“I John”.

A reflection for Easter 5

You will have probably noticed that our 2nd lesson is from the book of Revelation. This tricky book is all about how things will pan out at the end of time and God will come in triumph and sort out our sorry mess. It’s written in a language that is dripping with symbolism. In fact it is so ‘out there’ that it nearly didn’t make it into our bible and it took a couple of centuries of robust theological discussion to just scrape in.

So here are some bits that I do understand and then I will tell you a true story.

Bit 1.

“And the sea was no more.”

For John’s readers and listeners the sea is a place of chaos, fear and evil. Think of the disciples on the boat while Jesus is snoring, oblivious to their plight. Think of the storm where Jesus comes walking on the sea and invites Peter to do the same.

The Sea is a place to be feared. It is unpredictable and you go out to sea at your own peril and possibly, probably, your own death.

So when John writes ‘the sea was no more’ what he is really saying is that in the new world at the end of time… chaos, fear and death are no more. All these nasty things have been conquered and obliterated in the triumph of the resurrection.

Thus, (Bit 2)

A new heaven and a new earth are established because the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. Our new digs are free from the inevitable wearing out, decay and muck that goes on all around us.

And in this new way of life…

“Death will be no more;

mourning and crying and pain will be no more,

for the first things have passed away.”

In the new heaven and the new earth no more death, pain, tears or mourning. How come? How will this be? The clue lies in this verse

Bit 3

“See, the home of God is among mortals.

He will dwell with them;

they will be his peoples,

and God himself will be with them;”

This will be accomplished because all the yucky stuff cannot be in the same place as God like oil and water, darkness and light. When you are enveloped and subsumed by such an all encompassing love, everything else is banished.

God will live with us and we will live with Him. The reason the cack stuff will be gone is because we will be in the very presence of the Living Risen Christ.

Bit 4

 ‘And the one who was seated on the throne said, ‘See, I am making all things new.’

We believe in a God who takes what is broken, pours his grace out upon it, and transforms it. We believe in a God who looks at his creation who has mucked it up and he sends his Son to die on a cross so that his very creation who is living in death can be made new and live a new life. We believe in a God who was crucified, was dead, and was buried. But after three days, he rose out of the tomb. The same body that was dead and buried was given new life, and this restored and renewed body still had the scars as proof of the cross.

You see, Our God doesn’t destroy things and replace them with new things. Our God takes things that are dead and transforms them into vibrant, living things. He takes people that have absolutely no hope, He embraces them passionately, and rewrites their story for them. He takes the broken vessels and breathes new life into them, making them irreplaceable instruments for work of the kingdom. And there is a tricky, subtle, but very important distinction here.

Our God doesn’t make all new things… He makes all things new.

Our God doesn’t make all new things… He makes all things new.

And so to the story.

Once upon a time, long ago and far away, I conducted the funeral of a young man called John. The circumstances of John’s death were terrible and traumatic. I don’t remember what I said in my homily, but I do remember the reading I chose for John’s funeral.

I John…

saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,

‘See, the home of God is among mortals.

He will dwell with them;

they will be his peoples,

and God himself will be with them;

he will wipe every tear from their eyes.

Death will be no more;

mourning and crying and pain will be no more,

for the first things have passed away.’

‘See, I am making all things new.. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life.

He that overcomes shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son.

In praise of the one who sets the table

Some of you will recall with affection and esteem the Reverend Marjorie Keeble. Marjorie had a marvellous ministry in this parish and for much of it she soldiered on here by herself.

The good news is that Reverend Marjorie is coming back for a visit on Sunday May 15th and would be delighted to meet as many of you as possible. She will be in attendance at a service at Christchurch Hamilton at 10:30am. She is then kicking on for our regular cuppa after mass in the hall. Everyone is welcome and Reverend Marjorie being the gregarious, extrovert would enjoy chatting with you.

