Setting the Bar at 68.5

This year, I tried something different for Lent. My dream weight has always been 68.5 kilos. It’s what my doctor says is about right, and my clothes fit well. Each morning, I weigh myself, squint and mutter unrepeatable words. Certainly, words that do not belong here in the cyber / community world. So, with the grace and opportunity of Lent, here we go.

The goal was that I should arrive on the scales, first thing on Easter morning, and the scales should be than 68.5 Kilos. There’s a bit of a trick here because the scales always weigh heavier on a Sunday than, say, on Saturday after I have completed Park Run, so leading up to Holy Week, I need to be super disciplined.

The first couple of weeks I tried really hard and got down to 68.5 easily. It meant that I went without some yummy stuff, but it also meant that I went just a little further on my morning jog. Taking up something, giving up something. It’s part of the old familiar Lenten pattern, but seen through a different filter this time. The gruelling bit has been maintaining the pattern and not allowing insidious habits to sneak back. Surely that candy bar, just one lonely solitary chocolate-covered confectionery, wouldn’t do that much harm, would it? Or if I just shaved off this last little bit of my run… that would be kind of OK… wouldn’t. Hec! No one would know… would they? But these minuscule, inconsequential things do make a significant difference. The scales tell me so… brutally.

We all need to set the bar somewhere. Somewhere where it’s not too easy, so we don’t have to try. And not too high that we give way to despair. The bar for me has been 68.5… and for you?

Easter Day April 20

‘See you there’

Dear Mary Magdalene,

The bizarre events on Friday afternoon must have been bewildering and excruciating for you. I did notice that you were there and while you may not think that you were doing much you just being there meant everything to me. Sometimes it’s just a matter of turning up and being there. It’s the timeless and true principle of just being seen to be there. Nothing much needs to be said and even less needs to be done. I did see you there just as surely as you saw me there.

I reckon you went away at the end of the day thinking that was it. It was all over. That you would never see me again. Ever! If I could have spoken to you as you tottered away, I would have said just three simple words.

‘See you there.’ As simple, as puzzling, as profound as that. Just ….’See you there’.

But this morning you have learnt what those three words really meant. You came to the tomb and found the massive stone rolled away. The tomb itself was empty. And when you looked there were angels inside. While it might not have felt like it, you were exactly in the right place at the right time. You were there. You were simply being the superb Mary Magdalene that I have always known you to be. You were pummelled by your grief, but all that was about to change because I saw you there and you saw me there. You just didn’t quite know it … yet. But you would.

I asked you why you were crying. Who is it that you are looking for?

And thinking I was the gardener, you replied “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.”

Part of what you were asking was simply this. Am I in the right place? Is this where I should be because, what I am looking for, what I came for is not here and if he is not here, then where is he?

And so with my own tears of joy, I told you in one swift word that you were exactly where you should have been. You were there.

“Mary”

The one word said it all. You are here. I am here. And it was marvellous for us to share these few, fleeting, exceptional seconds where both of us were where we should be.

But there was work to do and I sent you off to the other disciples. See you there.

There would be a few times more when I would ‘see you there’. Unexpectedly, without preparation, palaver or fanfare, just turning up and seeing you there.  It would take some time and reteaching to understand what the empty tomb, your name, the angels and my three little words would mean for you, for the disciples, and for the world.

See you there Mary

Rabboni

It’s a simple little letter that was never written but I hope will be helpful for you. Perhaps the following might also be helpful.

To you and to all people I offer a simple treatise on Resurrection 101.

‘See you there’ means that the tomb is not the cold, hard, bitter end that we had all once feared. That death itself is transformed and transfigured into something else entirely. Tantalisingly just beyond our comprehension, but all the more alluring and exciting because we simply can’t squish it tightly into a bottle and sell it. We can’t break down, measure and list the ingredients of the heady brew we call resurrection.

