
Were their hopes crushed because they are now back to their hopelessness again?
I wondered what it must have felt, thinking about the prospect of going back to their fishing jobs again. I mean, if they enjoyed their fishing jobs that much, it wouldn't have been that easy for Jesus to talk them into leaving those jobs, right? After all, Jesus didn't promise a better life. He only promised to make them fishers of men.
And so this day is over.
The man has died on the cross.
There is no King who will overthrow the Romans.
There is no hope.
There is no future.
Or is there?
I wonder.
I wondered about Paul and the other religious teachers.
How inconvenient was it for him to have taken a break from his studies to join the crowds in watching the events leading up to Golgotha.
I wondered about how much effort it would take for him to leave his work to join the crowds in mocking Jesus as he made his way through the crowds carrying his cross.
And when the ground shook, did it also rain?
How inconvenient it would be for him to have to dry off from the rain before going back to his studies again.
And then I wondered about Mary.
I wondered about what might be going through her mind as she stood there watching her son nailed to the cross.
Was she thinking back to the nine months of shame and embarrassment that she went through because she was having a child out of wedlock?
I wondered how much of what was happening did she understand.
Was she comforted that his journey was finally ending, or was she distressed because he wasn't going to redeem himself after all?
I wonder how much murmuring among the crowds went on as she stood there watching her "bastard child" not able to save herself.
Did she feel bad for Joseph too, because he had cared for him like he was his own?
And then I wondered about the disciples, and all the others who were involved in the "Hosanna, Hosanna"s from only a short while ago.
Were their hopes crushed because they are now back to their hopelessness again?
I wondered what it must have felt, thinking about the prospect of going back to their fishing jobs again. I mean, if they enjoyed their fishing jobs that much, it wouldn't have been that easy for Jesus to talk them into leaving those jobs, right? After all, Jesus didn't promise a better life. He only promised to make them fishers of men.
And so this day is over.
The man has died on the cross.
There is no King who will overthrow the Romans.
There is no hope.
There is no future.
Or is there?
I wonder.
05 April 2010
Holy Week #5: Redeeming Love
She stared blankly at the picture in front of her. Fragmented pieces of colour seemingly scattered randomly on a sheet of glass.
It had been a busy, busy week. The adrenaline from planning the services for the week was quickly fading, and now it was Sunday night. The hustle and bustle had finally died down and she finally had a few moments to sit quietly before the activities of the next week flurried by again.
"Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
The words from the familiar hymn from earlier that morning rang in her head as her fingers idly traced over the outlines of each of the fragmented pieces of colour. Her eyelids were drooping but still she forced herself to try and make sense of that picture in front of her. It was a familiar one; perhaps something she had used for weeks like this in years passed. But tonight, the picture did not make sense.
She let the words ring in her head one more time. "Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
Then it hit her. That picture. It was that very same picture they had portrayed earlier that day in the service. The disciples gathered around the table with the bread and the wine. It all came together now.
Nicodemus, and the "righteousness" he had learnt from his role as a religious teacher...
Mary Magdalene, and the postures of brokenness she found at the feet of the Christ...
John, and the way he completely missed the point while the Christ was in his midst...
Mary and Joseph, and the heartache of losing their child...
"I've forgotten about the music," she whispered, as the first tear rolled down her cheek
"I've forgotten what it means to pray.
Don't know why I stopped believing,
Don't know why I settled for less.
Speak to me of that man again -
He had much knowledge of the Law.
Speak to me of how he had to relearn
The wonder of who You are.
Remind me of that woman
With her alabaster jar.
Remind me to unbound my hair
And sit at Your feet for a while.
Tell me that story again
Of that man You call "Beloved."
Tell me again of how he forgot
The marvel of who You are.
Sing me the song of that broken heart
Of the woman and her husband who lost their son.
Sing me the song with Your words of comfort
And heal the brokenness of my heart."
The fragmented pieces of colour all came together now. There was room at the table for the Nicodemuses, the Mary Magdalenes, the Johns, and the Mary and Josephs.
But more importantly, there was room for her even when the flurries of activity leave little time for her to remember.
"Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
It had been a busy, busy week. The adrenaline from planning the services for the week was quickly fading, and now it was Sunday night. The hustle and bustle had finally died down and she finally had a few moments to sit quietly before the activities of the next week flurried by again.
"Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
The words from the familiar hymn from earlier that morning rang in her head as her fingers idly traced over the outlines of each of the fragmented pieces of colour. Her eyelids were drooping but still she forced herself to try and make sense of that picture in front of her. It was a familiar one; perhaps something she had used for weeks like this in years passed. But tonight, the picture did not make sense.
She let the words ring in her head one more time. "Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
Then it hit her. That picture. It was that very same picture they had portrayed earlier that day in the service. The disciples gathered around the table with the bread and the wine. It all came together now.
Nicodemus, and the "righteousness" he had learnt from his role as a religious teacher...
