Savour the Memory

In her book Phosphorescence, Julia Baird describes some of her memories of Central Park. Watch closely as she skilfully takes us by the hand and leads us into this majestic almost magical still place of green in one of the busiest and noisiest cities in the world.

‘Other times, I walked marathons around Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis reservoir with friends talking in rapid torrents as the lake gently rippled. The first of fall dropped quietly around us in what seemed to be an enchanted wood. In autumn, I carefully watched the trees grow orange, then red, from my office window - there would always be one to lead, another to trail, the others. With the branches of winter bare, each side of the park was again exposed to the other; the west could see the east again, with its fancy stores and billionaires’ houses that glittered across the quiet expanse.’

I have been to Central Park, albeit for just a couple of weeks in the summer. I too have walked around the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis reservoir and along Fifth Avenue. With Julia's words somehow I was there again and the memory was as fresh and delicious as the first time.

What is it about these experiences of faraway places and long ago times that makes the memories exquisite and heartfelt… touchable? Firing the longing to return. How do time and distance filter out the cold and rats and the hustle and leave us with the purest and most luscious of stirrings? And is it so terrible that we mysteriously forget about the things we would … well rather forget about? I think not. I choose to relish these times with a moist eye and a bursting heart. I choose the privilege of memory and with an insatiable appetite, savour it for as long as I can.

Lent 5 March 17th

Bishop Stephen Cottrell

He ate with tax collectors and sinners part 2

Another shadow crosses the day. They stare at him, dumbfounded. He is very irritating. Not only does he accept this woman’s offering. Not only does he shame them in front of her, reminding them that there will always be poor people to serve.

Now he says that he won’t always be around. He says that this anointing is for his burial.

Everyone looks aghast. It is good to sit and eat with him. But it is also so hard and uncomfortable. He is one of those people that as soon as you think you’ve got him worked out goes and does something to confound you.

They sit around his table and they are covered in embarrassment. They don’t really know why. Nothing is as they expect it to be. Have they come to Jerusalem for life and for victory, or for death and defeat and will they even know what each one looks like?

They know the religious authorities have it in for him. But there isn’t really any evidence. Apart from this. Their constant gripe: he eats with tax collectors and sinners. He doesn’t deny it. He revels in it. He seeks out the lost. He embraces those who must not be embraced. He makes himself unclean and then calls them – the scribes and Pharisees, the keepers of the law – dirty. That was their complaint. And he gave as good as he got. He called them blind guides who strained a gnat but swallowed a camel; whitewashed tombs that looked lovely on the outside but inside were full of bones. He called them hypocrites who did not go into God’s kingdom themselves but stopped everyone else. And when they complained about him and the company he kept, he just smiled and said, ‘Those who are well have no need of a doctor, only those who are sick.’

Sitting round the table, his head dripping with the oil of an anointing which was for death, they too felt ashamed, were painfully aware of the muddled compromises of their own hypocrisy, even though they were his friends and his guests, and they ached for the medicine that only he could bring. To look at him and the things he did was a healing; it was like looking in a mirror and seeing what humanity was supposed to be like and seeing yourself as you could be. Such a vision of a changed and redeemed humanity was wonderfully compelling. But it was also deeply challenging. He knew that some would embrace him and, weeping with lament, ask to be healed and set free. But others would harden their hearts and turn away. This was the one thing he couldn’t do: make people’s choices for them. Everyone had to make their own. They sat around the table in silence pondering which way to turn. The dice span in the air.

One of the Twelve who was there around the table was particularly indignant. He had put a lot of trust in Jesus. He had followed him since the beginning. He had seen Jesus do wonderful things. He had thrilled at his rhetoric. He had longed for his kingdom. He had believed in him. But this belief was starting to waver. Jesus was looking less like a king and more like a servant. He didn’t like this. It wasn’t right. He didn’t really know who Jesus was any more; or even what he wanted him to be; or whether this would only become apparent if the pace of events was pushed a little. His motives were desperately confused. He was angry, but he didn’t really know why.

