Care for the Emerging Community

The text for this Sunday is Matthew 18:15-20. A few short verses that have been used to justify excommunication, shunning, silencing, coercive “church discipline” and forcing people into processes of reconciliation that protect an institution rather than the person who has been harmed.

The passage needs to be approached cautiously. On first reading it says if someone wrongs you, confront them; if that doesn’t work take it to the church; finally treat the person as an outcast. Harsh words indeed.

One thing I have said many times is to understand a passage, look at the context to see how it fits into the message being given and try to understand how it would have sounded to those listening. I know that is a bit of an impossible task to understand a culture that one is not immersed in, but at least trying is a worthwhile exercise when seeking to interpret a passage

The irony with this text is that it is a few verses surrounded by stories about care which have be become an instrument of harm. It shows the danger of ripping a few verses out of context and building a doctrine around them. Then this, in turn, influences our immediate thoughts whenever the passage is read.

I want to add another word of caution here, and one which I think is important, “Go and point out the fault when two of you are alone” (15) may sound reasonable if it is between people who are pretty much equal in power and ability. However, it becomes quite different if said to someone experiencing abuse, exploitation or harassment. Telling a vulnerable person that Jesus requires them first to confront privately the person harming them can increase the danger to them

Today, I want to begin by looking at the context these words were spoken in. The chapter begins with the story of Jesus placing a child in the midst of the disciples. (2) A child was someone with very little social power, often disregarded in that world, in the story Jesus issues a very strict warning about causing “little ones” to stumble and despising them (6-10)

Then, the Gospel of Matthew immediately continues with the parable of the shepherd who goes looking for their lost sheep. (12). The parable ends by telling the audience of the day that “the father-mother is not willing that any of these little ones should perish” (14)

Already, today’s text is starting to feel a little differently.  As the thought continues with the words, “If your brother or sister sins, go and point out their sin, just between the two of you, if they listen to you have won them over.” (15) In context, the objective wasn't confession, submission, punishment, institutional reputation, or even proving rightness. It is about seeking that which is lost, it is about relationship. That verse fits with the stories preceding it; the child who is vulnerable, the sheep who is lost, the shepherd whose action is a little foolhardy, but concern for the one  leaving 99 sheep (I’ve blogged about that before), and the person who has lost their way. 

The text moves on and suggests that if relationship is not restored the next step is to “Tell it to the church” (17) I want to look a little at the historical setting to help grasp that.

Reading the word “church” in the text immediately produces thoughts of buildings, denominations, hierarchy, laws and disciplinary committees. I have been so schooled in negative ways of reading this passage that it is hard to break out of that interpretation. Yet Matthew is the only gospel that uses the Greek word ekklesia essentially an assembly or gathered community. It occurs here and in Matthew 16:18: “on this rock [Peter] I will build my church.” I talked about in my last blog, I wrote about how Peter was not a superhero but a person who made mistakes was impetuous and foolhardy, perfect material for leading the emerging ekklesia.

It is generally thought that the gospel of Matthew was written around 80–90 CE. Therefore, these verses appear to reflect Matthew's developing community. The text makes sense when read as instructions addressed to the community probably several decades after Jesus. 

 

Matthew may be taking the remembered Jesus tradition and shaping it for the needs of the community for whom he is writing. By that time the followers of Jesus were having to work out very practical questions: How do we live together when we hurt one another? How are disputes resolved? Where are the boundaries of the community?

 

So, when this text is reflected on, care needs to be taken about turning a first-century community's process for maintaining relationships into an unchangeable disciplinary formula for every situation.

The passage continues with instruction about what to do if relationship cannot be immediately restored “let such a one be to you as “a Gentile and a tax collector.” (17)

Again, with that old framework rattling around my head this has often been understood as throw them out, don’t talk to them, make them an outcast, excommunicate them.

But I find myself wanting to ask the question: How did Jesus treat Gentiles and tax collectors? And again, quite suddenly, the verse looks different.

Remember Matthew was a tax collector when Jesus called him (9:9). Jesus ate with tax collectors and sinners, provoking outrage precisely because he refuses the expected boundaries. Matthew also shows Jesus’ relationship with Gentiles, including the story of the Canaanite woman whose faith Jesus praises, the centurion whose faith astonishes him, and ultimately writes a Gospel that ends by sending the disciples to all nations.

So perhaps “treat them as a Gentile and tax collector” establishes a boundary. The newly emerging community can’t pretend that harmful behaviour doesn't matter. But it doesn’t mean that care ends at that boundary. As Matthew attests here, there is always room for the “tax collectors and Gentiles”. 

The text then comes to the oft quoted verse “where two or three are gathered in my name, I am with them.” (20). Interestingly this verse too is often pulled from context but in a more positive way.