And from there you see, it’s a simple but comforting little puddle hop to the realisation that when it comes your turn and my turn to close our eyes in death, The Teacher will speak to you just as spoke to Mary, by name., his little words. At that moment … when everyone else is in floods of Mary Magdalene-type tears; weeping with all the passion that she exuded,… “I will see you there”

For every one of us there are moments in our life when we wonder… is this where I am meant to be? What on earth am I doing here? And the answer is often a cement pylon of silence which is code for Yes! You are exactly where you are supposed to be. Here again those three simple words. ‘See you there.’

Every time you are confronted by death. Sudden or expected. Tragic and unexpected, a sweet release from a twisted cancerous body,  at every funeral you attend into the future, the subtext is there for you to grasp tightly. Often it isn’t quite as clearly enunciated as we would like. Sometimes it is hidden in the photos and the eulogies and the tears. But as you leave the funeral and wonder ‘What’s it really all about?’ …The tagline you can hang onto is the simple message of the Risen Christ on the very first Easter Day. He will call you by name and encourage you to go and spread the good news of the angels and the mysterious gardener. And he will whisper to you and you will hear his words tickling your ears ruminating in your heart. Massaging your soul. ‘See you there.’

Good Friday 18/4/25

3 cheers for the grumpy crim

The usual path for the preacher when contrasting the two criminals on the cross is to side with the good/bad guy. You know… the one who called out the grumpy crim and asked to be taken to paradise. Here are the good/bad guy’s lines

“Don’t you fear God, since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.”

 Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

All tickety boo. The good criminal does all the right things for himself and for his colleague in crime.

But today is an upside-down sort of day. The prince of life is consumed in death. A convicted bandit is released and the innocent one receives the death sentence.

So today, instead of saying ‘Well done sunshine’ to the good crim, I want to go into bat for the grumpy crim.

The one that roars “Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

And that’s all we get. That’s all we know about this guy. He just gets this one little line in the drama and then disappears into obscurity.

Once again we are left with more questions than answers and with a wide, open, generous invitation to come tumbling into the cave of his back story. In the process not only speculate about him but also open up the very real possibility that we might learn something about ourselves. Actually, we find ourselves, as we splash about in an unending and ever-deepening mystery.

When you examine Grumpy Crim’s little tantrum closely, you’ll discover that we are left with three short phrases.

First

‘Aren’t you the Messiah?’

Clearly this chap comes with some preconceived notions of what the Messiah should look like and how they are to behave. A powerless and very much bloodied palliative care patient, is not exactly the Messiah this bandit had in mind. This is not the Messiah he was looking for. And where pray tell, did he pick up the rumour that the squashed gentleman beside him might be the Messiah. Perhaps from the inscription over Jesus’ head. ‘This is the king of the Jews’.

The second phrase is just two words

“Save yourself”

It seems simple enough and follows logically on from the previous question. So if you are the Messiah, really are the Messiah why don’t you save yourself? Avoid the pain and shame and go on for a long and illustrious career of saving the universe and sorting out the Church of God. If you saved yourself now, think of all the thousands you could go on to save. And what is more, think of the example you are setting for those who would gleefully follow you. What sort of career prospects are you offering them?

Finally

‘Save us’.

And this is where the crim has been heading all along. If you are the Messiah and if you can save yourself, then it ought to be a cinch to save us as well.

And all of these things are very understandable.

The desire to see the Messiah in action; to save himself and to rescue us from our own messy entrapment and entanglement. The mushy messes that have encircled us, clutched us and held us close even before we knew they existed.

And if we are brutally honest this chap's questioning prayer is not that much different from our own. The messiah comes to us in brokenness, pierced and humbled. Riding on a donkey and rejected by popular demand.

He doesn’t seem to be able to stop the heinousness of sin in our world and in our lives.. he doesn’t seem to intervene. Today of all days and at this time in history, what we long for is what Nick Cave called an interventionist God. A God who intervenes. But.. we want him to intervene in our way and on our terms and bring about the change that we think would be the mind blitheringly right thing to do.