Reverend Marjorie is a deacon which is not the most common word we use to describe those that wear funny plastic collars, so a word or two of explanation would be in order.

Outwardly at the Eucharist, a deacon introduces the confession, says the line ‘Let us proclaim the mystery of faith’, proclaims the dismissal, reads the gospel and may with the Bishops license, preach.

But deeper than that, the most effective way to describe the ministry of a Deacon is ‘The one who sets the table’. They get the altar ready for the celebration of the Eucharist and the symbolism is very potent. It is their quiet, behind the scenes work that makes the whole show tick. It is the attitude of service and helpfulness which should be palpable with a deacon. They understand that it is not about them. Anything to oil the cogs in the kingdom of God is done effectively and smoothly without drawing attention to themselves. Reverend Marjorie accomplished all this and much more in her time in this parish. She looks forward to seeing you.

Our airport moments. A reflection for Good Shepherd Sunday

The 4th Sunday of Easter always has the theme of The Good Shepherd.

So what I need for today is a good story about shepherding. Fortuitously Bishop Gary, our chief shepherd, kindly gave us an excellent one on Holy Monday at the renewal of priestly vows and the blessing of holy oils.

So if you think this is a helpful story then you must write and tell Bishop Gary that the cheeky Fr. David pinched his story and it was very helpful.

If you think it's a terrible story then you must tell me and challenge me to please come up with something original.

Bishop Gary’s story begins in a crowded Sydney airport. There are huge numbers of people queuing, lugging around suitcases and gradually getting grumpier and even more grumpier. Their blood pressure is rising quickly in direct proportion to their patience which is running down. There are lots of officious people with signs and high vis colourful vests, trying to make the whole thing flow smoothly. Tired and harangued, they too like everyone else, just want to be somewhere else. In fact anywhere else, but in the sterile, antiseptic environment of the airport with a lot of sweaty, cranky people.

There are a paucity of seats but eventually Bishop Gary finds himself next to a frazzled mum with three small children. Two are screaming at each other, while mum screams at them. Fun times for the whole family. The  other child is calmly reading Winnie the Pooh out loud, completely unruffled by the blithering chaos that is reigning all around him.

Bishop Gary commends the young reader on his abilities.

‘You know that was one of my favourite books when I was your age and you read it really well. That was great reading.’

By now the other two are almost hysterical and Mum is looking longingly at the beverages in the club bar. Bishop Gary is wondering if one of the those nice big burly people in a hi vis vest marked ‘Security’ might be needed.

Finally, after what seems like 67 years, 10 months, 2 weeks, 5 days and 16 hours there is a muffled, distorted call for their flight over the PA. Upon hearing the announcement the mother takes the other two squabbling children, one in each hand and almost drags them along rushing towards the promised gate where escape and peace hopefully await.

As you know better than I, the preacher always preaches first and foremost for themselves; and only when the preacher has got their stuff together, can they begin to offer something to the listeners. So when Bishop Gary told that story on Holy Monday he was preaching for himself, to himself, and then to us priesty people.

Today I offer this story first and foremost for myself and then hopefully for you.

It is a helpful, potent story because it contrasts two styles of shepherding. The Mum who has lost all patience and the will to live, will drag her charges along with her, come what may. Perhaps it may have been better to tend her own needs first and then the complex and challenging needs of her offspring. If she was less tired, fraught and beleaguered, she may well have Shepherded better.

Then there was Bishop Gary who had the space and distance to offer encouragement and commendation to other child. There is a very real and pertinent lesson for me in all of this and it’s pretty blitheringly obvious.

The good news is that shepherding is not just a priesty thing. It is for everyone. It is every baptised person’s joyful vocation to cajole and nudge and encourage and support and commend and jolly each other along with helpful words and an easy to follow example that will get us all over the finish line and onto the waiting plane that takes us up, up and away.