I think I have most often heard it used reassuringly when only three people turn up for something. Sort of like “Never mind, where two or three are gathered…”

But I don’t think that is really what Jesus is talking about here. It is not primarily about attendance numbers. That does not fit with the context. It is an extraordinary claim about Christ being present in the difficult work of reconciliation.

The “two or three” echoes the earlier instruction to take “one or two others” when trying to resolve a conflict, perhaps drawing on Deuteronomy's requirement for two or three witnesses.

Read that way “where two or three are gathered in my name” provides a challenge rather than a cozy reassurance. Matthew 18.20 suggests that Christ might also be sitting at the table when two people are having a horribly uncomfortable conversation they would much rather avoid. Can two or three be gathered to shame, silence or control another person and claim, simply by quoting this verse, that Jesus is among them? I don’t think so, that hard conversation is about restoration and relationship not condemnation.

Briefly, going to the verses beyond today’s text, to the other side of sandwiching between stories of care in Matthew 18. The next section opens with Peter’s question “How many times shall I forgive my brother or sister” (21) with the response implying that forgiveness is limitless. This is followed by the parable of the unmerciful servant also illustrating forgiveness.

Therefore, in Matthew the stories surrounding the text which are all about care, restoration and forgiveness suggest a new way to interpret the text. The whole chapter should be read in that light.

So perhaps today’s text should not be taken as a blueprint for procedure resulting exclusion. But understood as the new way forward for the emerging ekklesia which, in my reading, is to protect, to seek, to restore and to forgive.

Peter the Rock

Oh Peter!

That is my first response every time I read today's gospel passage (Matthew 16.13-20).

Peter is mentioned again and again throughout the New Testament, and yet we know remarkably little about his life before he met Jesus. We know he earned a living by fishing. We know he had a mother-in-law whom Jesus healed, which rather strongly suggests that he was married. But what happened to his wife? Did they have children? What happened to his family when Peter left his nets and followed Jesus?

I don't know.

And I confess that if I dwell on those questions for too long, the feminist in me begins to get rather uncomfortable. Peter apparently had the freedom to leave his livelihood and follow an itinerant teacher. Would his wife have had the same freedom? Who kept the household going? Who provided food? Who cared for ageing relatives or their children, if there were any?

Those questions are worth asking, although they are not really where I want to go today. Instead, I want to ponder one little phrase that has acquired immense significance over the centuries:

“You are Peter, and on this rock, I will build my church.”

Those few words have carried an enormous amount of theological weight.

But before going any further, a little hermeneutical aside.

I still sometimes hear people say, “But that's what the Bible says,” as though reading were simply a matter of looking at words on a page and receiving their one obvious meaning. It isn't.

Interpretation is key. Everyone interprets.

When I approach a biblical passage, I want to think about the words being used, the people who first heard them, the community for whom they were later written, the culture surrounding them, the other stories the writer has chosen to tell, and what these ancient words might mean for us now. And, most importantly, I want to resist dividing interpretations too quickly into “right” and “wrong.” The moment I decide that my interpretation must be the right one, I can very easily conclude that yours must therefore be wrong. How arrogant that would be.

But back to Peter. I love Peter. He is so delightfully human. He is impetuous and enthusiastic. He speaks before thinking. He is courageous one moment and frightened the next. Sometimes he seems to understand exactly what Jesus is saying and then, almost immediately, demonstrates that he hasn't understood at all.

Which is precisely what happened here. Peter answered Jesus' question, “Who do you say that I am?” with the extraordinary declaration: “You are the Messiah, the Child of the living God.” (16)

And Jesus responds: “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.” (18)

There have been centuries of debate about what exactly “this rock” means. How this passage should be interpreted. One ancient and particularly important interpretation understands Peter himself as the rock. This became central to the Roman Catholic understanding of Peter's special place among the apostles and, ultimately, the papacy. Other Christian traditions have understood the rock as Peter's confession, his recognition of who Jesus is, or have emphasised Christ as the ultimate foundation of the church.

There are complicated linguistic arguments surrounding Petros and petra in Greek and the probable Aramaic kepha. I have mentioned them in an interpretation I like that I have spoken of in the past so I’m not addressing that today.

Today, there is something else in Matthew's storytelling that fascinates me. Just five verses after, Peter’s spectacular declaration, he gets it wrong. Jesus begins talking about going to Jerusalem, suffering and being killed. Peter takes him aside and rebukes him (22). The person who has just been the rock, now hears: “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me.” (23)

Oh Peter!

One minute, rock. The next minute, stumbling block. That is why I love Peter so much.

On Sunday of the Lammas retreat I blogged about another Peter story told earlier in Matthew that captures him beautifully. The disciples see Jesus walking on the water through the storm and Peter, with his usual enthusiasm, wants to step out of the boat. For a few extraordinary moments, he walks on water. Then he notices the wind and Peter begins to sink.