We do however believe in an interventionist God. Ask Jonah who didn’t want the parish of Nineveh. Ask the Blessed Virgin Mary about how God intervened in her life. Ask St. Paul about the interventionist God who stopped him short on the way to Damascus.

Like the Grumpy Crim we have failed to see that our God is an interventionist God who intervenes most powerfully in the most unlikely scenes, in the most unlikely ways with the craziest of people.

The grumpy crim is just like you and me because we fail to see what is right before us. A God who is already intervening and transforming the world even when and especially when, we think we are seeing something completely different. On the cross and on this day, God intervened and death, and you and I, can never be the same again and our death will never be the same. We just don’t know it… yet. But we will.

I conclude with some words of Nick Cave that I hope you might find helpful. They might also be the crim’s words, or your words or mine.  In some flimsy way I hope that they will make sense of this messy homily and the messed up man on the cross.

And I don't believe in the existence of angels
But looking at you I wonder if that's true
But if I did, I would summon them together
And ask them to watch over you
Well, to each burn a candle for you
To make bright and clear your path
And to walk, like Christ, in grace and love

And guide me into your open arms

15/4

Somewhere, theres a coffin with my name on it

One of the enormous and undeserved privileges I have is to offer eucharist and prayers at a funeral. Sometimes I haven’t known the person for all that long and certainly never as Iong as I would have liked. Sometimes a relationship has been established and the occasion becomes particularly poignant and piercing.

Towards the end of the service I honour the departed with incense and holy water. Frequently the name plaque on top of the coffin stares sombrely back at me. There it is for me to see and there is no getting around it. I can’t somehow wish it away.

Once upon a time it occurred to me that there will be a funeral with  a coffin and there on the lid of this coffin will be a name plaque. On that name plaque in lovely cursive writing will be my name. David Robert Oulton. This was quite an unnerving and disquieting and confronting truth to grapple with. I knew it to be true, but I didn’t want it to be true.

This coffin probably hasn’t been made yet. I’m feeling pretty perky and I managed to shuffle around lovely lake Hamilton this morning so hopefully the engraver need not  double-check how to spell my surname just yet.

But there will come a day. Promise.

As we hurtle into the crazy events of supper, denial, betrayal and an empty tomb, it is comforting to know that someone else has already blazed a trail before me and will be there to greet me when I slip through into the next dimension and beyond.

I am not alone. We all must do this. Somewhere there’s a coffin with a lid with your name on it. It’s not a matter of if… it’s only a matter of… when.

Palm Sunday 13/4/25

To Rupert Studmaster
Purveyor of fine beasts for sacrifice and personal use
Bethphage 

Dear Rupert,

I thought that I had lost you forever because of our conversation.

But my fear that I might never see you again was actually unfounded. I have glimpsed you in the crowds from time to time and you were still listening. Sometimes excited and enthused about what I had to say. Sometimes you scowled and seemed to be furious. But you kept on turning up! And each time you did you gave me such a lift and simply by turning up, you encouraged me, especially when I had a bull droppings sort of day.

I remember the first time I met you. You were a wealthy young man who had great possessions and were so keen to justify yourself. You even addressed me as ‘good’ and I had to remind you that there is only one who is good. Even then you were trying to be charming and persuasive. It was almost a “look at me” opening line to what would turn out to be a rather difficult conversation. Undaunted, you pressed on and you asked me what you must do to inherit eternal life. It was almost as if you had ticked all the commandment boxes together with the appropriate tax bracket and now there was just one last teeny-weeny thing to tidy up. After that, you could rest easy. For you Rupert everything was a business transaction. I’ll do all of these things thus buying my way to eternal life. You knew my answer even before you spoke the question. Yes, of course, you had kept all the commandments. You had followed the law perfectly, but… the one thing you still lacked was a spirit of generosity and selflessness. A respect for the poor and marginalised, even those you particularly don’t like.

So I found myself trying to say the hard things graciously … again.