Later that day he went to the chief priests. He thought there was probably enough evidence against Jesus for them at least to arrest him. He said that he could tell them where he was. They were very pleased and offered him money in return for his service.

From that moment, Judas looked for an opportunity to betray Jesus.

For your reflection …

In this story are you the Master. The one who accepts graciously the richness of those who give out of their poverty but in so doing showing the overabundance of their love which cannot be exchanged into any earthly currency.

Or

Are you one of those who are cranky, indignant and disappointed with the way the dinner party is going?

Or

Are you the woman who only has a solitary vase of ointment and so many tears?

Holy Week and Easter in Our Parish.

Christchurch Hamilton

Palm Sunday. 

Saturday 23rd of March Vigil 6:00pm

Sunday 24th of March 10:30am Mass begins in the hall.

Wednesday of Holy Week 27th of March

9:15am Stations of the cross

10:00am Mass

Holy (Maundy) Thursday 28th of March

7:30pm Washing of Feet and Vigil until 10:00pm

Good Friday 29th of March

3:00pm Liturgy of the Day.

Holy Saturday 30th of March

7:30pm Vigil of Easter

Easter Day 31st of March

10:30am Sung mass of Easter Day.

St. Peters Glenthompson

Holy Saturday 30th of March

5:00pm Vigil of Easter

St. Mark’s Cavendish

Mass of Easter Day 

Sunday March 31st 9:00am

Lent 4 March 10th

Bishop Stephen Cotterell

He ate with tax collectors and sinners. Part 1

In the end, this was his undoing. He just wasn’t respectable enough. He mixed with the wrong sort of people. He wasn’t one of us. There was too much God in him, and not the ‘God-fearing sort of God’ the God professionals liked to peddle. His was a very down-to-earth God: a compassionate ‘on your side’ God; a completely understanding and ‘why not start again’ God. And it drove them mad, the God professionals, the scribes and Pharisees, the ones whose job it was to tell people who God was and who God wasn’t, and what following God looked like. They had the certificates to prove it. And the breeding. And he didn’t.

And he ate with all the wrong sort of people. He kept very bad company. He got in with a rum lot.

In that week, as one thing led to the next, he would withdraw to Bethany to his friends; and one day, eating in the home of Simon the Leper, his disciples with him and others laughing and jesting, a woman came in from the street carrying an alabaster jar of costly ointment, pure nard. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She had about her an air of quiet determination and a devotion that had already passed beyond the cares of what others may say. She knelt at Jesus’ feet. She broke the seal on the jar, and gently, lovingly, poured the oil on to his head.

Everyone stared in disbelief. Was he really going to let this woman do this to him? Wouldn’t he stop her?

So this woman, whoever she was and whatever she had done, and in spite of the prohibitions of his religion saying women, and for that matter lepers and small children, are not people to mix with, that they are unclean, he goes to them and he lets them come to him. He enjoys their company. He sees in them the very humanity he has taken to himself. He loves them.

So she pours the oil upon his head. It is warm, and its fragrance fills the air, musky and sweet. It gently trickles down his neck and on to his beard. He smiles at her, full of simple gratitude for the gift of this anointing. There is a joy between them.

But the others around the table – his disciples and all the rest – are agitated and angry. This is an expensive ointment. And this is a woman of possible ill repute, and anyway, a woman. What right does she have to do this? And where did this oil come from? It must have cost a fortune. Did she steal it? And if there is money to throw around on oil, wouldn’t it be better to give it to the poor? Yes, that is the line they take. A sudden concern for others bolsters their effrontery. After all, the best way to protect your own bank balance is to offer the very best advice to others about what they should do with theirs. It is as if talking about giving is itself enough.

But what she does is just give, and she goes on giving. And what he does is receive, and he goes on receiving. It is almost as if Jesus is not listening to the puffed-up yammer of their indignation. He has screened out the good advice and the implied good intentions of the extravagantly self-righteous who actually intend to do nothing, and is, instead, focused on the one who gives and is able to receive. He is undefended. And it is the shocking beauty of this generous vulnerability that draws all those who also long to receive and are able to offer themselves.