Shepherding is not easy. We all fail, get frazzled and not know which way to turn. It is far too easy to get sucked into the energy of the here and now which distracts us as to why we are truly here; like the airport we are only temporary. When your antsy, the long term view is harder to see.

One other thing that Bishop Gary did not draw out of his story but it is something I have thought about.

It would be terrifyingly easy to think… Well if I was that mum I would have that scrap sorted out in 30 seconds flat. What was she thinking letting it go on so long?

If I was the manager of the Sydney airport logistics team, of course I could have had the whole thing sorted out in a couple of hours and you could apply the same sort of reasoning at all sorts of levels, to all sorts of organisations. If I was the head priest guy in the Anglican Church of Australia, I could have the whole Church of God sorted out quick smart.

Every day, and in every encounter we must make a conscious choice about what sort of Shepherd we are going to be. Sometimes it is not easy to make the right choice.

We will make the right choices and be good shepherds when we understand how much we need THE Good shepherd to shepherd us, especially in the airport moments of our lives.

153 red - fin a reflection for Easter 3

Those of you who were very good and came to the Quiet day at Port Fairy earlier in the year now get your reward. You can now have the rest of the day off as I am using what I said then as the gist of today…This  fishing trip story is overflowing with resurrection and new life. The huge number of one hundred and fifty-three fish says it all. The significance of the number has been tossed frivolously around for centuries and has not managed to land anywhere successfully. A little more hidden, is the simple but profound meal of bread and fish on the shore. It is delectably barbecued in a way that would make a celebrity master chef blush with envy and the food inspector reach for their trusty clip board and red pen.

‘Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to them, ‘Children, you have no fish, have you?’

Jesus knows our empty boat and our emptiness long before we have had to admit the dreadful and humbling truth that without him we have caught nothing. We have nothing and we are nothing. Unless and until we can own up to our poverty and malnourishment and unless and until we look to him on the shore, then we cannot hope to catch fish.

Something else to notice.

‘They went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing. Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; The significance of this toiling away unproductively in the middle of night with no results should not be lost on us. Some of the finest ministry I have ever had the privilege to discover has been hidden from me. Is it not possible, is it not probable, that we do some of our finest and most brilliant work when all seems dark around us?

In the story of the miraculous catch there is a bit missing in the narrative. Peter realises who it is on the shore. He puts on his clothes, jumps into the water and goes ahead of the disciples to meet Jesus. The other disciples are left to lug in the huge draught of red fin and perch. So what words are exchanged between Peter and Jesus when it is just the two of them on the shore? We are missing a bit of the story here. What if Jesus said? “Good golly gosh Peter, you look a bit wet.” Or   “Hows your mother in law?”

Or…. What if the exchange is that bit we have at the end of the gospel where Jesus asks Peter three times ‘Do you love me’.

Or…  what if nothing was said and they spent a few precious moments just the two of them, looking into each other’s eyes. Perhaps there were no words recorded for us because there were none and that would be more than OK. Sometimes, when we least expect it, it's just us and him.There is another interesting quirk that we often skimp over. Watch closely.

“When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish that you have just caught.”

Did you notice that Jesus doesn’t actually need the fish? The BBQ already has fish on it. Yet he asks for some from the disciples. Now what’s all that about? Here’s my guess.That while God is God and is all powerful and can do whatever he likes, He wants to take the little we offer and use it for his glory even if it’s just a little morsel for the BBQ. More than that, He desires it, and he craves us, our company and our offerings. “Come and have breakfast” Come and eat with me. Come and enjoy me. Let me see and enjoy you. And in turn I will nourish you, so that tomorrow we can go and do it all again.

The last little bit for today. The disciples move from not knowing who it is on the shore, to knowing that it is the Lord. By the end of the story everyone knows… it is the Lord!