My response must have seemed abrasive and disappointing to your ears.

“One thing you still lack, go sell what you have and give to the poor.”

I could see the look of appalled horror that came over your face for I knew your share portfolio was substantial to say nothing of the real estate and livestock you had acquired.

Your reputation for high-end quality donkeys, mules, oxen, turtle doves, horses and sheep was unmatched in the surrounding countryside and your efforts to self-publicise on social media have been highly successful.

I had frequently walked past your station on the outskirts of Bethphage and admired your livestock, the size of your property and the homestead with its ever-increasing number and size of barns and storage sheds.

So I appreciate that I might well be the last person you want to hear from, but the reality is that I now need you much more than you think you need me.

So I thought I would chance my arm and ask you for a favour.

For reasons that you might come to understand sometime in the future, I need a donkey on Monday next week. The beast is only for a loan and will be returned to your stables before sundown the same day.

If you are agreeable I would send a couple of my friends to come and collect the donkey and its baby colt. My friends will want the beast to have a glamorous shiny coat. A well-fed brute but what I really need is a skanky manky beast. Something that you think should be slaughtered quickly and put out of its misery because it is a waste of your precious time and limited resources. You know the sort of beast I have in mind. The donkey that is shedding hair, is temperamental and bestial, whose ribs are almost visible.  The more unattractive, embarrassing and repulsive the better. Something you would be pleased to be well shot of and has never been ridden before.

I appreciate that there might be very good reasons why you cannot, or will not be able to help but please know that you are not forgotten and indeed you never will be.

Kind Regards

Jesus Master Carpenter

Dear Jesus,

Thank you very much for your inquiry about the possibility of hiring a colt and ass on Monday.

We would be pleased to supply the same available for collection from sunrise at our property reception and to be returned by sunset on the same day. The beast is to be returned fed and watered and in the same condition as when collected.

We require photographic proof of identity before collection and indemnify ourselves against any injury or accident that might be caused to any person or property due to the beast’s behaviour.

We look forward to establishing a close working connection with you going into the future.

Regards

Rupert Barsabbas Esq.

Please find below the amount owing. We accept all major credit cards and direct debit.
Cost 27 pieces of silver plus GST. Total owing, 30 pieces of silver.

Of The Spire

If you have looked skywards then you will have noticed that on church hill there are two very serious-sized spires. There they stand, soaring, almost rocketing their way towards the stratosphere.

One of them belongs to our brothers and sisters of the Presbyterian faith and the other belongs to the Anglicans and it is the Anglican one that I am the most qualified to speak.

The Anglican Church that sits beneath the spire is a building for all people in our community and is open every day for visitors to come and admire the Church and/or spend some time in quiet reflection. The ministry of significant life events continues for any one who seeks consolation and celebration in their life. One of the hardest COVID things I had to do was to lock the Church doors. It felt like I had killed my mother and in a spiritual sense, to shut off the place of nurture and welcome from the community, was a type of annihilation.

The Church Spire that folk see is a significant symbol and sentinel for all to see and like all historical buildings is in constant need of maintenance.

It is also striking because it points us beyond the day-to-day grist of our daily life. There is something more than what we see at ground level. The spire reminds us to look outside ourselves. We are not the centre of the universe no matter how seductive that line of logic might be.

Our church spire inspires folk and it is a reminder that we aspire to be great and to view things from the ‘above perspective’. Not to get lost in the confusing forest of the big/little insignificant things. Spires are not just grandiose monuments. By their silence, they have much to teach us.

It Was What You Wanted … Wasn’t It? 

You see I have to ask because I was never quite sure and I am even less certain now.

Offering your cheek to Judas seemed such a little but enormous, and irreversible act. Once you were arrested and taken away there was no turning back. Nothing could now ever be the same again.

I wanted to shout out after you. “No. Are you sure this is what you wanted?” Because in my heart it is never what I wanted.