That is Peter. The one who steps out of the boat and the one who sinks. The one who declares Jesus to be the Messiah and the one who completely misunderstands what that means. The one who promises faithfulness and the one who, when the crisis finally comes, denies even knowing Jesus.

Rock and stumbling block. Courage and fear. Insight and misunderstanding. Faith and failure.

And still Jesus said, “On this rock I will build my church.”

That speaks powerfully to me today, a church, a spiritual community. was never supposed to be built from perfect people. What if Peter is important not despite his contradictions but because of them?

Peter can get it gloriously right and disastrously wrong. He can be brave and frightened, faithful and faithless. He can step onto the water and then discover that he cannot keep himself afloat.

Yet still he is called, still he belongs, still he has something to offer, still his life will make a difference. This is so encouraging. Sometimes people are expected to present themselves as faithful, certain, respectable and spiritually successful.

Peter isn't any of those things consistently. And that is really good news.

No-one needs to be perfect before being able to make a difference, no-one has to have all the answers. No-one has to pretend they never doubt, never misunderstand, never become frightened, never sink. The community Jesus is building is spacious enough for people like Peter.

Oh Peter! 

Thank you for being so wonderfully, reassuringly human.

When Even the Sparrows Fall.

What a hard text in the lectionary today! The gospel of Matthew (10.24-39) is all about violence, betrayal, disunity and death.

As I read it my immediate thought is that this was written for a people under persecution. In my last few blogs, I have become increasingly aware of that. Although it is impossible for most people in the Western world to really know the fear of persecution, it is certainly worth thinking about.

There are two different streams of thought on the dating of Matthew and either of the proposed dates would place it during a time of suffering and upheaval.

The widespread view dates it between 75-95 CE, after the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE. This would place it during the aftermath of the Jewish-Roman War and a period which saw the expulsion of Jewish Christians from the synagogues because of growing theological conflicts with Pharisaic Judaism.

An earlier church tradition places it during the reign of Emperor Nero (54-68 CE), a time of intense and brutal physical persecution in Rome. This earlier dating suggests that Matthew may have functioned as something like a manual for discipleship preparing believers to face martyrdom, hardship, familial discord and emphasizing that worldly rejection was to be expected.

Set against this background of persecution, written for a specific people at a specific time, the text starts to make more sense. It is full of little adages:

"Do not fear those who kill the body." (28)

"Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth." (34)

"I have come to set a man against his father, a daughter against her mother." (35)

"One's foes will be members of one's own household." (36)

These were not words promising protection from persecution. They were words intended to encourage those going through persecution. The end was assumed to be inevitable. Some would die, some would be ostracized, some would face betrayal within their own families. This is not hard to imagine; history, including the Holocaust, has shown that family members sometimes betray one another when fear and ideology take hold.

I do not think the gospel is advocating violence or division. Rather, the gospel is describing the painful reality that discipleship itself can become divisive when the values of God's Realm clash with the values of empire, family expectations, or religious conformity. Faithfulness itself can carry a cost.

Perhaps the stinger in the tail is the warning that if Christ was denied on earth, then Christ in turn would deny them in the age to come, and that anyone who loves family more than Christ is unworthy. These are hard words to read today, and they must have been even harder for those facing persecution. Hard choices. Choices which I hope none of us will ever have to make.

Yet buried among these difficult sayings were small frissons of hope.

Not hope for a long life on earth. That option seemed already to have been surrendered. But hope that death is not the end and that the soul goes on.

And there is a second small thread of hope woven into this passage. Jesus points to the sparrows.

"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father-Mother." (29)

Notice that in the text Jesus does not say that sparrows never fall. They do. Nor is there a promise that disciples will be spared suffering. They too may fall. Persecution is not avoided.

But neither sparrow nor disciple falls outside the loving gaze of God.

Perhaps that is enough.

Not certainty. Not safety. Not even earthly peace.

But the assurance that even in betrayal, suffering and death, they are known and loved. That nothing, not rejection, not violence, not even death itself, can finally separate from the love of God.

For people living under Nero or Domitian, that was hope enough.

Perhaps it is hope enough for us today too.

 

 

 

 

  

Beltane Reflections

The lectionary reading for this Sunday is the closing passage of Matthew's Gospel (28.16-end). The disciples, now reduced to eleven, travelled to Galilee as they had been instructed. There they encountered the risen Christ who gave them what we often call the Great Commission: "Go therefore and make disciples of all nations..."

These are the final words of Matthew's Gospel. Matthew could have ended with worship, reassurance, or celebration. Instead, Matthew ends with movement. Jesus sends them out.

Yesterday, at the community’s retreat I talked about wildness and cultivation. There is a balance between the two. It is not wildness or cultivation but wildness and cultivation. 

