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. 

 

Picking Up the Mantle

This Sunday’s lectionary text (Matthew 4:12-23) really continues the story from my last blog about John the Baptizer. In re-imagining John as a leader, I sourced the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus who described him not as a supporting character in Jesus’ story, but as a powerful figure in his own right. John drew very large crowds which caused Herod to be concerned about the impact on his authority.

In the gospel, however, nothing more is talked about John’s mission and the impact that was having on the contemporary society. The text almost moves on too quickly. The reading for today opens with the words, “Now when Jesus heard that John had been arrested ...”. 

As I said previously, I think that a careful glance at John gives another lens to interpret Jesus through. So, John is arrested and Jesus picks up the mantle. Jesus is not starting a new ministry or cause but continuing what John started. The text makes that clear— “from that time Jesus began to proclaim, ‘Repent’ …”. The same call John had been making: a call to turn, to re-orient life, to live differently.

The message of John was not going to fade into insignificance with his arrest, Jesus was taking it up. This radical, revolutionary message was not going to weaken but to strengthen. It is no wonder that the authorities ultimately felt threatened by Jesus too. This was not a comfortable domestic message but one that demanded change from all who heard it.

The text continues with Jesus’ encounter with Simon Peter, Andrew, James and John. This gathering of the men to be disciples always saddens me a little. Obviously, other parts of the story of Jesus show that there were women followers, but none so explicitly named or called as the men. However, I have talked about that in past blogs so today I want to muse a little on these four men.

It does not make sense to me that these men saw a stranger and dropped everything. These were not unattached men with nothing to lose. They had wives, they were embedded in families, responsibilities and fragile economies. Yet they dropped everything to follow a stranger. Why would anyone do that? 

Nobody turns their back on everything without a good reason. Therefore, I think they must have had an inkling about what they were joining. It must have been a cause close to their hearts. They wanted to be part of it. They were no longer going to seek fish, but they were going to seek people. They were going to change the world. They were going to make a difference. They had been invited to join a cause that they felt was worth sacrificing everything for. 

As the lectionary invites me to muse of these four men this week, I am reminded that it wasn’t a light or easy thing they did. What impresses me most is that none of this happened in a vacuum. John had already been arrested. The cost of speaking this message aloud was no longer  theoretical. The danger was visible. But still, Jesus took up the mantle. Still these men chose. join.

This is not naïve enthusiasm or blind obedience. It is a decision made in the shadow of risk. 

The call to “follow” was not a call to safety or certainty. It was a call to place their lives alongside a movement that insisted the world could be changed, that people could live differently. Perhaps this is why I find the story unsettling. It asks uncomfortable questions about risk, sacrifice and choices. 

John’s voice was silenced. Yet it survived. It was carried forward, not without cost, not without loss but with immense courage. These men, these first disciples, were just ordinary people who choose to step into that dangerous yet life-giving mission, calling people to live differently.

Re-Imagining John the Baptiser

Today’s lectionary, (Matthew 3:13-17) is a story of two people who had known each other from infancy. John and Jesus, two boys, relatives, of whom John was the elder by about six months. 

Had they had contact over the ensuing years? I have no idea; there is no source for that information. However, when Mary found herself pregnant it was to John’s mother, Elisabeth, she turned. Elisabeth who played that wonderful prophetic role in affirming the Christ child. So, I think it is likely that the boys knew each other, had even played together, had met probably on several occasions or, at the very least, knew the stories of each other’s birth and history.

I do wonder if sometimes, the import of John is lost a little as the focus is always on Jesus. So, I want to pause here and think about John. Even to reframe John a little, which in turn will open a new lens to view Jesus.  

Outside the Gospels, we have only one significant historical witness to John: The Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, writing toward the end of the first century. In Antiquities of the Jews, Josephus describes John not as a supporting character in Jesus’ story, but as a powerful figure in his own right. Josephus acknowledges John as a good and righteous person who called people to live justly with one another and faithfully before G*d. John invited them to imagine another way of living.

Baptism, in Josephus’s telling, was not a magical washing away of sins, but a bodily sign that a life had already begun to change.

Josephus also tells us something else important. John drew crowds, very large crowds. So many people that Herod Antipas became afraid. Afraid that John’s influence might spark unrest. So, Herod had John killed, not as a moral critique of Herod’s household, but because he feared John’s influence may provoke a revolution.  

This matters, because it reminds me that when Jesus stepped into the Jordan, he is not stepping into a harmless religious ritual. He is stepping into a movement already marked by resistance, by risk, by political consequence. John is not simply preparing the way; John is already walking it.

The longer I muse on this scene, I am also impressed by the quality of relationship between John and Jesus. There is no hint of jealousy, no competition for followers, no anxiety about who is the greater. That alone is remarkable, especially as both the Gospels and Josephus talk of John’s popularity. If anything, John has more social capital at this moment. John has the crowds. John has the reputation. John has the movement.

And yet there is no grasping. John does not cling to status, and Jesus does not exploit it. 

What happens instead is mutual recognition. John recognises something in Jesus and Jesus honours John. Jesus does not bypass him, does not create a separate ritual, does not claim exemption. Jesus comes to John. Relationship is preserved, not overridden.

It is sad that rivalry so often creeps in between people. But here, one calling is not better than another calling. John’s work is not diminished by Jesus’ presence, and Jesus’ identity is not threatened by John’s authority. It is shared faithfulness.

This is strengehend by their exchange.

John tried to resist, “I need to be baptised by you, and you come to me?”

This is not a false humility. It is discernment. John knows what this water means. He knows what it costs. And he does not rush to claim authority over someone else’s body or calling. There is something profound here, something about consent. John does not seize the moment. He questioned it. He hesitated. He pushed back.