And perhaps I wanted all the wrong things. To be the leader, to be the rock, to be the bobby dazzler, the protector, the cutter off of ears, and to be loyal unto death. I never wanted to deny or betray.

I wanted you to have a regal Throne. I wanted you to have a golden crown but you wanted something else instead. A splintery cross and a crown of thorns.

I wanted the crowds to demand your coronation, not your crucifixion.

You tried gently, valiantly, patiently to tell me.

You clearly spelt it out that I would deny you no less than three times and I was left indignant. I would never do such a thing. You have read me wrong if you think I would let you down.

But of course that is just what I did. Within the space of a few hours on that dark and chilly night, I repeatedly denied ever knowing you.

“I don’t know him. I don’t what you are talking about, I am not one of them”

And perhaps I wasn’t ever. I certainly don’t feel as though I am worthy to belong to you and the crew. And then you turned and looked at me. The look that I can still see. Some might think it was anger and disappointment. I saw only your love and forgiveness and that is why I went out and sobbed and sobbed… and sobbed. I was inconsolable for you knew me and loved me even when, especially when.

You literally looked right through me. Saw everything that was there, everything that was lacking and still wanted me. And when you know you are loved like that, then it is easy to want the things that the other wants.

So in that look, just after the rooster crowed, your eyes told me that this was indeed what you wanted and it would help all those who squirmed when confronted by the truth and found that the truth gave them indigestion. The things I wanted for you, were not the things you wanted at all. There were other things you wanted, that you needed. Other things that simply had to be. That needed to be. Spear and nails and wood and myrrh and blood and tears and a stranger’s tomb. Mocking and spit and belting and bruises.

These are the things that you wanted, that you chose, and somehow I have to want them too, even though I writhe away in horror and disgust. These are what you wanted because they are the only things where we can find authenticity, truth and undeniable love.

So I come back to my question.

It was what you wanted… wasn’t it… well wasn’t it?? All this?

And even as I mutter these words I sense that once again I am seeking your approval, a pat on the head, self congratulations. To do the right thing so that you will love me. Almost like a boisterous young panting puppy dog … did I get it right huh… huh?

This is not what you wanted. It is not what you wanted for me. What you wanted was for me simply to enjoy you. It was never a business transaction. I do the right thing and you give me a treat. What you wanted, what you longed for was always relationship. This is what you wanted all along and it took me far too long to catch on and to catch up.

Well, all is  a bit of a garbled rant. I found some words from someone else and they sum up far better what I, Peter, am trying to say to you.

Lord,
When I am puffed up with myself,
Gilded
Over-egged
Full of self-importance
And empty of grace;
When I would rather shrink your vision to the limits of my own imagining,
than rise to praise the new horizons you have made;
When I would rather cobble together hasty platitudes and suffocate others with palaver,
than say the hard things graciously.
When I would rather cast doubts on the hurried solutions that I cobble together and make excuses for my faults.

Then, … look at me again with love,
Pierce the armour of my pride,
Stay the hand of my hasty activity, and bid me to put down my impetus sword.
See inside me.

Believe in me
And help me start again.

Lent 4 Mothering Sunday March 30th 2025

Dear Mum, You just don’t get me.

Dear Mum,

This letter will probably sound a little fractious, almost as if I am writing in anger. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth.

I am writing this letter out of my deepest love for you and I am trying to explain who I really am. So I put these words down to reassure you. It would have been impossible for anyone to ‘Get me, to understand me.’ No-one can ever truly comprehend the complete fusion between God and humanity and I never once expected you to. You might have naively hoped to understand me, but the brutal reality is that you were never going to. I mean, what mother ever completely understands their own child. Really. Children are always a googly, changing, mysterious enigma. A delightful bundle of incomprehension, joy and bewilderment. Everybody is all of these things growing up. A constant source of befuddlement, laughter, embarrassment and endearment. I’m sure Anne and Joachim would say exactly the same about you. This does not mean that they didn’t love you, but part of your attraction for them, as I am to you, is that parents almost get it and yet never quite do. We are always led further on and further into the mystery that is another human being. I wanted to say that it's OK. So please don’t be too hard on yourself because there are things that are going to happen shortly that will take you and test you, to your very limits and beyond.