Wildness brings surprise, creativity, spontaneity, beauty, cultivation adds order, productivity, sustainability, consistency. This is reflected in nature, in our gardens. But also in our spiritual lives, ministries, friendships, relationships and communities.

When the disciples were called to follow Jesus, it was a moment of wildness. Something happened that caused them to leave their families, their livelihoods, the homes and follow this unknown person.

Then for three years the disciples have been in a kind of spiritual garden. They were being cultivated. They have been, taught, corrected, encouraged, challenged, pruned and nurture. This is exactly the language of cultivation.

Then suddenly, in Matthew's final scene, Jesus does something remarkable. He lets them go; he sends them out. No instructions how to do this, just the command to go. The freedom to be wild, to be creative, to be spontaneous, to be surprised.

It is worth noting where Matthew places this event. "The eleven disciples went into Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus had appointed them." (17)  They were not in Jerusalem, not in the Temple, not in a place of religious security.

They have returned to Galilee. The wild place where it all began, the place of fishermen, villages, ordinary life. But Matthew doesn't end with them staying on the mountain. The mountain is the launching place.

For three years Jesus had been cultivating them. They had learned, stumbled, argued, misunderstood, failed and grown. Peter had been impulsive. James and John ambitious. Thomas doubtful. All of them had moments when weeds seemed to tangle them up. 

Yet Jesus did not discard them because of their imperfections. Jesus stayed with them through it all working with them, teaching them and cultivating them. But cultivation was never the final goal. Gardens should not be cultivated simply so that plants remain safely in the greenhouse.

Throughout this retreat we have reflected on blossoming, flourishing, joy, creativity, and the life that emerges when conditions are right. We have talked about what flourishing looks like. Flourishing is not simply about becoming healthy ourselves. Flourishing is about relationship, attention, participation. Flourishing is always generative.

Healthy plants flower. Flowers produce seed. Seeds travel.

Although the Gospel of Matthew ends before Pentecost, we know that was the next thing in the lives of these cultivated disciples. And it is wonderfully wild.

The cultivated disciples become Spirit-filled apostles. They spill beyond Galilee and Jerusalem into the wider world.Encountering people on roads, on ships, in prisons, in marketplaces and in homes. Unexpected encounters where the Spirit seems remarkably unconcerned with staying inside carefully managed boundaries.

Perhaps I can say, Jesus cultivated them and Pentecost unleashed them with Wildness.

Sometimes it is easier to be more comfortable with one side.

Some people love wildness, spontaneity creativity, freedom while others are more comfortable with structure, discipline, formation. But healthy spiritual life, ministry, friendship, relationship, community requires both. Without cultivation, growth may be shallow. Without wildness, growth may become stagnant. The disciples needed to be cultivated for three years with Jesus. But then they also needed to leave the upper room.

I also want to draw attention to one important line in the text. "When they saw him, they worshipped him; but some doubted." (17) What an extraordinary sentence to include in the final chapter of the Gospel. Matthew could have presented a scene of certainty and triumph. Instead, he gives us something much more human.

This resonates with me. After three years of cultivation some still had doubts. It is encouraging that this final commissioning wasn’t given to those who had reached some kind of perfection but to people still carrying uncertainty.

The disciples were blossoming but that does not mean perfection. Flowers don’t wait until they are flawless before they bloom. And there is beauty in that 

Healthy flowers do not bloom for themselves. They bloom for the life around them. They feed bees, produce seed, and prepare the next generation.

Perhaps that is what Jesus is doing in this final scene. After years of cultivating the disciples, he releases them into the wildness of the Spirit. Not because they are finished. Not because they are perfect. Because growth ws never meant to end with them

The purpose of cultivation is fruitfulness. The purpose of blossoming is generosity. The purpose of every Beltane is eventually to become a Lammas, feeding life beyond itself. 

 

What is the "Cash Value" of Ascension?

The seventh Sunday of Easter is also Ascension Sunday. Normally, I remain with the lectionary gospel reading, but today, I want to think about the passage in Acts which describes the ascension (Acts 1.6-14). Although I am only focusing on this account, I do want to note that the Gospel of John presents a rather different understanding of ascension.

Before I look at the text itself, I want to begin with a question I have been musing on.

How does the ascension affect me?
What does it mean for me, right here in 2026?

If Andy were posing the question, he would probably quote one of his favourite philosophers, William James, and ask, “What is the cash value of ascension?”

I think these are important questions to ponder.

But first I want to look at the text itself, especially in the light of what I reflected on in my last blog — that these words were penned for people living under severe persecution. Acts is generally dated somewhere between 65 CE and 85 CE, during the brutal periods associated with Nero and later Domitian. That matters. Words are always heard through the lens of current circumstances.

