After the last supper, Jesus went out to Gethsemane. It tells us this in the gospels of Matthew and Mark. Gethsemane means "the place of the oil press." The Gospel of Luke says they went out to the Mount of Olives… which is where you might expect to find an oil press.
The Mount of Olives is significant because people believed the Messiah would come from the Mount of Olives when he rescued Jerusalem. That idea came from a prophecy in Zecariah Chapter 14, and the story of Jesus uses the Mount of Olives as a literary symbol to tell us Jesus is the Messiah.
But John's Gospel, which we read today, does not give us a name for the place where Jesus went to be handed over. There is no name. John simply calls it a garden, or in Greek, a κῆπος.
There is another word Greek can use for a garden and it's one we still use in English, although we have forgotten its root-meaning; that is, we have forgotten where the word came from. That word is ... paradise…. in Greek, παράδεισος. We sometimes remember one garden in particular when we talk about paradise, and that garden is the Garden of Eden.
And that's John's point. His Gospel begins with a retelling of the story of creation... Read on >>>>
Why come to Jerusalem? The gospel texts are clear that Jesus knew he would die. Certainly, they contain hindsight, but their central emphasis is that he knew he was coming to die. Why do that? ...
I wondered in my Palm Sunday sermon today, if the victory won by Jesus is neither his cross, nor his resurrection. The victory which allows him to enter Jerusalem in a triumphal parade is that this fully human being has trusted God with his life, and lived compassion. The cross and the resurrection are cost and proof of his trust that true life resides in the mercy; that is, in the compassion, of an unlimited love for all people which is modelled on the unlimited love for us which comes from God.
And this evening, with Good Friday on my mind, my wife told me of the Waterford Treasures. In this Irish city known for its crystal, are church vestments dating from the 1460's. They are the only set of medieval vestments which survive in northern Europe, embroidered Italian silk buried for over a century to survive the fanaticism of Cromwell. "They were re-discovered 123 years later when the medieval cathedral was being demolished and were then gifted by the Church of Ireland bishop to his Catholic counterpart."
I felt a sudden regret as I remembered that all this beauty could be lost as our world falls apart. And remembered my post of three years ago: Easter in the Anthropocene. What does it mean to live fully and deeply in a world facing collapse, in a world which may be dying?
We face societal collapse to a greater or lesser degree... Read on >>>>
Imagine being in Paris in May in 1944. Paris, the French capital, is occupied by the German army. Imagine if a man came into Paris in a Jeep, dressed in a British army uniform, and started crying out that the battle would soon be won, that God would soon be in charge, a great victory is at hand.
What do you think the Germans running Paris would have done at that point? ….. …. ….
I think they would have thought the man was crazy! Really!? You're going to overthrow the Third Reich— you!!?
But crazy didn't matter. If someone had started crying out about another kingdom instead of The Thousand Year Reich, the Nazis would have rubbed them out, on the spot. Just like the Romans crushed any talk against the Empire of Caesar.
Actually, what the Romans would do was kill that sort of person really, really slowly and painfully, to make an example of them, and to act as a deterrent. That's what crucifixion was about. It was a slow inefficient way to kill people… but it made people afraid. In Paris, the Nazis threatened that if you killed a German soldier they would retaliate by killing a hundred civilians; it was the same sort of thing.
But what if that person had come into Paris with a donkey and a little cart, and begun handing out loaves of bread to the hungry citizens, and even to the German soldiers, and had said a great victory had been won. And that the city would soon be returned to what it should be. What kind of victory would that be? And how crazy would that person be?... Read on >>>
This post is not about the specifics of the Palm Sunday gospels. For that, read "Jesus, rain on my parade." This post seeks to find what will inform my reading of the gospels for Palm Sunday and, indeed, the Easter gospels.
What was Jesus trying to do on Palm Sunday?
We are too quick if we answer that he was trying to say something about a different kind of kingship. I have preached that Palm Sunday is an acting out of his good news that the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand; that his entry into the city is the entry of peace, a king riding on a donkey rather than a war horse. I have suggested that kingdom is an unhelpful word because of all the masculine privilege bound up within it. I like kindom, which removes gender as an enduring sin within the Community of Divine Love, and which challenges all our notions of race, and other privilege.
All that is there, but something else is happening: He is daring death. If we hasten past this, we miss... nearly everything... Read on >>>
19The Pharisees then said to one another, ‘You see, you can do nothing. Look, the world has gone after him!’ Even the urbane and sophisticated "Greeks," the Hellenised Jews from the Diaspora, were flocking to see this Jesus whom John subtly reminds springs from among the naïve religious outsiders: "They came to Philip, who was from Bethsaida in Galilee, and said to him, ‘Sir, we wish to see Jesus.’"