I know that for most of the time it was normal growing pains on both our parts. The joy and gurgle, the sleepless nights, the bemusement as I learnt the language and the way I was intrigued by the goings on at the local synagogue. The normal hurly burly and grist of simply growing up and becoming an adult.

But then there were a couple of times when you bumped into and were confronted by the ‘other’.

I well remember our ‘adventure’ when we all went up to Jerusalem for the passover. I was twelve and I stayed behind to argue the toss with the local clergy. It was all rather entertaining and they were amazed at my theological parry and thrust. Of course I was well fed and had somewhere to doss down at night. I was having a lovely time. You however, were incensed and worried. You relentlessly scoured all the streets of Jerusalem when you should have realised that of course the temple, the place of worship and sacrifice, is where I was always going to be.

I can still hear your words ringing around the walls of the temple and in my ears.

“Child, why have you treated us like this? Look, your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.!”

And if you thought I was going to be apologetic and remorseful, then this is one of those times when you simply didn’t understand. I bet you remember what I said.

“Why were you searching for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”

I answered your question with questions of my own.

You didn’t get me mum.

But then… How could you? How could anyone?

And only a few years ago at the wedding of Josiah and Dorcas we had another difference of opinion. By now, you had realised that there was this other side to me. That where there was a pastoral need I was always persuadable to help. But at the wedding I still wasn’t quite ready. The hour had not yet come.

When the wine gave out you suggested that I might like to do something about it, if only for the sake of Josiah and Dorcas. So in front of the waiters you simply said ‘Just do whatever he tells you’. Always pointing to me whether I wanted you to or not. You left me no other option and the rumour wheels began to furiously spin.

In a few days time there will be other things which I am pretty sure that you will not understand. You will find yourself with John and a few others watching me die at the hands of others. It will not be pretty and it will not be pleasant. You will wonder what is going on. This is the bit where the sword will pierce your heart.

I’m going to try to explain it now for when the time comes and for days that will follow.

It may not look like it, but right there in the blood and the tears is where you will again glimpse something of that ‘otherness’ about me.

To completely and utterly offer yourself for others without holding anything back, that is stuff of the God who created the heavens and earth. That is more powerful than the holding back of the Red Sea and the providing of water and manna in the desert.

And it is also what makes you so beautiful Mum, because you gave your all, body and heart and tears and soul to the very same God who asked everything of you. I know that you have pondered all these things in your heart without coming to a neat, tidy, concise answer. You may not have quite got me and those who will string me up will not get it either. But ultimately, you said ‘Yes’ and that is what makes you the most blessed of all women. I am thrilled to be able to call you …Mum.

Always your Son and always with love

Jesus.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

A colleague of mine tells a story from their youth, so if you like it and find it helpful, any credit must go to them. Any sulkiness should be directed straight back to me for shamelessly stealing it.

Once upon a time, a young lad was climbing down long ladders in the opal mines. All of sudden he finds that he is ‘frozen’ and unable to move his feet. He’s just there paralysed by fear, vertigo, or whatever the correct phrase is.

The local wizened, weathered gentleman at the bottom is waiting patiently and after a while twigs to what has happened. Our local hero discreetly and sensitively rescues my colleague. Further, the saviour never said anything about this (mis)adventure to anyone. Ever!?

My colleague made the point that much of what clergy and others do, is like that. We discreetly serve others, free them to get on with things and take the knowledge of the incident with us in our coffin.

Now I had always assumed that I was the rescuer in the story. Of course I was the one who helped others and hopefully kept my mouth shut.

But notice please that there are actually two people in the story. There is also the one who needed rescuing. You know where this is going right?

I’ll bet a bottle of my finest that most of the time I have been the person who needs rescuing rather than the one who rescues.