The book of Acts opens by telling the reader there had been several post-resurrection appearances over a period of forty days. Today’s reading describes the final one. Then comes a very telling question addressed to the resurrected Christ:

“Is this the time you will restore the kingdom to Israel?”

What lies behind that question?
What are the people still hoping for?

It is striking that right at the beginning of Acts, this group of followers — named disciples alongside other women and men — are still hoping for a revolutionary leader who will free them from their political oppression.

They had witnessed Jesus’ life and miracles, heard the teaching, lived through the trauma of crucifixion, encountered resurrection appearances, and still they hoped for political liberation.

The resurrected Christ does not dismiss the longing. There is no rebuke. Instead, the response is simply that the timing rests in the hands of G*d.

Then comes the promise that they will receive power and that this small, fragile movement will spread “to the ends of the earth.” (8)

And then the ascension itself:

Christ is “lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight.” (9)

I think that detail becomes especially significant when interpreted in the context of persecution. These were people facing fear, violence, imprisonment, and sometimes martyrdom. Even after hearing resurrection stories, perhaps they still needed reassurance that death was not the end. That suffering and empire would not ultimately triumph.

The story continues that while they stood watching, two people in white robes appeared and spoke with them. The imagery echoes both resurrection morning and the transfiguration. Once again, heavenly messengers appear in moments of fear and uncertainty.

So, this becomes a powerful opening to Acts.

A reaffirmation that life continues.
A reaffirmation that empire is not ultimate.
A reaffirmation that G*d remains present even when Christ is no longer physically visible.

And perhaps that brings me back to my original question.

What is the “cash value” of ascension for me now?

I do not think it is primarily about geography, as though heaven were “up there” somewhere beyond the clouds. Nor do I think the story is asking me to spend my life staring upwards waiting to escape the earth.

Perhaps ascension is instead about trust.

Trust that the way of Christ continues even when certainty disappears.
Trust that love and justice still matter in violent times.
Trust that death, oppression, and empire do not have the final word.

The disciples eventually stop staring into the sky and return to Jerusalem where they begin the difficult work of building community, sharing possessions, feeding people, resisting fear, and carrying hope into a wounded world.

Maybe that is the true meaning of ascension.
Not escape from the world, but the courage to remain fully present within it.

 

Holding Steady in a World That Is Not Safe

Today’s lectionary text is a rich and difficult passage (John 14;1-14). 

I think it is key to remember that this was penned to a community under threat. It is not a comfortable fireside conversation but encouragement to those being persecuted who were seeing family and friends killed for their faith.

The passage starts with the admonition, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” (1) This is one of the well-known lines in the gospel. It is often read at funerals, often softened, almost sentimental. But I wonder if, in doing that, the edge has been lost.

Because it cannot be forgotten that this phrase was written to a community living with fear, exclusion, persecution, violence and the real possibility of death. This is not a gentle reassurance spoken into a peaceful world. It is a strong word spoken into anxiety, uncertainty, and danger.

So, when Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” it is not denial about circumstances. It is defiance.

It is a call to hold steady when everything happening around is suggesting that the community should be falling apart. 

Over the centuries, this text has been turned into a kind of romantic vision of heaven, rooms prepared somewhere beyond the clouds. Interestingly, the text never actually uses the word “heaven.”

So perhaps this is less about geography and more about relationship. A place is prepared not because it is architecturally impressive, but because it is relationally secure. The message is you belong, you are known and you are not abandoned.

For a persecuted community, this would matter far more than imagery.

Jesus speaks repeatedly about relationship with the Father-Mother. It is not about distance, nor hierarchy, but intimacy. “I am in the Father-Mother, and the Father-Mother is in me.”

And then, notably the invitation is extended. Anyone who shares this relationship will do the same works. The same relational flow, that same mutual indwelling, is what the community is being drawn into.

And then comes something that, if I am honest, feels deeply uncomfortable:

“Ask whatever you ask in my name… and it will be done.” (13)

This is to a community being imprisoned, tortured, even martyred. They asked, they prayed, they suffered. And they died.

So, what do I do with this?

I think I have to resist the temptation to read this as a transactional promise. This is not, ask correctly and you will be protected.

If it were, then the history of the early Johannine community, and indeed the history of the church, simply would not make sense. Perhaps, the key lies in that repeated phrase: “in my name.” I have spoken many times about the importance of a name.

In the ancient world, a name was not just a label. It was essence, character and presence. So, to ask “in the name” is not to add a formula at the end of a prayer. It is to align oneself with the way of Christ. To ask from within that relationship. To ask shaped by that life. To ask as one who participates in that same love.

And when I think of it that way, the promise shifts.

It is not that every request will be granted in the way the asker imagines. It is that the work of love, of justice, of healing, the very work of Christ, will continue through the community, even under persecution.

So, when I think about this text I’m not asking, “Why didn’t Gd answer their prayers?” I am asking “What does it mean to remain in relationship, to live and act in that name, when the world is not safe?”