This is what he loved about the poor.

They were so generous. He called it ‘poor in spirit’, which was more (or is it less?) than the actual amount you possess, but an attitude to what you have, a sense that everything is gift, and that it comes unearned and undeserved. We enter this life with nothing. We leave with nothing, and in between it is a proper poverty of spirit that enables us to live with joyful gratitude and generosity, thankful for whatever we have and for the good God who gave it to us (as he gives everything) and, therefore, how could we not share it and go on sharing?

Now this woman with the oil. The only thing those around him could think of was its cost; not the cost to this woman who had purchased the oil and sought him out and braved their reproach and done this thing of kindness, but the money itself.

They were still rehearsing the lines of their indignation, each one more piqued than the other, when their voices reached him. All voices do eventually. So he turned to them and said, ‘Why do you trouble the woman? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me. By pouring this ointment on my body she has prepared me for burial. Truly I tell you, wherever this good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.’

The Parable of the Alien

Once upon a time, an alien crash-landed in the middle of the Kimberly ranges. While Alien Freddy could find no one around to ask about our lifestyle and culture he managed to access our internet and social media sites. He spent hours scrolling through people’s postings and pictures. He read our disagreements and the gooey stuff. He looked at the pictures of gourmet meals and the people sharing hugs and smiles. He looked at people’s travel posts and sporting achievements. He gawped at the experiences they had of parachuting and bungee jumping.

He scrolled through endless pictures and comments about social events and invitations to parties.

Because of the remoteness of the area, Freddy couldn’t verify what he had seen on the screen.

Thanks to YouTube Freddy fixed his spacecraft headed back to Planet Zeta and reported to his fearless leader Olexa who was a wise and compassionate ruler. Olexa was flabbergasted to learn that on planet Earth no one ever had a disastrous meal. Further, while there was some disagreement amongst a minority of people, the overall vibe was one of overwhelming congeniality. There were lots of pictures and well wishes of support as well as the ‘Friendship apps’ that Freddy had downloaded. People were very keen to meet other people and connect. There was no such thing as a lonely, depressed, hungry soul on planet Earth. Furthermore, all the humans were well-groomed, and attractive and achieved all they set out to do with spectacular results, marks and trophies. Fancy that!

Could it be that we spend too much time comparing our ‘inside reality’ with the ‘outside reality’ that Freddy saw on his really intelligent screen? And I wonder what that does to us in the long run.

Lent 3 March 3rd

Jesus overturns the money changers' tables

They followed him. With all sorts of motives and for all sorts of reasons. Some were anxious or battling pent-up anger. Others were excited, bewildered or bewitched. The kettle was boiling. Hissing insistently. But no one could lift it from the heat. There was an incessant whistling in the air that people simply couldn’t ignore.

His tears had passed. His vision was clear. Through the winding streets of Jerusalem, he went, striding out, purposeful, determined. Nobody spoke to him. The joy of his entrance had been overtaken by the foreboding over what he was going to do next. Everybody sensed where he was going. But nobody said anything or knew why. They followed in the slipstream of his resolve.

When the outer walls of the Temple came into view, he stopped. And abruptly. It was as though an invisible wall had halted his progress and held him in check.

Why did he stop? Was it the enormity of it all, or his own doubts, fixing him to the spot? Or was it God’s much trumpeted but rarely seen compassion presenting him with a choice?

The crowd behind him muttered under their breath. Everyone had their own theory. Nobody was very sure. Conjecture and assumption filled the air. What was going to happen now? What was he going to do?

He took a deep breath, holding the air in his lungs as if it were a last breath. He looked around him, his eyes beckoning his followers to come close. None of these so-called chosen twelve disciples looked very courageous then. They shuffled forward. He wanted them with him, but he offered no instructions.