How many times have I not known who it is in the distance or even up close and personal? Or maybe I do know and I am shy, or reluctant, or ashamed of my nakedness. What if like Peter, the Master sees me as I really am? Naked, warts and wrinkly bits, and yet still beckons and calls and wants to have breakfast with me? Perhaps he knows in the deepest and most profound way that  I am just a funny old fisherman who doesn’t think that he has caught anything much, but the reality is something quite different. The net is already bursting. It is not broken and there is a feast to be celebrated. Already the Master waits on a distant shore in gleeful resurrected glory and all we have to do is emerge out of the darkness of our grave into the morn, bring some red-fin, and enjoy.

The Wonder of Working bees.

Recently we had two working bees and they were on the same day and everything. Some of us went to pack up the Book fair, until next year… and some of us went and polished shiny stuff in the Church ready for Easter. Both were important, both were exciting and both accomplished rather a lot.

But it is not just the physical activity of a working bee that it is important. It is not just in the doing, but there is a certain sense of satisfaction in looking back and ‘seeing where you’ve been’. The books are all tidied away, the brass is shiny and a bit of exercise is very good for you.

But look a little deeper, friends. There is certain delicious chemistry that occurs when folk work together on a common project. A cohesive collegiality is formed. It happens invisibly, surreptitiously and at no particular distinguishable moment in time. But by the end of the project, yes dear reader, something has happened, and we are all changed for the better.

This marvellous process happens because of the working together. It happens in and through the conversations. It even happens in the silence when you think that nothing is happening. But actually it is in the silence that everything is happening.

At the end of both of these working bees we were different people. New friendships had been formed and other friendships had matured and been strengthened. They had become all the more richer and deeper… more flavoursome.

In the packed up space and in the shiny brass we looked at the image in the candlestick and we saw ourselves. We too had become shiny and fresh again. Such is the wonder of working bees.

I have always loved the story of Thomas. How he had slipped out to get the groceries down at the market while the other disciples got to see the Risen Jesus. You know, the spices, herbs, veggies, fish and figs oh.. no roast lamb as it was still too expensive. No cheese either, as the monger was still waiting on a delivery from the neighbouring town of Cana. How the person in front of him  in the 12 times or less aisle, clearly had more than 12 items in their trolley. Is it any wonder that Thomas was in a grumpy mood when he got home, gaves the secret door knock only to have this wild tale spun to him by his mates that the Master had appeared while he was gone.

Of course Thomas is going to say snootily

“Well Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger into the nailmarks and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.” He might also have questioned what they had been smoking but there is no theological evidence to back up this precarious theological fantasy.

We, like Thomas, have questions and we have doubts and we have worries and the world might well seem to be going irreversibly awry. There are some who this year will be displaced and can never be the same again.

So the reason I like dear old Thomas is because it is precisely against a very dark backdrop, against the blackest background that our Lord comes to Thomas personally  and says those exciting but simple words that we say at every Eucharist

“Peace be with you.”

And yes there are times when it doesn’t seem very peaceful. That there is disharmony and discord all around us, that there is rambunctiousness deep within us, in that special place where there really needs to be peace. We discover to our shame that we are wonky and grumpy. That we are not at peace with God, we are not at peace with our neighbour and surprise surprise, we are not at peace with ourselves.

That’s why I love Thomas. Because he is all of those things and more. He speaks to me so very clearly and closely. I align myself so easily, so quickly to him and he with me, that I could easily be the guy in the upper room weighed down with the weeks groceries and flustered by my fraught excursion, worries and disappointments. Still sad within, that such a lovely guy could have been stomped on by the Roman government in such a brutal and heartless way.

Yes it is easy, so very easy to be Thomas; to doubt and question when the answer isn’t directly in front of us.

We have questions, so many questions, we have doubts and worries because like Thomas we have been so busy scurrying about doing what we thought was important that we have missed the Master who was waiting for us all the time and He was always right before our eyes.

How many times have I failed to see him who was broken in the broken bread? How many times have I failed to see him who wept over Lazarus, when there were tears of another right before me or even my own tears?