And Jesus responded not with a command, but with a request, “Allow it now.” And John consented, consent is named, not overridden.

Jesus enters the water not as someone above it all, but as someone willing to be immersed, fully, bodily, vulnerably. In John’s time the Jordan was not a safe, sanitised river. It was a wild water flowing through the Zor floodplain dense with reeds and shrubs. It was a dangerous water with banks unstable and prone to collapse, with and an abundance of insects, snakes and animals. It varied wildly in depth. The Jordan was also a boundary river with much historical significance. Israel crossed it to enter the land, Elijah and Elisha both crossed it, Naaman was healed in it, So, it was water that has held the hopes of exodus and the threat of danger drowning. 

For Jesus to step into it was to relinquish control, to step into it was to espouse fully John’s mission with all that meant.

Then there is the Spirit.

Frequently imaged as a soft, white, domesticated dove forgetting how misleading that image may be. The bird named in the text would almost certainly have looked more like a rock pigeon, grey, iridescent, common, urban, unremarkable. Not a creature of ornaments or greeting cards, but one woven into everyday human landscapes. A bird you might barely notice.

This feels right, the Spirit does not descend in spectacle, but in familiarity. Not exotic or rare but present. The Spirit rested, abided. As at creation, the Spirit moves close to water, not to dominate it, but to dwell with it. 

And just as Jesus consents to the water, there is relationship again. Nothing forced, nothing dramatic just presence. In this light, baptism looks less like a transaction and more like a web of relationships held in trust: John and Jesus, river and body, Spirit and flesh, heaven and earth. No rivalry. No hierarchy. Just a shared turning toward what is right.

And perhaps that is why the voice that follows does not compare or rank or measure success. It speaks only of love and delight — “beloved.”

As I re-imagine John, I see that John’s importance has never been about standing before Jesus, pointing the way, but about standing with him ankle-deep (or maybe waist or even shoulder deep) in the river, faithful to the work of justice, unafraid to resist the status quo, and willing to bear the political consequences of his stance.

Christmas joy Interrupted

 

It is tempting, in this Christmas season, to end the story on a high. The Christ child is born. The light has come. The carols have been sung. Peace on earth and goodwill to all.

But the lectionary allows no resting there. Christmas joy is interrupted.

The first Sunday of Christmas pulls the reader immediately into danger, displacement, and fear. The child who has just been born is already under threat. The family must flee. The passage for today is somewhat unpalatable (Matthew 2:13-23). The text raises lots of questions.

 

The story is of God’s protection for the infant Jesus. Herod feeling threatened by the stories he had heard about the rise of a new sovereign had all the children under two years old murdered. 

Joseph was warned in a dream to take the child and flee. The gospel of Matthew recites how Joseph takes the infant Jesus and Mary and flees by night. There is urgency here. No preparation. No certainty. Just movement away from violence, to find safety.

From the beginning, Christ is a displaced child. A refugee. One whose survival depends on the courage of others and their willingness to journey into the unknown. The realm of G*d enters the world not through security, but through vulnerability.

Nevertheless, this text is hard to read. Only one parent was warned to protect their child. All the other children were sacrificed. That is not a pleasant thought. It disturbs me and raises several questions:

Was an all-powerful God not able to save more babies?

Were their lives not also important?

Was it okay for them and their families to suffer?

It is back to the question of theodicy.

 

Reading this text also started me thinking of a connection with the Easter story— a strange paradox.

There, one died to save all. 

Here, many died to save one.

 

I also wonder how Mary and Joseph felt. Their baby was safe, but many others weren’t. The gospel does not shy away from extent of the grief. Other parents were grieving, “wailing and loud lamentation” (18) The story names the cost of protecting the Christ child and the devastation that brought.

It gives the message that Christmas does not erase suffering but enters into it. The birth of the Christ child does not cancel human cruelty but reveals G*d’s decision to dwell within it, to share its weight, to bear its consequences, to remain present even when innocence is destroyed.

Life goes on, but not cheaply.

In the church’s calendar this event is remembered by the feast day of the Holy Innocents (Dec 28) which was established late fourth/early fifth century. The children who were killed were regarded as the first martyrs of the church. In ancient theology these children were called “martyrs in deed not in will” or “martyrs before speech”. This disturbed some early theologians because martyrdom usually involved consent. These children had none.

Interestingly, in Medieval England the sadness and pain of the day was remembered by whipping children as they awoke in the morning. Thankfully, that custom ended in the 17^th Century.

 

This story does not appear in any other gospel. Scholars are divided on the authenticity of it. Roughly, there are three ways of looking at it, historically plausible but uncorroborated, (Brown, Wright, Keener) historically doubtful but theologically meaningful (Crossan, Borg, Sanders) and a literary and theological narrative not intended as history (Allison).

 

Regardless, it is part of the faith tradition so I need to ponder it as I would any other text. 

 

I look around my house still full of lights to welcome the Christ child — it is, after all, only the fourth day of Christmas! Yet, in the middle of this celebration of Christmas comes this very harsh reading. 

 

It raises question about how one deals with these unpalatable passages. Are they to be ignored? Are they to be swept under the carpet? When one is reading the lectionary there is always the temptation to focus on the “good” bits of the story. That has always felt a little dishonest to me. 

 

Faith and honesty in dealing with the scriptures sometimes feels like walking a tightrope. I want to be honest, but sometimes that honesty leads me to say that a passage displays a trait of God which I do not like. This is one such passage — a God who only saves one child, albeit a child with a special mission, feels a little distasteful.

 

Yet, it can remind me that G*d-with-us is not confined to moments of joy, but remains present in fear, grief, and displacement, in all the places where life is fragile and difficult.

I can remember that Christmas with its message of light, love, peace and all-is-well does not end the story but begins a journey with all the vulnerability and uncertainty that brings.