Then he moved. Striding forward towards the Temple. Through the gates and into the outer court of the Gentiles, the place where money is changed and animals for sacrifice are bought and sold. It was its usual hot bustle of people and noise. What had once been a quiet place where all the peoples of the world could come and pray (the inner court was, of course, reserved for the Jews) had now become a market place for the necessary business of getting the right money for the right animal for the right sacrifice that would make peace with God. Beyond it, invading the nostrils and cancelling out the perfume of the spring flowers, was the stench of death. Behind the walls and in the Temple itself, pigeons and goats were being killed. This is what sacrifice entails. Throats are being cut. Blood being spilled. Entrails dropping. Flesh burning. The whole macabre round of covering your sin and making your peace, day after day, year after year, death after death after death.

Suddenly there was violence and foreboding in the air, and it emanated from him. He was a tornado, a whipping frenzy of righteous rage amid all this commerce and clamour. He was turning over the tables of the money changers, lifting them with both hands and sending them crashing to the ground, pushing them this way and that. He was upending the benches where those who sold doves were going about their lawful business. His stamping feet were beating out a rhythm of change and putting his mark upon the place.

Gold and silver coins tumbled to the floor and sparkled in the dust. Greedy hands stretched out to grasp them. Doves and pigeons shackled on death row received a last-minute amnesty as their cages crashed to the ground. A few stretched their wings and soared into the sky. Surprised by liberation, and ill-equipped for freedom, their wings diminished and forlorn, and others pecked among the dust. Wasn’t it ever thus? Why is darkness so attractive? Why are prison walls so safe?

It happened so quickly that half a dozen tables were thrown over before anyone even tried to stop him. It just happened. Everyone was too surprised and too bewildered even to move, let alone prevent him. He passed through them like the angel of death itself, deftly extinguishing light after light, and for a moment no one could lay a hand on him.

But now people saw him. It was Jesus. The Nazarene. Mad after all.

People screamed and laughed. Some ran for cover. One vomited in fear.

Others had him in their sights. Some of the money changers whose tables were further into the court hurriedly gathered up their profits in their arms and stuffed their money into leather purses and ran. Others were ready for a fight. They stared with icy opprobrium at his advance.

And now people were trying to stop him. Hands reached out to detain him, to catch hold of him. People stepped in his way. But it was still happening too quickly. It was too confused.

Jesus was at the centre of a maelstrom.

The tables were upended. Fights were breaking out. But most people were more concerned with saving their money or grabbing a piece of the action than actually stopping him.

Around him his disciples looked dumbfounded and inept: incapable of joining him, they were equally incapable of stopping him. Those who recognized them as followers of Jesus screamed at them out of their own frustration and displeasure.

Children cried and turned to find their mothers. Mothers cried and turned to find their children. Old men closed their eyes.

He swept through the courtyard like a man possessed of God, as if the Temple itself was suddenly being made redundant.

And then he stopped.

The value of the greeting card.

From time to time it is my undeserved and thrilling privilege to write a greeting card. Having been here 4 and half years I think that we have graduated from a formal email or letterhead, to a more personal approach.

I try to pick the card carefully so that the image on the front fits with the theme inside. But it’s not the jokey birthday cards or cute christmass cards I like best. My favourites  are impressionist paintings where we are given just a hint or the ‘flavour’ of the message I want to convey.

Pictures of Mother Nature at her wildest, characters that are distant, almost translucent and a landscape that is both exquisite and compelling. The best cards are blank inside for they give me the flexibility and openness to write whatever I choose without being steered in any particular direction.

And of course it's the words that really matter. The meat in the sandwich if you like. The words I choose are the most important part for they are potent and have the potential to make things solid and tangible for the reader.

Like the card that reminds the recipient of a particular day, a memorable event. Written carefully a very significant person is once again made reachable. Just for a moment, or hopefully longer, the memory is stirred to life. It is almost palpable and exists.