Mary Magdalene, and the postures of brokenness she found at the feet of the Christ...
John, and the way he completely missed the point while the Christ was in his midst...
Mary and Joseph, and the heartache of losing their child...
"I've forgotten about the music," she whispered, as the first tear rolled down her cheek
"I've forgotten what it means to pray.
Don't know why I stopped believing,
Don't know why I settled for less.
Speak to me of that man again -
He had much knowledge of the Law.
Speak to me of how he had to relearn
The wonder of who You are.
Remind me of that woman
With her alabaster jar.
Remind me to unbound my hair
And sit at Your feet for a while.
Tell me that story again
Of that man You call "Beloved."
Tell me again of how he forgot
The marvel of who You are.
Sing me the song of that broken heart
Of the woman and her husband who lost their son.
Sing me the song with Your words of comfort
And heal the brokenness of my heart."
The fragmented pieces of colour all came together now. There was room at the table for the Nicodemuses, the Mary Magdalenes, the Johns, and the Mary and Josephs.
But more importantly, there was room for her even when the flurries of activity leave little time for her to remember.
"Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
02 April 2010
Holy Week #4: Mary
The rhythmic pounding of the hammer drifting in from the husband's workshop seemed especially calming that day. The steady beat starkly contrasted the emotions I felt inside since John came and brought me the news.
I smoothed my hands over the fabric I had tucked away so many years ago as I felt the first tears fall down my cheek. It was the remnants of material I had used to make the robe the husband and I presented to him before he went out to the wilderness that day. After that forty days he spent in the wilderness, he came home to us on fewer occasions.
Since the day I knew he was being formed in my womb, I had known he was set apart. I will never forget the day the angel appeared to give me the news that I was with child. Everytime I recall the mystique wonder of that day, I still get a strange warm tingling sensation. There was a little guy growing inside me! But how could it be when I had not known any man? Some questions will never be answered I guess, I thought to myself.
Leaning out the window, I studied his silhouette for a while. There was the man I loved, sweat dripping down his forehead. It was just the two of us now, still he laboured hard for us. The last months had been especially trying but still he had been strong for us.
Reaching for a clean towel, I slipped outside, plodding softly on the dusty ground till I was beside him. Then gently, I dabbed his forehead with the clean towel. Putting his hammer down, he dusted his hands off on his workpants and turned to face me. "Hi love," I whispered as he reached out to embrace me. There was that far-away look in his eyes again. "You're thinking of him too, aren't you?" he whispered as he gently brushed a stray strand of hair off my face. Closing my eyes, I leaned in and rested my head on his chest with a sigh.
He led us over to the bench by the corner and for a while, he held my hand and neither of us said anything, allowing time for us to walk down that path in our heads again.
He had been a good son, but he never failed to surprise us. Remembering the day we found him in the temple amongst the teachers brought a smile to my face. He was only twelve, but he asked questions and talked with such authority that his father and I were left amazed. And then there was that incident at the wedding. They had run out of wine and for some reason I thought it would be good for him to help them out. Looking back now, I should have known he would have had a sense of when it was time for him to go about his Father's business.
After that day, he came and went even more -- more going than coming. Stories I heard about him came more from the town gossips than from him directly. Oh yes, so many stories we heard about him -- the good, the bad and the ugly. And each time, I would smile to myself while getting flour or picking out new material. Oh my Son, my precious Son.
And then the time came when they arrested him. I closed my eyes for a few brief moments and allowed that scene where John came running in with the news to replay in my mind. They had arrested him for blasphemy. Blasphemy! My Son! He was no blasphemer! Why would they think that of him? Just a little while ago they had been celebrating him in Jerusalem and now they wanted him crucified! I squeezed my eyes shut and recalled watching it all unfold before my eyes. The path he took to Golgotha and the way they ridiculed him the entire walk there... The crown of thorns they placed on his head... The way they mocked him "King of the Jews" with that purple robe... My body trembled as that picture of him on that tree flashed before my eyes over and over again. Blood mixed with sweat, tears and water streamed down from his head, his hands and his feet. Oh my Son, my precious Son. What I would give to take his place!
And then that few moments I had with him... That few moments where he looked me in the eye. Even in all the pain he was in, there was still that look of love and respect he had always shown the husband and I. Then with all the strength he could muster, he whispered, "Dear woman, your son," and to John who had kept close to us while this all unfolded, he whispered, "Here is your mother."
He asked for a drink, and they moistened his lips with wine vinegar. And with that, he was... he was... I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips firmly together as fresh tears fell. My shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.
The husband leaned closer and put his arm around my shoulder. The pain in his eyes were as raw as if it had all been merely yesterday. He was weeping too and for a while we both sat, holding each other.
...
Their cheeks were moist as her fingers touched the Son of Man's face on the stained glass. They had heard the story so many times before, but it was not until they lost their own twenty-one year-old daughter that the pain of that story sunk in.