And I find myself wondering about contemporary times, personally, locally, nationally and internationally. These are troubling times. 

So, what does it mean for me not to let my heart be troubled? Certainly not because everything is fine but because I am held in something deeper than circumstances.

And what does it mean for me to ask in that name?  It can’t be to control outcomes, but to participate in that same flow of love that cannot be extinguished even by violence.

I don’t think today’s lectionary text offers easy reassurance. I think it is something more demanding, and perhaps more real. A call to trust relationship over outcome, to value presence over protection and love over certainty.

Perspectives on the Emmaus Rd.

The lectionary story today tells of two disciples who left Jerusalem, walking away from all that had ended, heading towards Emmaus a village about seven miles away. As they walked, a third person joined them who was later revealed to be the Christ. (Luke 24.13-35)

Many of you will have heard me say this before, but I think it is important enough to say again. I want to read this story against the grain rather than simply accepting the usual assumption.

 

That assumption, almost universally held, is that these two disciples were men. It can be seen everywhere: in great works of art, in children’s books, in commentaries, even in imagination. Two disciples equal two men.

 

Yet the text hints at something different.

 

The story tells us that one of them was a man, and not only a man, but one who was named. Cleopas. The other disciple was unnamed. That in itself is curious. In many other places, when two disciples are mentioned, both are named, Peter and John, Andrew and Philip, Paul and Timothy. So, it wasn’t that it was custom to name only one disciple.

 

But it was, very often, the reality for women. Repeatedly in scripture women remain unnamed and invisible. 

 

In the Gospel of John, we are told that Cleopas’ wife, Mary, was among the women who stood at the foot of the cross. Clopas and Cleopas are simply variations of the same name, much as Saul becomes Paul. This Mary is there, present at the end.

Therefore, it seems entirely plausible that the two disciples on the road to Emmaus were Cleopas and Mary, a couple walking home together. Otherwise, Cleopas has left his wife behind in Jerusalem and set off with a friend!

For me, the image of a couple walking together makes sense. They have shared the events, shared the grief, shared the confusion. And it is into that space that the risen Christ comes alongside them.

Yet for centuries, this possibility has been largely overlooked. The assumption has persisted: two disciples must be two men.

It is a reminder that the patriarchal world of the Bible is often carried forward into the way the Bible is interpreted. And so, without even noticing,  the presence and participation of women is overlooked. If the text is approached recognising the inherent patriarchy and looking beyond it there are lots of hidden gems showing the presence and participation of the women of the time.

 

Reading the text I think it was a married couple who urged Jesus to spend the night at their home. This makes the complete sense to me. It all seems so obvious, yet for centuries the patriarchal mindset has completely overlooked the possibility of a woman.

 

 Reading against the grain is not about forcing something new into the text but allowing what has been overlooked to come into view. 

 

And when that happens something shifts.

 

Today, I want to think not only about who was on the road to Emmaus but also about seeing.

 

The philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche spoke about perspectivism, the idea that we never see the world from nowhere, but always from somewhere. Understanding is shaped by a person's history, culture, experience. Truth is not lost, but deepened, as different perspectives are brought into view. Interpretation always involves perspective and each perspective reveals something. I hope my perspective from the lens of reading against the grain adds something to an understanding of this story.

For Cleopas and Mary (yes, I am naming her) the perspective was simple. The story was over. Jesus had been a prophet, Jesus had died, their hopes had been misplaced.

Then the risen Christ walks with them and “Beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.” (27)

The texts had not changed. The events of the last few days had not changed. Their perspective changed, and so meaning changed. 

Later that day they said: “Did not our hearts burn within us while he was talking to us on the road?” (32)

The same pattern appears in the story of Mary Magdalene at the tomb. (John 20:11–18) She sees Jesus in the garden but does not recognise him. From her perspective, Jesus is dead, resurrection is impossible, so she interprets what she sees in the only way that makes sense, he was the gardener.

Nothing outward changed. The same garden, the same figure standing before her. Then he calls her by name. And everything changes.

I think this happens more often than is realized. 

Moments when nothing outward has changed, yet suddenly everything looks different because the perspective has changed, and, then, everything changes.

Christ is Risen, Christ is Risen Indeed

Christ is risen.
Christ is risen indeed.

What a sad couple of days it had been.

Jesus was dead, and with that so, too, were all the disciples’ hopes and expectations. Everything they had given their lives to over the past few years—everything they had sacrificed: families, homes, jobs, security—seemed to have come to nothing. It was all over.

Then, early on that first Easter morning, Mary went to the tomb (John 20:1–18). She found the stone rolled away and the body gone. I imagine this did not bring relief but deepened her sorrow. Not even a body to tend, to anoint, to care for; those final acts of love that are so much a part of grieving.