The privilege of writing such a greeting card comes with its special joy and responsibility. Frequently I need several goes to find the right words and bounce them into some sort of coherent order.

The value of a greeting card is not the price you pay at the counter, but the experience or memory which is made present again for the reader.

Restlaufzeit

Restlaufzeit is a German word roughly translated as ‘The remaining time’ or ‘The remaining term’. It’s a concept that is hard to comprehend. We are often looking to the present or the past. They are quantifiable, easy-to-understand concepts and terms. But we are a bit squidgy when it comes to placing a limit of the time left in the future. But it is there in lots of things. From the amount of time a government has left before an election, to the use-by date on the milk.

Those who are diagnosed with an incurable disease will inevitably ask about their ‘Restlaufzeit’. ‘How much time have I got Doc’? It's an understandable, but difficult question and the best medicos will give the honest answer with very broad sweeping timelines.

All of us have our own personal Restlaufzeit. It’s an indisputable fact. It's just that some of us are a little more aware of it than others. Some of us may even have been given an idea of how small that Restlaufzeit is, for it will always seem too short for us. So, the real question is not whether we have a Restlaufzeit, or how many years or months or days it is. The real question is how we spend our Restlaufzeit. This will be determined by our gifts and talents, our energy and abilities and even our budget. So it is best to set simple, achievable but potent goals.

To make every moment count, in prayer, in loving, in forgiveness, in making our very finite Restlaufzeit count. You will have your own schedule for your Restlaufzeit. My favourite is… “In the time we have left we must dance.” Dance like a dopey Dad. Dance like no one is watching. Dance and know the exhilaration of your Restlaufzeit.

Lent 2 Sunday 25th of February

Jesus rides on a donkey part 2.

Now, in the days that had led to this day, he had said other uncomfortable things as well. He had taken the Twelve to one side and said to them, ‘See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and scribes, and they will condemn him to death.’

These words had spread like wildfire through the camp. Some just didn’t believe it. Others said, ‘So why go to Jerusalem?’ Others slunk into the shadows, concocting their own plans, either messianic fantasies about Jesus in which he showed people who he really was, blowing them away with some fantastic show of supernatural power, or political revolution, the people rising up and making him king and the Romans forced out the door.

Being asked to fetch a donkey fitted neither picture.

His quirky use of the word ‘Father’ to describe God suddenly jarred with them. How could God be Father? Many people winced at the intimacy and bravado of such a description for God. But Jesus seemed to get away with it, because with him there was such an intimacy with God; and if there wasn’t, well how did all these things occur?

But if God is Father, then Jesus is a son. And if Jesus tells me to call God ‘Father’, then I am a brother and a sister too.

They knew this, but they didn’t really know where it led.

So the two of them went into the village. They found it just as Jesus had said.

As they were untying the animals, a few bystanders questioned them. A theft seemed to be taking place under their noses, and they were sure they should do something. But the two of them said what Jesus had told them to say, and the people shrugged and went back to their business. Isn’t it always so?

They led the animals back to Jesus, pleased that they had done the job well. He looked at them and smiled. This was something he often did: smiled. It made a difference, especially when the clouds of doubt and confusion engulfed them.

They smiled back. Not saying anything, just throwing their cloaks over the animal for a saddle and handing him the reins.

He took them and turned to everyone else as if to say, it’s time to go now. And so the little pilgrimage continued, the day getting hotter, the levels of anticipation rising.

For Jesus, this was a calculated move. None of them understood this. How could they? They didn’t understand him. But he reckoned there would be enough people in the crowd who would. It might take a little time. But like a small spark in the dry grass could devour a forest, so it would only take one person to make the connection and the word would spread. Not his word this time, but the words of the Scripture that would come to life and take flesh in him and in the things he did. He would steer a path between the religious and the political fanatics who flanked him and goaded him.

His plan was decisive and humble. It had to be both. The crowds needed–even with help – to come to their own conclusion; and he still needed to be meek. There was no other way for the earth to be inherited. For those who had eyes to see, his actions and their meaning would be plain; and for those who didn’t, well, this might open them.