How many times have I failed to see his forgiveness when I have been relentlessly forgiven?

He has always been there. He always was. He always will be. The answer is right before our eyes.

And it is beautiful that the post-Easter scriptures give us these narratives too. That we, thousands of years later, might see ourselves in another disciple, who even days after Jesus died had trouble believing and keeping the faith. It isn’t a weakness to doubt like Thomas. It’s not wrong or a sin. It is perfectly understandable and healthy.

The trick is to move on and say …where do I go from here? How can I transform my doubts and blunderings into something quite beautiful and lovely.

The questions are not. Where the hec have you been Jesus? Why have you not shown yourself to me? Where were you when the sky fell down upon me and I was so very flummoxed and flattened ?

The question becomes: “Where do I see and feel the love of God? How can I love as Jesus loved?

It is our vocation, yours and mine, to be the presence of the Risen Christ in our own lives, in our homes, in our parish, in our community.

And it must start from that deepest place within us. That place must be centred and grounded in the sure and concrete knowledge that Christ …is… risen.

We must hear Him speak to us as He spoke to the disciples. ‘Peace be with you’ must ring in our hearts, our ears and it must resonate in our lives.

I have always loved Thomas for he is me and I and him. We’re not told if Thomas accepted Jesus’s offer. Putting my finger in the palm is not altogether necessary, but it is crucial that I reach out my pierced hand to those who are also pierced and that is pretty much everyone who hears or reads these words.

The answer is right before our eyes. It always was. It always will be. Peace be with you.

Of rumour and bribery

And you would have thought that would be the end of it. When someone is crucified by our trusty team they’re dead. Stone cold, clinically dead. They’re not getting up and singing anywhere. And that’s what the ‘whole break the legs’ ‘stab the side’ thing is all about. To make sure that the crim on the cross is really dead.

You go back to the Dodgy Brothers Inn, have a few goblets of their finest. The memory gets fuzzy and the clinging grime of your grubby conscience is washed away.

But it wasn’t the end of the story with the carpenter guy. The one who I smashed the nails through his feet and hands. The one who seemed like he was actually relieved to finally lie down on the cross. The one who didn’t prolong his death so we didn’t have to bust his legs. I just rammed a spear in his side and the goop ran out. It ran spattering down onto the dusty ground and formed a small pool at the bottom of the cross. Evaporating as quickly as it had arrived.

I mean… that’s pretty final and convincing right?

But no… it seems that Jesus had said that he would rise again after three days and in order to make sure no one comes and steals the body, something that happens more times than what you’d think,  Festus and I get orders to roll a severely  big boulder in front of the tomb. It took the both of us a lot of sweat and grunt to get it into place. I don’t care how well you’re built or how many fig pancakes you’ve had for breakfast there ain’t no one going to be able to move that big fella out of the way.

But the job still isn’t done. Gonzo, Festus and I get orders to stay up all night guarding this tomb just to make sure no one comes to try and move the rock and then steal the body.

And I’m thinking ‘Really?’ This is a corpse, a dead person. And in front of him is a mega boulder and in front of the mega boulder are the three of us. Couldn’t we all just nick off down to the Dodgy Brothers Inn and have a bit of R & R?

But no, orders is orders. Gonzo negotiates a good deal for this extra over time, but in the middle of the night you wonder why you signed up with Caesar and whether this was really a good career move. I can think of lots of other things I would rather be doing on this frosty, eerie night. Festus has brought a skin of wine to warm us up but it's not like snuggling down under the blanket and catching a few well earned snores.

So we drink a little, tell lewd stories, snore a little, until the first false light of dawn arrives.

And then everything happens. The earth moves around, an angel appears and us fearsome, fearless  boys run away. None of us is really what sure happened, but as I look back over my shoulder I can see that the boulder we worked so hard to put into place is rolled aside. I know that we are officially in lots of trouble. Our job was to guard the grave and here we are running away like frightened shepherd boys.