Someone knew. Someone cared.
"Come, my children," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who were they to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then they saw them. Mary and Joseph. They were at the table too.
An interpretation of Luke 4:1-15, 1:26-38, 2:41-52, John 2:1-11 and 19:16-27
I smoothed my hands over the fabric I had tucked away so many years ago as I felt the first tears fall down my cheek. It was the remnants of material I had used to make the robe the husband and I presented to him before he went out to the wilderness that day. After that forty days he spent in the wilderness, he came home to us on fewer occasions.
Since the day I knew he was being formed in my womb, I had known he was set apart. I will never forget the day the angel appeared to give me the news that I was with child. Everytime I recall the mystique wonder of that day, I still get a strange warm tingling sensation. There was a little guy growing inside me! But how could it be when I had not known any man? Some questions will never be answered I guess, I thought to myself.
Leaning out the window, I studied his silhouette for a while. There was the man I loved, sweat dripping down his forehead. It was just the two of us now, still he laboured hard for us. The last months had been especially trying but still he had been strong for us.
Reaching for a clean towel, I slipped outside, plodding softly on the dusty ground till I was beside him. Then gently, I dabbed his forehead with the clean towel. Putting his hammer down, he dusted his hands off on his workpants and turned to face me. "Hi love," I whispered as he reached out to embrace me. There was that far-away look in his eyes again. "You're thinking of him too, aren't you?" he whispered as he gently brushed a stray strand of hair off my face. Closing my eyes, I leaned in and rested my head on his chest with a sigh.
He led us over to the bench by the corner and for a while, he held my hand and neither of us said anything, allowing time for us to walk down that path in our heads again.
He had been a good son, but he never failed to surprise us. Remembering the day we found him in the temple amongst the teachers brought a smile to my face. He was only twelve, but he asked questions and talked with such authority that his father and I were left amazed. And then there was that incident at the wedding. They had run out of wine and for some reason I thought it would be good for him to help them out. Looking back now, I should have known he would have had a sense of when it was time for him to go about his Father's business.
After that day, he came and went even more -- more going than coming. Stories I heard about him came more from the town gossips than from him directly. Oh yes, so many stories we heard about him -- the good, the bad and the ugly. And each time, I would smile to myself while getting flour or picking out new material. Oh my Son, my precious Son.
And then the time came when they arrested him. I closed my eyes for a few brief moments and allowed that scene where John came running in with the news to replay in my mind. They had arrested him for blasphemy. Blasphemy! My Son! He was no blasphemer! Why would they think that of him? Just a little while ago they had been celebrating him in Jerusalem and now they wanted him crucified! I squeezed my eyes shut and recalled watching it all unfold before my eyes. The path he took to Golgotha and the way they ridiculed him the entire walk there... The crown of thorns they placed on his head... The way they mocked him "King of the Jews" with that purple robe... My body trembled as that picture of him on that tree flashed before my eyes over and over again. Blood mixed with sweat, tears and water streamed down from his head, his hands and his feet. Oh my Son, my precious Son. What I would give to take his place!
And then that few moments I had with him... That few moments where he looked me in the eye. Even in all the pain he was in, there was still that look of love and respect he had always shown the husband and I. Then with all the strength he could muster, he whispered, "Dear woman, your son," and to John who had kept close to us while this all unfolded, he whispered, "Here is your mother."
He asked for a drink, and they moistened his lips with wine vinegar. And with that, he was... he was... I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips firmly together as fresh tears fell. My shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.
The husband leaned closer and put his arm around my shoulder. The pain in his eyes were as raw as if it had all been merely yesterday. He was weeping too and for a while we both sat, holding each other.
...
Their cheeks were moist as her fingers touched the Son of Man's face on the stained glass. They had heard the story so many times before, but it was not until they lost their own twenty-one year-old daughter that the pain of that story sunk in.
Someone knew. Someone cared.
"Come, my children," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who were they to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then they saw them. Mary and Joseph. They were at the table too.
An interpretation of Luke 4:1-15, 1:26-38, 2:41-52, John 2:1-11 and 19:16-27
01 April 2010
Holy Week #3: John
I found myself outside again this evening. It had been a long time since I last took a walk by the sea. As the waves came crashing on my feet today, I felt the dirt that had accumulated from the day's walking slowly erode away. Ahh, clean feet. I wiggled my toes just a little. Something about the salt in the air and the smell of fish not too far away brought a calming effect after a long day.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him. That familiar silhouette out there on the water. Could it be? Had he returned? But no, it was all an illusion. They said absence makes the heart grow fonder. I guess this was what they meant.
I settled down on that one slightly bigger rock in the middle of the sandy shore. It had been a while since I last sat down and thought about him. But tonight, something about the sea, the fish and the water brought to mind so many of my favourite memories with him.