And walking again towards Jerusalem, surrounded again by laughter and intrigue, he didn’t know exactly how this would work out in the days that lay ahead of him, and that was hard. Everyone seemed to think he could see into tomorrow. But all he could see was what he had to do. He knew it was of God; that God had called him to this hour. But he didn’t know where it would end, except in confrontation and vindication: ‘Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and . . . riding on a donkey.’

And so he rode the colt towards Jerusalem. As he rode along, other people came out, and some of them began to spread their cloaks on the road. They chattered to one another about what this entry into Jerusalem might mean, and the gossip spread through the crowd. This is what the prophet foretold. This is how the king arrives.

And others built upon it. Like all good stories, it spread and grew with the telling. He may look meek and gentle. But kings come to sit upon thrones and to establish kingdoms. That is what he is coming to do.

From the path into Jerusalem down by the Mount of Olives the crowds were getting larger and stronger, more confident and more vocal. Some went ahead of him singing and shouting. Others followed him. Right at the front, a young man turned cartwheels and another walked on his hands. Tearing down branches from the trees, the crowds laid these in his path, along with their cloaks. Children waved palms. Everyone sang lustily and praised God joyfully, shouting out the deeds of power they had seen, and whipping each other into a frenzy so that they would expect more. ‘Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!’ they shouted. ‘Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven.’ And then, ‘Hosanna to the Son of David. Hosanna in the highest heaven!’

Mary Ann Steuternanm

Mary Ann Steutermann is the director of campus ministry at Assumption High School, a Catholic all-girls school in Louisville, Kentucky. She's also a freelance writer whose articles have been published in this magazine and on the popular Catholic website BustedHalo.com. Mary Ann lives in Louisville with her husband and son.

Ash Wednesday  Giving up,… giving to,… giving in. 

Ash Wednesday embraces and sanctifies our brokenness.

Being broken means that healing is needed, so the age-old Lenten practices of fasting, almsgiving, and prayer are not only relevant today but also perhaps more needed than ever. It’s in giving up our reliance on those things we don’t absolutely need, giving to those in greater need than ourselves, and giving in to God’s presence in our lives that we are able to look our own “lacking ” straight in the eye. It’s how we become aware of both the blessing and the brokenness of our human condition.

Giving up: Fasting, a spiritual practice that has declined in popularity over the years, has made a comeback in a less-than-spiritual way. “Intermittent fasting ” is all the rage lately on nutrition websites and in best-selling books. But when fasting is understood not as a weight-loss technique but as a way of letting go of our reliance on things we don’t actually need, it can be a powerful form of prayer. It’s fine to give up desserts for Lent if that helps us reflect on the things we can do without. Perhaps it can be more powerful, though, to “fast ” from gossip or unnecessary spending or an insistence on having the last word. Fasting is a way to experience our own “lacking ” in a transformative way.

Giving to: Almsgiving, which means the giving of money or food to those in need, is another traditional Lenten practice. This, too, is relevant for us today during Lent—and all year long—because it is how we recognise that we aren’t the only ones who are vulnerable. The world is full of others just like us in our lacking. They may be vulnerable in different ways than we are, but by reaching out to them in their need, we bear witness to their pain. By standing in solidarity with their brokenness, we take steps toward being healed of our own.

Giving in: Prayer as a spiritual practice never goes out of style. Not only during Lent but throughout the entire year, prayer is a powerful way of participating in divine community. By lifting our own broken pieces and those of others in prayer, we attest to—rather than run from—the vulnerable parts of our lives. Prayer connects us with each other and with God. This sacred unity connects our individual broken pieces with those of others, creating a beautiful new kind of wholeness.

Our Lenten Invitation

Too often, we approach Ash Wednesday with liturgical gloom and doom. It’s the “black sheep ” of the family of dark solemnities in the liturgical calendar. But when painted in this light, it’s easy to miss its beautiful invitation to claim our brokenness, embrace our vulnerability, and stand in solidarity with all those who do the same.