It’s Gonzo’s idea to fess up because everyone knows we were the ones sent to guard the tomb. Cornelius is surprisingly understanding. I guess that he is just protecting himself as well.

“Look lads” he says.. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

“I’ll  give you each a large sum of money  and you spread the word that His disciples came and stole him away while you were asleep.”

It’s the easiest 30 pieces of silver I have ever made and while I accept the cash, it just doesn’t sit right. I know what I saw, I know what I heard and just as sure as I saw Jesus breathe his rasping, gasping  last, so too I know the last time I saw the tomb it was open.

On the way home we start spreading the rumour that the carpenters’ groupies came and did some grave robbing. We start with Flavia who runs the fig leaf lingerie shop. She loves to hear a bit of gossip and thrives on telling anyone who will listen. She will add her own unique twist to the story. We call her the O. B. P. Official Broadcasting Person. There’s one in every town.

Job done. By the time the sun is high in the sky the story will be spread around quicker than Matilda can wink.

I sleep off the exhaustion, the fear, the nightmare, the fatigue that comes with everyone you murder.

I get up from my stretcher and wash the blood off my arms. It’s dried and congealed into  crusty brown streaks by now and as it runs down I see the 30 silver pieces out the corner of my eye. Somehow it still isn’t right. Not quite sure what I should do with it but for the first time I realise that the choice is mine.

I guess I could keep the money and squander it in the usual places in the usual ways. Where’s Matilda when you need her?

Or

I could get up tomorrow, put on the uniform, extort, belittle and intimidate, have a great time… …

Or

I could…

The wise old priest and I  were looking deep into the flames in companionable amiability. That unspoken bond whenever two or more people gather around a fire. It’s been going for centuries now. The fire… a meeting place… a cooking place, an eating place, a safe place.

He was senior to me in years of age and certainly years of ordination, so I was respectful and said little. When I did speak I tried to choose my words very, very… carefully.

He looked up mischievously from over the flames caught my eye and  simply said

‘I like fires Fr. David’ I think the right response for a junior cleric was ‘Oh yes’. Neither agreeing or disagreeing. You see how clever I thought I was.

Then in a flat monotone “Yeah… they remind me of hell’

Now I wasn’t really quite sure what the correct response should be. In fact I actually can’t quite remember how I replied, so dumbfounded was I by this bizarre turn in the conversation. I think he just giggled and I tried to chortle along with him… unsuccessfully. I mean, how did he know that hell was full of fire. Had he visited lately?

Palm Sunday

You’ll recall that I helped to arrest this Jesus guy in the garden. We then marched him off to meet some friends called Gonzo and his goons.

They are exactly as they sound. Rough, tough and ready to give a bit of biff, Henchmen par-excellence. Their job is to make the person before us so unrecognisable, that when it comes time for crucifixion, the thing before us will not look like a human being. It’s easier that way. We will be just putting something out of its pathetic little misery. We are actually being humane and doing it a great service.

This task is accomplished by a bit of sport, a bit of imagination, a bit of teasing, a bit of tomfoolery, a bit of muscle. It’s incredible to see how quickly the shift occurs from being a living, breathing person, to an object which is demeaned and disfigured.

Gonzo and his goons also have a great talent for making the punishment fit the crime. So a thief will often have his fingers cut off … one at a time.

The crime for Jesus is that he claimed he was a king… of sorts. Very well. Let the games begin.

Gonzo starts the party by weaving together a very crude spiky crown of thorns. He does this precariously because the spikes are long and sharp, but he has no hesitation in ramming it on Jesus head as hard and as fast as he can. His scalp is pierced and blood begins to trickle down his forehead and cheeks.

Now then, a couple of slaps never hurt anyone and Jesus head snaps quickly first from one side then to the other as the relentless blows continue.

“Hail king of the Jews”.