I remember distinctly that day when James and I were out at sea with Papa. It seemed like he had been watching us for a while before he finally came up to James and I. The words he said then did not make much sense, but for some strange reason, "Follow me, and I will make you fish for people," seemed so much more appealing than spending the day out at sea with Papa. So James and I left with him.
He was a great teacher. He knew the Scriptures really well and even the other religious teachers started getting jealous of him. Me, I was just puzzled as to why he would have picked me to be one of his disciples. I was especially thankful to hear the way he taught through stories and performed signs and wonders that baffled everyone else. But from him, I learnt what the other religious teachers never taught us.
Our forefathers taught us to obey the Mosaic laws so that we may "live long in the land the Lord our God had given us." But the Good Teacher saw it differently. I remember that day when he healed the man of Dropsy and the question was raised about healing on the Sabbath. I guess I never really questioned how applicable our Mosaic laws were until that very moment when he showed a different way of obeying. No wait... He showed the true meaning of obeying.
And I'll never forget that day. It was Passover and he had given Peter and I specific instructions about that day's feasting. If I had only known what was about to happen, I would have made better effort to remember everything that he had said. All I remembered him saying was something about meeting a man with a jar of water. He dictated the instructions as if he already knew what was going to happen. Well... I guess he would have known. How many times had he tried to clue us in, but we never understood his "riddles"? Peter, James and I even once joked about his many riddles. If we had only known...
That night, we had all gathered in the room and were feasting. The Good Teacher was unusually quiet at Supper, but I had assumed it was because we had all had a long day. Halfway through the meal, he got up and left. Peter and I exchanged a look, but just shrugged it off as another one of his riddles.
When he returned, he had a towel tied around his waist. What happened next baffled me. We were still bantering back and forth about whether the bread should have been kept warm a little longer when the Good Teacher knelt down beside Andrew. Closing my eyes, I could still see the look of shock on Andrew's face as he looked between the Good Teacher and his feet, then around the table at the rest of us. He made his way all around the table and when he came to me, he looked me in the eye with his ever-patient gaze. And that was when I noticed his eyes were glassy. From time to time, he would look away, as if hiding his face from me, rubbing the sides of his cheeks against the sleeves of his robe. And was that a sniffle I heard? Something was up with him, but I was too exhausted that day to ask.
I allowed my feet to just graze the surface of the sea. It made me feel a little closer to him that way as I recalled the same clean feeling I had that night. As he slowly proceeded to wipe my feet with the towel around his waist and gently massaged it a little, I felt the aches and blisters being soothed away.
He didn't say much, but after he put everything away, he came back out and broke bread with us, saying something about eagerly desiring to eat this Passover with us before he suffered, and something about not eating it again until it finds fulfillment in the kingdom of God. I watched his hands tremble ever so slightly as he took hold of the bread, gave thanks then broke it and gave it to us. And as he lifted the cup and gave thanks, I was worried he was going to spill the wine from the goblet because he was shaking. Oh if only I had known the significance of that moment then, I would have been present.
Then he led the way out to the garden, he looked each one of us in the eye and embraced us. And I noticed again the tears in his eyes. Except this time he didn't look away when he realised I had noticed those tears. Instead, the look was one of... of... "If only you would understand."
Oh I wish I hadn't been that tired and had kept watch with him. I don't know how many times he returned that night, rousing us from our sleep and asking us to pray as his anguish grew with intensity. But no, rather than staying up to pray with him, we fell asleep. Time and time again. Oh, if only I had known.
We finally woke from our sleep when the fuss they made from coming to take him away startled us. But instead of staying to protect him or try to do anything, we each ran away, trying to save our own skins first. For all that he had taught us about love, we still ran away when we had the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that self-sacrificing love he taught us about.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The guilt and anguish from that night had been riding on my shoulders for a long time now. For whatever reason, they had started calling me his "beloved" but yet I failed him. I FAILED HIM.
A sudden gust of sea breeze swept by almost knocking me out. And all of a sudden, that same look he gave me that night as he stood by the door leading to the garden... Then that image of his face drenched with sweat, tears and blood flashed through my head.
And then I understood. The greatest love he taught was what happened that weekend. I was his beloved not because of anything I had done. It was because he chose it that way.
...
She felt a chill down her spine as she heard her pastor's voice in her head over and over again, "Beloved, I love you." The world saw her as the perfect Christian who never broke the rules and the worst thing she had done was forgetting to turn in her homework in class one day. But they would never understand all the emotions she felt inside about the way she had to deal with farewells said too early or the guilt she had about not being more real and more "Christian" with her God.
Then she understood. Her fingers traced the outlines of his feet as she realised that her belovedness did not come from anything she did or did not do. It was because the Good Teacher chose it that way.
"Come, my daughter," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who was she to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then she saw her. John. Resting on the bosom of the Good Teacher at the table.
An interpretation of Matthew 4:18-22, Luke 14:1-6 and 22:7-46
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him. That familiar silhouette out there on the water. Could it be? Had he returned? But no, it was all an illusion. They said absence makes the heart grow fonder. I guess this was what they meant.