God is ready to heal our woundedness, to make us more whole than ever before. Ash Wednesday is our call to make room for the divine dance to work its sacred magic within us.

Lent 1 18/2/24

Bishop Stephen Cottrell 

The things he did.

He rode into Jerusalem on a donkey.

Part 1.

Jerusalem was in ferment. Knives were being sharpened. Well-worn grooves were smoothed and oiled. Loose tongues wagged. Accusing fingers jabbed. Small children either ran for the cover of their mother’s apron or picked up stones ready to join in the excitement. Nobody knew what was happening, but everyone had a theory. They said he was coming: the man, Jesus. They said he was on the road today: the one who restored the sight to that beggar, Bartimaeus (that will put him out of business!); the one who lifted Lazarus from the grave; the one the Pharisees are petrified of. He was coming to Jerusalem, coming to keep the feast. What will he do when he gets here? What will he say?

In a small village near Bethany, close to the Mount of Olives, an unknown man tethered an unridden colt by the first dwelling you would come to if you walked in from the east. Unaware of its place in history, it yawed and brayed, irritated to be tied up and abandoned. And on the road to the east, just small specks on the horizon of a day that had hardly started, a little crowd was gathering and jabbering and coming towards Jerusalem. If you could hear them, then you would hear all sorts of things: laughter, raucous speculation, intrigue, political dissent, religious fervour. All of it was filled with a zealous and uncomfortable intent.

Walking with them, neither at their front nor at their rear, leading them, yet in the midst of them, was Jesus; and while everyone else looked at the road in front of them, or to left and right as if they feared something was about to jump out at them, his gaze was fixed on the distance that was gradually coming towards them, reduced inexorably by every step; his whole life, and the many meanderings of many journeys, converging and fixing itself on this last journey to Jerusalem. He had prepared for it carefully. Mused, not so much on how this day would pan out – how could anyone know that? – but on what it would mean. Today was the day when things would be said by the things that he did.

At Bethphage, he stopped. It was still early, still a few miles to travel; the fiercest heat of the day was not yet upon them. In the hedgerows corn parsley and rock rose grew in springtide abundance. The fields beyond were speckled red with lilies and poppies. A breeze stirred in the cedar trees behind him. ‘Keep on, keep on,’ it seemed to say to him, a still small voice fixing his resolve. He turned to two of his followers and whispered to them urgently, the purpose of the day starting to unfold. He said to them, ‘Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you get there you will find a donkey tied up, and a colt with her. Untie them and bring them to me. And if anyone says anything to you, just say this, “The Lord has need of them.” And he will send them immediately.’

They looked at him blankly, incomprehension masking fear. They knew they were coming to Jerusalem for a reason, but they didn’t know what the reason was. Now this strange request. It wasn’t what they were expecting, but at least it was something to do. They hurried off into the village and, when they were out of earshot, let their embarrassment turn to gossip and chatter. After all, who was this Jesus? They had seen him do remarkable things; and how could anyone not be impressed when blind men see and evil spirits crouch in fear? These things he did were brilliant, compelling, and magnetic. The crowds flocked to him and asked for more. They cheered his every move. They said he was a saviour, a king, someone the Romans would fear, someone who could lead them to freedom.

But now what he said seemed different from what he did. He had started to speak darkly about what might happen to him in Jerusalem. He told a grim story about a vineyard where the workers rebelled against the owner and one by one killed off the messengers and servants that the owner sent to collect his dues, and then killed the owner’s son as well, thinking the vineyard could be theirs.

What did this story mean? Did it mean that Israel was a vineyard? That prophets sent by God were killed, and we had killed them? And was Jesus more than a prophet? Not just a messenger, not just a worker of mighty deeds, but a son? And would we kill him as well?

Yes, they knew he was from God – no one else could do such things; but a messiah, a king, a son, these were weighty things to carry.

Let's see what's in your show bag.