He’s not looking like a king now, in fact he’s looking pretty mushed, what with Pilates 39 lashes and the bruises that are blossoming on his face.

I’m watching all this and it’s  surreal. I can see it’s happening, but its like a dream and I know that tonight when I close my eyes what I am seeing now, will be replayed in vivid detail. You can’t un-see this sort of stuff. You can’t un-hear the crunch, the groan, the sickening thump of flesh striking flesh.

Next it’s time to play dress ups. They totally strip this guy of his clothes and put on a purple robe, all the time mocking and insulting. ‘There ya go your royal highness, check this out. Specially made for you.’

Oh, and no king is complete without a sceptre. Someone brings in a gnarly bit of wood and sticks it in his hand.  Gonzo kneels down ‘Your worshipfulness free yourself.. you have the power ‘ But it is all Jesus can do just to breathe and stay on his feet. He is beginning to totter and swagger. A little unsteady.

Several of the goons join in quickly hitting him from different sides “Who hit you king of the Jews? Prophesy for us”. And then the spitting starts.

I’ve been a soldier now for 3 years. I’ve seen this sport almost on a weekly basis now, but somehow I never quite got my head around it.

There’s still no response from Jesus and the energy of the sport inevitably ebbs away. I mean, how much can you do to someone that just stands there. Jesus doesn’t give back into the  sport. He just takes it all. The game would go on longer if he tried to retaliate; but he doesn’t and now I think he physically couldn’t, even if he wanted to. But that doesn’t seem to be his plan and in fact I’m not sure what his plan is, or was, or if he even had a plan.

So his old clothes are put back on him and they lead him away. All of Gonzo's party games are exhausted and it’s time to play with the next victim who I lead in for the sport. You can see the terror in his eyes especially when he spots the blood on the ground. He tries to make a run for it.  There are yelps and howls of pleasure as Gonzo and his goons swiftly run him to ground. His escape is unsuccessful. Very unsuccessful.

As soon as I can head off to the Dodgy Brothers Inn to try to wash away the gore of the day. A bit of wine to numb the edges. Sometimes I reckon I should have been a flower arranger. Matilda gives me one of her alluring looks but I am in no mood for treats. I return home and sure enough as soon I close my eyes, the torture of Jesus is re run … again and again. It’s not just the ghoulishness of Gonzo and his goons that sticks with me, it's the placid way that Jesus just drank in all the hate, all the evil, all the anger. Almost like he sopped it up until there was none left.

Tomorrow life will go on… I’ll get up, put on the uniform, extort, belittle and intimidate; maybe even watch Gonzo and his goons play some more games. I’ll  have a great time… … and yet… and yet… now,.. now it’s my turn to cry.

So we come to that day of days when we’re really not quite sure what we’re supposed to be doing. Like, we know that we should be doing something, but just how do you mark a day when God dies at the hands of humans.

Well, you tell the story, you remember, maybe weep, give thanks… maybe just allow some silence to work it's healing.

We do all of these things on Good Friday. There is also a moment where folk come to honour the crucifix. Some will embrace it, some touch, some just simply look. It’s just like a regular funeral where some will want to touch while others can only and simply look. There’s no right way when all are respectful and supportive of each other.

As far as we can tell The Master Carpenter died on the wood with nails through his hands and feet at about 3pm. It matters not if we are little out and something got lost down through the centuries, the important thing is that we come and honour and pray and we receive communion.

So at 3:00pm on Good Friday at Christchurch Hamilton we will gather with that familiar bewilderment and ache, the thanksgiving and the tears. All are welcome. We gather with the hope and the knowledge that this is not the end. There is something more after His Good Friday and there will be something more after my Good Friday.

I’ve always struggled to find the right words for Good Friday so I’ve pinched someone else's to conclude.

So hold me that I fear not
In deaths most fearful hour
That I might be befriended
And see in my last strife
To me your arms extended
Upon the cross of life.