I settled down on that one slightly bigger rock in the middle of the sandy shore. It had been a while since I last sat down and thought about him. But tonight, something about the sea, the fish and the water brought to mind so many of my favourite memories with him.
I remember distinctly that day when James and I were out at sea with Papa. It seemed like he had been watching us for a while before he finally came up to James and I. The words he said then did not make much sense, but for some strange reason, "Follow me, and I will make you fish for people," seemed so much more appealing than spending the day out at sea with Papa. So James and I left with him.
He was a great teacher. He knew the Scriptures really well and even the other religious teachers started getting jealous of him. Me, I was just puzzled as to why he would have picked me to be one of his disciples. I was especially thankful to hear the way he taught through stories and performed signs and wonders that baffled everyone else. But from him, I learnt what the other religious teachers never taught us.
Our forefathers taught us to obey the Mosaic laws so that we may "live long in the land the Lord our God had given us." But the Good Teacher saw it differently. I remember that day when he healed the man of Dropsy and the question was raised about healing on the Sabbath. I guess I never really questioned how applicable our Mosaic laws were until that very moment when he showed a different way of obeying. No wait... He showed the true meaning of obeying.
And I'll never forget that day. It was Passover and he had given Peter and I specific instructions about that day's feasting. If I had only known what was about to happen, I would have made better effort to remember everything that he had said. All I remembered him saying was something about meeting a man with a jar of water. He dictated the instructions as if he already knew what was going to happen. Well... I guess he would have known. How many times had he tried to clue us in, but we never understood his "riddles"? Peter, James and I even once joked about his many riddles. If we had only known...
That night, we had all gathered in the room and were feasting. The Good Teacher was unusually quiet at Supper, but I had assumed it was because we had all had a long day. Halfway through the meal, he got up and left. Peter and I exchanged a look, but just shrugged it off as another one of his riddles.
When he returned, he had a towel tied around his waist. What happened next baffled me. We were still bantering back and forth about whether the bread should have been kept warm a little longer when the Good Teacher knelt down beside Andrew. Closing my eyes, I could still see the look of shock on Andrew's face as he looked between the Good Teacher and his feet, then around the table at the rest of us. He made his way all around the table and when he came to me, he looked me in the eye with his ever-patient gaze. And that was when I noticed his eyes were glassy. From time to time, he would look away, as if hiding his face from me, rubbing the sides of his cheeks against the sleeves of his robe. And was that a sniffle I heard? Something was up with him, but I was too exhausted that day to ask.
I allowed my feet to just graze the surface of the sea. It made me feel a little closer to him that way as I recalled the same clean feeling I had that night. As he slowly proceeded to wipe my feet with the towel around his waist and gently massaged it a little, I felt the aches and blisters being soothed away.
He didn't say much, but after he put everything away, he came back out and broke bread with us, saying something about eagerly desiring to eat this Passover with us before he suffered, and something about not eating it again until it finds fulfillment in the kingdom of God. I watched his hands tremble ever so slightly as he took hold of the bread, gave thanks then broke it and gave it to us. And as he lifted the cup and gave thanks, I was worried he was going to spill the wine from the goblet because he was shaking. Oh if only I had known the significance of that moment then, I would have been present.
Then he led the way out to the garden, he looked each one of us in the eye and embraced us. And I noticed again the tears in his eyes. Except this time he didn't look away when he realised I had noticed those tears. Instead, the look was one of... of... "If only you would understand."
Oh I wish I hadn't been that tired and had kept watch with him. I don't know how many times he returned that night, rousing us from our sleep and asking us to pray as his anguish grew with intensity. But no, rather than staying up to pray with him, we fell asleep. Time and time again. Oh, if only I had known.
We finally woke from our sleep when the fuss they made from coming to take him away startled us. But instead of staying to protect him or try to do anything, we each ran away, trying to save our own skins first. For all that he had taught us about love, we still ran away when we had the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that self-sacrificing love he taught us about.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The guilt and anguish from that night had been riding on my shoulders for a long time now. For whatever reason, they had started calling me his "beloved" but yet I failed him. I FAILED HIM.
A sudden gust of sea breeze swept by almost knocking me out. And all of a sudden, that same look he gave me that night as he stood by the door leading to the garden... Then that image of his face drenched with sweat, tears and blood flashed through my head.
And then I understood. The greatest love he taught was what happened that weekend. I was his beloved not because of anything I had done. It was because he chose it that way.
...
She felt a chill down her spine as she heard her pastor's voice in her head over and over again, "Beloved, I love you." The world saw her as the perfect Christian who never broke the rules and the worst thing she had done was forgetting to turn in her homework in class one day. But they would never understand all the emotions she felt inside about the way she had to deal with farewells said too early or the guilt she had about not being more real and more "Christian" with her God.