There must have been incalculable times when I was paralysed by indecision, frozen by my own fear and flummoxed by the circumstances in which I found myself. Unable to go back, impossible to move forward.

It took me far too long to learn that the first step to mobility is actually to say just one word. ‘Help’.

Jehu, the Guy with the Really Big Stone

Dear Jesus,

You don’t me but I sure as heck know you. I was one of the people responsible for all the ruckus last week. However, it wasn’t all my idea.

Silas and I knew each other well. I’m a Pharisee and Silas is a teacher of the law and we both have a bit of a thing for Margarita. She was comely and attractive with those dark eyes and a winning smile. We would see her at the market and our overtures were always met with a disappointing but firm declining of our advances. It drove us nuts.

So we dreamt up this plan. As a Pharisee and a teacher we had heard about you. How forgiving and patient and understanding you always were. A faithful, practising rabbi but somehow different. A bit out there. You drove us nuts in quite a different way. Just when we thought we understood you, you warped our minds and lives with a new saying, a new teaching, a new challenge. Were you for us or against us? We could never work it out.

So one night after a few wines, Silas and I hatched a cunning plan.

We knew that pretty Margarita always went down to the cellar on market day to collect the herbs and olives ready for the customers. Silas would follow her in and if she didn’t see his point of view, then a bit of torn clothing, a bit of shouting and distress and he would bring her in front of you claiming adultery. My job was to round up the crowds and bring them along for the spectacle.

So it was, at the appointed day, at the appointed time everything aligned. You were in town, Margarita had gone down into the cellar and I was hanging out with a few other teachers. The signal was given and it all unfolded. The crowd quickly gathered. Silas dragged a dishevelled, protesting, struggling Margarita before everyone and made the accusation. Not necessarily towards Margarita but to you. His words were smooth and articulate.

“Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery.  In the Law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?”

All of us had picked up filthy great rocks and we were set to stone her. I could feel the comfortable weight in my hand and I was determined that I was going to be first.

You were composed and unfazed by the shouting around you. You met our noise and questions with your silence.

It was obvious that you could see the trap. If you said ‘Yes, stone her’, then your reputation of compassion and forgiveness was out the window and down the drain. If you said ‘Forgive her’, then you were clearly in breach of the faith that had been handed down and your license as a rabbi would be revoked by the Professional Standards Board.

But you said… nothing. At least not to start with. You just bent down and doodled in the dust. What the heck?

We kept up with our questions louder and louder and then you rose and looked at us. I felt like you were looking straight at me and I prickled. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It was as if you knew everything about me.

And then you said it.

“Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

And then you just bent down and started to scratch around in the dust again. Just left us to our own thoughts. Left us to work it out for ourselves.

The old codgers were first to drop their rock and walk away, but it took me a while.

I had let my emotions manipulate me. My unreciprocated attraction to Margarita and my theological angst toward you. I was not in control of these things. I was at their mercy, slave to their every whim.

Somehow you knew all this. You knew exactly what to say and the way to say it. Gently, calmly, in a measured voice but again with that dastardly unmistakable compassion. What is more, you knew that I needed to hear these words and obviously I have never forgotten them.

I said at the start of this letter that you did know me, but it turns out you did. You may not have known my name or where I lived, but you knew me in ways that no one else ever had. You saw straight through me. You knew my every flaw and wrinkle. Every rough edge and every chip on my shoulder.

You knew me… You know me. You know me very well indeed. Better than I know myself.

So I dropped my stone and went away fizzing with irritation and humiliation. I just had to write to you and tell you.

Oh, one last thing.  I wonder …what if it was you personally, who was on trial before the crowds?

Would you be so forgiving if someone flogged you, spat upon you, mocked you, denied you, betrayed you; drove some nails through your body and pinned you to the wood? What then? Would you cry out for retaliation, revenge and retribution? Or would you pray ‘Father Forgive’?

Just a question

Yours in the disorientation of my very different dimension.

Jehu
Teacher and Quarryman.