Mary ran to tell the others. Two of the disciples came back with her, looked, saw, and then, what I think is one of the saddest lines in the whole story, they “returned to their homes.” What else was there to do? The one they had loved was gone, even in death. There was nothing left to hold onto.

But Mary stayed. What a wealth of richness in those two simple words “Mary stayed”.

Mary remained by the tomb, weeping. There is something profoundly human in that. When love is real, it lingers. It does not leave quickly.

Through her tears, Mary looked into the tomb and saw two being she perceived as angels. I wonder if, even then, there was the faintest flicker of something—hope, perhaps, or simply confusion breaking through grief. They asked her why she wept, and she answered with aching simplicity: she did not know where the body had been taken. Even now, her longing was not for resurrection, but simply to care for the one she loved. One final act of tenderness.

Then she became aware of someone behind her.

She did not recognise Jesus. The text does not tell us why.  Perhaps grief can cloud our seeing. Or perhaps resurrection is not simply a return to what was before. Either way, she does not know him. She supposes him to be the gardener and asks if he has taken the body.

Still, she is thinking of care. Still, she is acting out of love.

And then everything changes.

Her name is spoken.

“Mary.”

Not an argument.
Not an explanation.
Just her name.

And in that moment, she knows.

It is such a simple thing, and yet so profound. To be named is to be known. To be named is to be held in relationship. In that single word, grief turns to recognition, despair to hope, death to life.

I cannot begin to imagine what passed through Mary’s mind in that instant. But I know this: it was not an end.

It was a beginning.

Life had not been defeated. Love had not been extinguished. Something new, something beyond what she had expected or imagined, had begun.

And Mary, the one who stayed, the one who wept, the one who was called by name, became the first to carry that news.

The apostle to the apostles.

She went, because love cannot keep such news to itself.

Christ is risen.
Christ is risen indeed.

 

Life, Death & Friendship

This weekend was the Spring Equinox (20) … now the light is winning! It is a wonderful time of the year as, in upstate NY, nature seems to be celebrating the return of the light. My bird feeders are full of activity, bird song is in the air, the squirrels are in abundance, chipmunks and woodchucks have emerged from their winter hibernation. New shoots are pushing through the ground after wintering in the womb of the earth, life that had been held, not lost, through the cold.

Passiontide also begins today, drawing us ever closer to the celebration of resurrection life. The wheel of life is turning, that cycle of death and resurrection reflected in nature, in our lives and in the lectionary. As the earth turns toward light, the church turns toward the cross and resurrection.

 

Today’s lectionary readings offer a foretaste of the Easter story. Two readings of new life being breathed into those who are dead. 

 

In the Old Testament account (Ezekiel 37:1-14), the prophet speaks of a vision of people long time dead, nothing remaining but the old, dried bones. The prophet was urged to speak to the bones, and they arose and became covered in flesh and sinews but had no life breath in them. (8) The prophet was then instructed to prophesy to the breath. When the breath came upon them, they lived (10). It was breath that gave life.

 

In the story in the Gospel of John (11:1-45), Lazarus was recently dead, not yet dry bones but a “stench” (39) of decomposing. As I read the story of Lazarus, which precedes the Easter story, I ponder about the inclusion of it in the gospel; 

Was it preparation? 

Was it foreshadowing? 

Was it to reaffirm that resurrection was a possibility? 

 

So, Passiontide begins by inviting each person to ponder on the idea of death and life with two stories about regeneration. It points towards the day of resurrection where life prevails.

Three stories;

 Ezekiel: breath enters what has long been dead

Lazarus: breath returns to one recently dead

Easter: breath cannot be extinguished

 

I want to highlight a couple of phrases from John which I think are worthy of note.

 

 “I believe that you are the Messiah, the child of God, the one coming into the world” (27). 

 

In the gospel of John, Martha makes this declaration. In the synoptics it is accredited to Peter. I suspect if I asked the question, “Who said, ‘you are the Messiah’?” the default answer would be the male, I’m sure mostly the answer would be Peter.  

Martha does not arrive at this confession through spectacle or proclamation, but in the midst of grief, relationship, and loss. Today, I want to highlight Martha. I want to celebrate this wonderful woman who had this revelation, who made this declaration about the Christ. I don’t want her confession, “You are the Messiah” to be overshadowed. Martha stands as a witness who recognized the Christ pre-resurrection. It is important.

Second, I want to highlight the importance of friendship in this text. The story paints a lovely picture of Jesus’ friendship with Lazarus. It was obviously one of deep love and affection. So much so that when Lazarus needed Jesus, Jesus responded and went to him even if it meant potential harm to himself. The disciples reminded Jesus that they had tried to stone him in that location. They were amazed he would try to go there again (8).  This is not sentimental friendship … it is costly, embodied, and potentially dangerous.  Friendship and love demanded doing something that may not be safe. 