Then she understood. Her fingers traced the outlines of his feet as she realised that her belovedness did not come from anything she did or did not do. It was because the Good Teacher chose it that way.
"Come, my daughter," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who was she to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then she saw her. John. Resting on the bosom of the Good Teacher at the table.
An interpretation of Matthew 4:18-22, Luke 14:1-6 and 22:7-46
30 March 2010
Holy Week #2: Mary Magdelene
The water jug felt a little heavier than usual today. As I lugged it along, a few droplets of water splattered out of the jug onto my skin. It was cool and so refreshing.
This was one of my favourite parts of the day -- coming to this well our forefathers built. There was something sacred about coming here in the middle of the day just to sit quietly for a little while and think. Mama said something the other day about what she had heard from the town gossips. Apparently I was not the only one who enjoyed this mid-afternoon time at the well by myself. Somewhere across town there was another woman who did the same, except her story caused a scandal. Apparently she had been going about her usual routine that day until she ran into a man resting by the well. Everything would have been fine if not for the fact that she was one of "the others." Or that she was... that she... she was... just like me.
And that man. What was he doing anyway? They called him Good Teacher, so how could he not have known that what he did that day would have caused a scandal? All this while I thought he would have been different from the other religious teachers. But yet he caused a scandal with a woman. A woman who was just like me. Did he realise the amount of embarrassment he would have caused her by what he did?
Naturally, I got curious. I started paying more attention to the crowds and when I finally saw him and his followers that day, I snuck in and followed them around. I could never let them find out who I was or they would have thrown me out. But I was certain he knew me. As much as I tried to avoid eye-contact with anyone, every once in a while he would look me in the eye, shaking me to my bones. Did he know? Would he give me away? But every single time that happened, it was a look of... well, something I could never really comprehend. He looked sincere, that much I figured out. But was that look of pity? Compassion? No one ever looked at me that way.
I had only seen that look on one other occasion. It was that day at the religious teacher's house. The Good Teacher had been invited over to eat. The food smelled so good that day and I was feasting till I could eat no more. That was when I caught the whiff of something. I can't exactly describe it, but I knew I liked it a lot. It was that perfume that came in an alabaster jar. I had been eyeing that jar for a long time but never found enough reason to purchase it for myself. And here I was in the middle of a feast and that fragrance filled the room. Naturally, curiosity got the better of me, but I had to remain undiscovered. So I sat quietly where I was, listening to the commotion all around.
Then I saw her. I couldn't see her face clearly, but her garments and her hair... She was... well, she was one of us. I had seen her around. Ahh, she was one of those. Some of us hid in the background trying to remain undiscovered. Others go around creating scandals. We were unclean women. We should know our place in society. The audacity she had to get so close!
I inched just a little closer to get a better view. My breath caught in my throat when I saw her standing behind the Good Teacher at his feet, weeping. Then she began to bathe his feet with her tears and to dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with the ointment. I sat frozen, trying to make sense of what just happened as the buzzing of the commotion around me grew louder. I heard snippets of the conversation, something along the lines of "judged rightly," and "no water for my feet," and "bathed my feet with her tears," and "hair" and "anointing" and "shown great love." And that was when I saw that look again. Except this time, amidst all the commotion, I heard him whisper, "Your sins are forgiven."
Then he looked me in the eye as if he had always known I was in the crowd, and gave me that same look. That was when I realised my cheeks were moist. And then I understood that look.
Compassion.
Forgiveness.
LOVE.
It wasn't too much later when the events of that weekend transpired. When the earth shook as the other Mary and I got there, I knew in my heart then.
He saw me. He loved me. I was free.
...
He saw himself in her story. All that he had held in to shield himself was known. For so long he had hidden himself away. Society told him they had no room for his failed marriage and struggles with marijuana and pornography. He was "one of the others," and "unclean."
But the Good Teacher saw. The Good Teacher knew. The Good Teacher set him free.
His fingers traced the outline of the Good Teacher's arm stretched out on the stained glass.
"Come, my son," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who was he to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then he saw her. Mary Magdalene. She was at the table too.
An interpretation of John 4:1-26, Luke 7:36 - 8:3 and Matthew 28:1-10
This was one of my favourite parts of the day -- coming to this well our forefathers built. There was something sacred about coming here in the middle of the day just to sit quietly for a little while and think. Mama said something the other day about what she had heard from the town gossips. Apparently I was not the only one who enjoyed this mid-afternoon time at the well by myself. Somewhere across town there was another woman who did the same, except her story caused a scandal. Apparently she had been going about her usual routine that day until she ran into a man resting by the well. Everything would have been fine if not for the fact that she was one of "the others." Or that she was... that she... she was... just like me.
And that man. What was he doing anyway? They called him Good Teacher, so how could he not have known that what he did that day would have caused a scandal? All this while I thought he would have been different from the other religious teachers. But yet he caused a scandal with a woman. A woman who was just like me. Did he realise the amount of embarrassment he would have caused her by what he did?