And so last night we joined the Festival thousands along the footpaths of North Terrace, marvelling at the light shows projected upon the sacred old buildings of white settlement. We began at the city's "first cultural centre [which] has been a library, art gallery, museum, society meeting place and offices, place of adult education, administration headquarters and information centre." This is the South Australian Institute Building. In a great irony the real first culture projected its own dreaming over the façade of the building of the invaders in a technical and aesthetic masterpiece. This irony was enriched when I read this morning.... Read on >>>>
I often write in these pages of my experience that something about living compassionately heals us. It allows God to work in us. Something happens despite our limitations; something outside us. That is; I'm clear that it's not me doing this, it's been done to me. But I've never been able to put words to what is going on in my life.... I am fascinated to discover a mechanism for what seems to be happening in my healing and growth, and what has happened in my past. It immediately filters out the extravagant claims of the court prophets*— perhaps now we should call them the populist prophets— of the church. It warns me to be patient in my living. It focuses me upon the way of Jesus..... Read on >>>>
I still remember the shock that "God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world." I was not quite able to see the implication of my response to this verse some forty years ago, which was that I had somehow internalised the idea that God does condemn the world. Informing and colouring everything else was an underlying instinct that God does not really like us; that God barely tolerates us. It was as though this subliminal text ran between the lines on every page of my bible: You don't deserve this. God does not like you.
We speak of God's love, yet the way we see and feel this love is shaped by a fear or instinct that, in truth, at base, God does not love us or, at least, not me. God's love is very conditional.
Does this mean that God is not to be trusted? Do we hate God for this? Is God one of those wowsers (an ineffably pious person who mistakes this world for a penitentiary and himself for a warder) who, no matter what we do, or who we are, will always find something to condemn us with?... Read on >>>>
"Mr. Smith, the problem is that you are overweight. You have to lose weight and then these other problems will disappear, or become manageable." This diagnosis may be appropriate for a particular moment in the doctor's surgery, but it assumes that Mr Smith's weight is the problem, rather than perhaps being a symptom of other issues in his life.
What about the "problem" we call depression. Is it, in fact, a symptom of wider issues in our lives, as much as it is a problem of itself?
Growing up, there was no such thing as a depression in my world. I knew of a bloke called "Old Melancholy," and there were two blokes whose name was preceded by the title "Happy," which was a clear indication that, characteristically, they were not. But men were never mentally unwell, much less depressed. The use of the word grows noticeably from about 1970, according to the Google Ngram.
We knew about shell-shock, but it was kept safely distant to refer to the wounds of World War I. No one used it of the WWII veteran in our small town, who I now recognise to have been badly traumatised. There was no sense that men lived with mental illness; we were either sane or mad. In the latter case you were removed to Glenside.
However, women were allowed to have breakdowns, or nervous breakdowns. I rather suspect this served to help us men stay secure in our perceived strength and stability, and to reinforce and justify our sexism.
I say all this to make a point: Depression is not polio. It is not a simple disease for which we have a vaccine. Our society-wide hiding and repression of the reality of mental illness warns us that there is something much deeper going on.... Read on >>>>
I'm living through one of the long downturns of my emotional life cycle. My affect is somewhere between blunted and flat. I understand some of the reasons for this: the hypervigilance of childhood trauma and all its side effects, never really stops. It is always a matter of management. Such management is not easy, because when we're down, our resistance to society's discomfort with us, is lowered. We are told we are the ones with the problem. We won't fit in; we won't lighten up; we won't get over it. It's not a fair assessment. In fact, it's the self defence of a relentlessly upbeat culture which is terrified of feeling, and especially of allowing feelings which are not positive. A person who is sad for more than a few hours confronts society with its deepest fears. Even death is allowed only a few days of being down, and then folk begin to think we should be over it, and may even tell us so.
But always I end up blaming myself. Why can I never fit in? Why am I so useless that simple life tasks are often beyond me, and always a burden? It occurs to me, as we consider our faith during Lent, to wonder just how Jesus affects all this.
Look at what he does in John Chapter 2: Jesus' storming of the temple is dragged right back to the beginning of John's gospel. In the other three gospels, his actions in the temple are the last straw in getting him arrested. In John, his driving all of them out of the temple, and turning over the tables and tipping out their money, sets the scene for reading the gospel. It is the action by which were are meant to interpret who he is, and what he means.... Read on >>>
At One Man's Web you can read about Theology, Cynicism, Men, Joy, Depression, The Gospels, Sexuality, Fundamentalism, Creation "Science" and more...
I try to share some of the joy and sadness I find in our world. Preachy, cynical, wondering, disillusioned and lost, or all of these together...
I am seeking to reflect a way of living that is about being honest about feelings, but focussed on high ideals. It's messy... like my life... but I have learned to love it and enjoy it.
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