 

In addition, it highlights the friendship between Jesus and the disciples. They were willing to go and die with him. Thomas reportedly said, “Let us also go that we may die with him.” (16) Certainly, the stoic influence is clear, friendship entails a duty to help even in the face of possible persecution. I think this story illustrates the value of true friendship at so many levels. 

 

Therefore, lots of things to muse on this Passiontide; Light, breath, emergence, friendship.

 

As the light grows stronger around me, perhaps I can ponder two questions: 

Where is life waiting to be breathed into me?

Where can I breathe life into other people or situations around me?

Worry, Care and Cold Weather

Don’t worry about what you are going to wear, what you will eat or what you will drink urges the gospel writer this week (Matthew 6. 25-end).

 

The text isn’t concerning trivialities; all three are essential to life itself. No-one can survive without food or drink, and in most climates, some kind of clothing to protect the body is necessary. This is not a quaint sentiment but a deeply challenging one —precisely because it speaks about survival.

 

One possible reading of text is that one does not worry about these life sustaining items because God will provide them. It sounds great on first reading but if I am honest — and when I write these blogs, I strive to be real and honest even if the topic is difficult — it simply doesn’t happen. God does not usually supernaturally provide food. There is only the story of manna in the wilderness and a couple of other tales where that happens. Clothing is not dropped from the heavens. So, I need to think about this gospel passage a little more.

 

Weatherwise, currently we are experiencing a “polar vortex”. That means it is cold and snows every day. When I say cold, I am talking about extreme cold, yesterday we awoke to a felt temperature of -31C. I don’t think I have ever seen it so low. My poor pugs can only go out for a couple of minutes before their legs freeze. Yesterday, our home never reached the set daytime high (70F) even though the furnace was pumping out heat all day.

 

Even so Andy and I were warm, our pugs were warm, we had hot food; I made a great pea soup and fresh baked bread. We had plenty of hot tea to drink whenever we felt a little chilly. So, reading today’s text felt a little poignant as whenever these days and weeks of extreme cold occur there is always additional concern for those who are cold and hungry. Those who are homeless or have insufficient means to keep their homes or themselves warm. 

 

When I read some of the passages in the scriptures I often wonder what they would sound like to someone not in the same privileged situation as many people in the Western world are. I wonder if I was sat freezing and hungry with very poor housing — or even worse if I was watching my children suffer the same fate — what would it feel like to read this passage telling me not to worry because God would provide? If I am honest, I think it would be very hard. Maybe disillusioning, maybe causing some guilt and self-reflection on why this does not happen for me.

 

God as provider, Jehovah Jireh, thought provoking especially as this was only used in Genesis 22 when it was a life and death situation. Abraham was prepared to kill his child, but God provided an alternative sacrifice. Personally, I don’t think this is a good story, but it is not one I’m dwelling on today. However, it does make one wonder if this instant was in the mind of the gospel writer when this story was included; that God’s provision comes only at the lowest point. Nevertheless, this “God provides” language can become dangerous theology when 

detached from human responsibility. Genesis 22 was about an eleventh-hour intervention not everyday economics.

 

As with many texts, somehow, I must hold these two things in tension.

 

Rather than a dialogue about whether or not God provides supernaturally, I think I would  rather think about the story as being about care for each other, being as Christ to each other. God miraculously dropping food, drink and clothing onto the earth is not something I can embrace, it does not happen in contemporary times. But reading the passage in the light of care, does make more sense. As a community — even an international community — caring to ensure all are provided with life’s essentials. This fits well with one of the great Godly commands in scripture — love your neighbour as yourself. People care for themselves, but more essentially care for each other. Often worry paralyses, whilst care mobilizes. So, if everyone is caring for each other all should be clothed and fed. 

 

Of course, we don’t live in a perfect world, a utopia. I am not unrealistic about the reality of what we see around us or in the news. No one can solve all the hunger, homelessness and lack of clothing in the world.  Nevertheless, it is something to strive towards, in our own small ways to build up the habit of care. 

 

One of the illustrations used in the text is birds being fed. Yesterday morning; after noticing my feeders were empty, I donned my arctic outerwear and wellingtons and went through the snow to my bird feeders to ensure these little ones had food. It was so cold a couple of the feeders had frozen shut and had to brought indoors for a few minutes before I could fill them. I know many others who exercised care for these little ones who are part of God’s creation. The birds are fed — but not without the labour, attentiveness and compassion of others.

 

Don’t worry about what you will eat, drink or wear, but exercise care for others.  For me this really illustrates the heart of the gospel. Seeking first the Realm of God looks like organizing life around mutual care. It is not disengagement from material needs but reordering responsibility for them. Maybe, this is being as Christ to those we meet.