Naturally, I got curious. I started paying more attention to the crowds and when I finally saw him and his followers that day, I snuck in and followed them around. I could never let them find out who I was or they would have thrown me out. But I was certain he knew me. As much as I tried to avoid eye-contact with anyone, every once in a while he would look me in the eye, shaking me to my bones. Did he know? Would he give me away? But every single time that happened, it was a look of... well, something I could never really comprehend. He looked sincere, that much I figured out. But was that look of pity? Compassion? No one ever looked at me that way.
I had only seen that look on one other occasion. It was that day at the religious teacher's house. The Good Teacher had been invited over to eat. The food smelled so good that day and I was feasting till I could eat no more. That was when I caught the whiff of something. I can't exactly describe it, but I knew I liked it a lot. It was that perfume that came in an alabaster jar. I had been eyeing that jar for a long time but never found enough reason to purchase it for myself. And here I was in the middle of a feast and that fragrance filled the room. Naturally, curiosity got the better of me, but I had to remain undiscovered. So I sat quietly where I was, listening to the commotion all around.
Then I saw her. I couldn't see her face clearly, but her garments and her hair... She was... well, she was one of us. I had seen her around. Ahh, she was one of those. Some of us hid in the background trying to remain undiscovered. Others go around creating scandals. We were unclean women. We should know our place in society. The audacity she had to get so close!
I inched just a little closer to get a better view. My breath caught in my throat when I saw her standing behind the Good Teacher at his feet, weeping. Then she began to bathe his feet with her tears and to dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with the ointment. I sat frozen, trying to make sense of what just happened as the buzzing of the commotion around me grew louder. I heard snippets of the conversation, something along the lines of "judged rightly," and "no water for my feet," and "bathed my feet with her tears," and "hair" and "anointing" and "shown great love." And that was when I saw that look again. Except this time, amidst all the commotion, I heard him whisper, "Your sins are forgiven."
Then he looked me in the eye as if he had always known I was in the crowd, and gave me that same look. That was when I realised my cheeks were moist. And then I understood that look.
Compassion.
Forgiveness.
LOVE.
It wasn't too much later when the events of that weekend transpired. When the earth shook as the other Mary and I got there, I knew in my heart then.
He saw me. He loved me. I was free.
...
He saw himself in her story. All that he had held in to shield himself was known. For so long he had hidden himself away. Society told him they had no room for his failed marriage and struggles with marijuana and pornography. He was "one of the others," and "unclean."
But the Good Teacher saw. The Good Teacher knew. The Good Teacher set him free.
His fingers traced the outline of the Good Teacher's arm stretched out on the stained glass.
"Come, my son," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who was he to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then he saw her. Mary Magdalene. She was at the table too.
An interpretation of John 4:1-26, Luke 7:36 - 8:3 and Matthew 28:1-10
29 March 2010
Holy Week #1: Nicodemus
There was a big crowd out on the streets that day. The sound of the children's laughter and the songs of the young ladies dancing caught my attention and drew me to the balcony. The greens of the palm leaves intermingling with the brightly-coloured cloaks... It had to be a celebration of some kind.
Then I heard it over the songs, the laughter and the tambourines.
"Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!"
I looked long and hard. And then I saw him riding on a donkey. Him -- the Blesphemer. The audacity he had to allow them to celebrate him like that!
Pulling my cloak on, I ran outside. Why hadn't anyone else stepped out to stop him? Had he pulled some kind of sorcery on the people that they did not recognise his blesphemy?
"Teacher!" I yelled, as I ran out in front of his donkey. "Order your disciples to stop!"
Ha! Looking back now, I should have known better than to act on impulse. I thought I could publicly embarrass him and did not even consider the possibility that he might turn violent. But instead, he calmly turned and faced me without stopping for too long, and whispered, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out."
The gentle night breeze greeted my face as I stepped back out on the balcony. "The stones would shout out..." The Blesphemer's voice haunted me as I stared after the dust tracks of the celebration party that had passed through earlier that day. "The stones would shout out..."
For a long time, I had watched and heard about his blesphemy. Who was he anyway, and who gave him that authority to speak the way he does? There was something about his behaviour that made sense even while it left me bewildered. And what about those "miracles" he had been pulling off? He had authority alright. But from Yahweh? The others had said time and again that he couldn't be The One who had been promised. But what if they -- we -- were wrong?
Pulling on my cloak, I grabbed the oil lamp that hung outside and slipped out into the darkness of the night. He was a good teacher, alright and he knew the Scriptures pretty darn well. Perhaps he knew something we didn't know?
From what the others had said, his dwelling wasn't too far down the street. Ahh, there it was! I reached for the door, and then hesitated. Would he invite me in after what I tried to do that morning? But I needed to find out. I reached out again but this time the door flew open before I even got to knocking and there he stood. How had I never noticed the meek, graceful mannerisms about him? And his hands... They were hands of a labourer... What was it they said about him? Ah, yes. Son of Joseph the Carpenter. And then he became a religious teacher?
"Nicodemus." His voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Rabbi, we know you are a teacher who has come from God. For no one could perform the miraculous signs you are doing if God were not with him," was all I could manage to blurt out.
He smiled a smile that spelled patience, warmth and... oh, words fail to describe all the sensations I felt inside. He welcomed me in and offered me a warm drink.
"I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again ..."
We talked for a long time that night. He opened my eyes to so many things that I had failed to see. The others talked about tithing and fasting and the Sabbath and Passover, and here was a gentle man who simply demonstrated love.
I did not see him again. Not till much later when Joseph came to inform me of the events that had transpired. Oh, he was a good teacher indeed. What a loss.
...
Her fingers found themselves tracing the outline of his robe on the stained glass. She wasn't Nicodemus, but she sure had her share of doubts and questions of the Good Teacher's authority in her life. All her years of teaching had trained her to know the rights and wrongs of religiosity, but how often had she completely missed the Good Teacher?
"Come, my daughter," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper as a single tear rolled down her cheek. Who was she to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then she saw him. Nicodemus. He was at the table too.
An interpretation of Luke 19:28-40, John 3:1-21 and Luke 22:7-28.
Then I heard it over the songs, the laughter and the tambourines.
"Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!"
I looked long and hard. And then I saw him riding on a donkey. Him -- the Blesphemer. The audacity he had to allow them to celebrate him like that!
Pulling my cloak on, I ran outside. Why hadn't anyone else stepped out to stop him? Had he pulled some kind of sorcery on the people that they did not recognise his blesphemy?
"Teacher!" I yelled, as I ran out in front of his donkey. "Order your disciples to stop!"
Ha! Looking back now, I should have known better than to act on impulse. I thought I could publicly embarrass him and did not even consider the possibility that he might turn violent. But instead, he calmly turned and faced me without stopping for too long, and whispered, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out."
The gentle night breeze greeted my face as I stepped back out on the balcony. "The stones would shout out..." The Blesphemer's voice haunted me as I stared after the dust tracks of the celebration party that had passed through earlier that day. "The stones would shout out..."
For a long time, I had watched and heard about his blesphemy. Who was he anyway, and who gave him that authority to speak the way he does? There was something about his behaviour that made sense even while it left me bewildered. And what about those "miracles" he had been pulling off? He had authority alright. But from Yahweh? The others had said time and again that he couldn't be The One who had been promised. But what if they -- we -- were wrong?
Pulling on my cloak, I grabbed the oil lamp that hung outside and slipped out into the darkness of the night. He was a good teacher, alright and he knew the Scriptures pretty darn well. Perhaps he knew something we didn't know?
From what the others had said, his dwelling wasn't too far down the street. Ahh, there it was! I reached for the door, and then hesitated. Would he invite me in after what I tried to do that morning? But I needed to find out. I reached out again but this time the door flew open before I even got to knocking and there he stood. How had I never noticed the meek, graceful mannerisms about him? And his hands... They were hands of a labourer... What was it they said about him? Ah, yes. Son of Joseph the Carpenter. And then he became a religious teacher?
"Nicodemus." His voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Rabbi, we know you are a teacher who has come from God. For no one could perform the miraculous signs you are doing if God were not with him," was all I could manage to blurt out.
He smiled a smile that spelled patience, warmth and... oh, words fail to describe all the sensations I felt inside. He welcomed me in and offered me a warm drink.
"I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again ..."
We talked for a long time that night. He opened my eyes to so many things that I had failed to see. The others talked about tithing and fasting and the Sabbath and Passover, and here was a gentle man who simply demonstrated love.
I did not see him again. Not till much later when Joseph came to inform me of the events that had transpired. Oh, he was a good teacher indeed. What a loss.
...
Her fingers found themselves tracing the outline of his robe on the stained glass. She wasn't Nicodemus, but she sure had her share of doubts and questions of the Good Teacher's authority in her life. All her years of teaching had trained her to know the rights and wrongs of religiosity, but how often had she completely missed the Good Teacher?
"Come, my daughter," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper as a single tear rolled down her cheek. Who was she to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then she saw him. Nicodemus. He was at the table too.
An interpretation of Luke 19:28-40, John 3:1-21 and Luke 22:7-28.
Holy Week Series
So Holy Week snuck up on me again this year. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes I just wonder if I even pay attention to what Holy Week means throughout the rest of the year.
Sitting in church today, I was suddenly reminded of the series I wrote last year. I think I'm going to dig that out and re-publish those. Especially since I never quite got around to write the concluding piece for last year.
So watch this space if you're interested.
Sitting in church today, I was suddenly reminded of the series I wrote last year. I think I'm going to dig that out and re-publish those. Especially since I never quite got around to write the concluding piece for last year.
So watch this space if you're interested.
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