Julie Wilkinson

Category: Faith

  • The Tale of the Determined Squirrel…

    Since the beginning of the pandemic last March, I’ve had far more opportunity than normal to notice the wildlife in our garden. Over this now-more-than twelvemonth span, I’ve been drawn into the dramatic arc of daily life lived by the birds, small mammals and occasional amphibians that share the space I used to think of as ‘mine’, and now think of as ‘ours’.

    I’ve noticed the passers-through and the regular visitors, those who travel in pairs and those who come alone, the early risers and the night owls, those who flaunt their vibrant colours in the full-on flare of the midday sun. I’ve witnessed courtship rituals, the nurture of fledglings, the full-on panic of immediate threat to life, the sadness and the stillness of a life cut short. It is compelling.

    And this small, half-turfed, ordinary space has revealed itself to be a rich tapestry of tales I never knew were there.

    Like that of The Determined Squirrel…

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    I know some people who prefer to squirrel-proof their bird feeders, but I’m a big fan of the feather-free furball foragers who frequent our hanging café. Anyone who displays that much dedication to getting their hands on their food deserves nothing short of admiration and respect!

    Image © Julie Wilkinson 2021

    I’ve spent hours at my laptop with one eye on the squirrels – running along fences, acrobatically pilfering the bird feeders, and digging up the spoils they had stashed in my lawn. One day, I was in my kitchen when a familiar flash of grey fur flickered through the corner of my eye…

    That flash of fur was a squirrel, scampering down the bird feeder – by the time I looked up, it had settled itself in the grass below, right next to the cage feeder that was half-full of peanuts. It had just succeeded in knocking it off its hook, onto the floor, and looked mightily pleased with its endeavour!

    Dislodging the feeder to eat from it in a more comfortable fashion was not, however, the end goal. As I watched, like something from a cartoon, the squirrel proceeded to try everything it could to lift the entire feeder up off the ground, small furry arms stretched comedically wide, as it attempted to stagger off with the Holy Grail of peanut hoards.

    The squirrel was unbelievably determined. It tried everything. Lifting, carrying, pushing, pulling. At one point, it ran up the nearby fence post and sat atop the wood, surveying the situation from a height to see if it could come up with a better plan.

    Image © Julie Wilkinson 2021

    After several dogged minutes, circumstances forced it to change tack. Its efforts to steal the entire feeder and its contents resulted in the lid being dislodged and the peanuts spilling out everywhere. By the time we went out later to refill and rehang it, there were no peanuts left – some gobbled up, no doubt, by the opportunistic pigeons, but most, I suspect, taken and stashed for later by that stubborn little squirrel. And bravo to him, I say!

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    In Genesis 32, there’s a story about Jacob wrestling with God. Facing reunion with the brother he’d cheated out of his heritage, and fearing retribution, Jacob places his wives, children and servants in safety across the river, and returns to spend the night alone. He spends the dark hours wrestling with a man until the sun comes up. The man, seeing he cannot win, strikes Jacob on the hip, putting it out of joint, then asks Jacob to let him go.

    “I will let go of you,” replies Jacob. “If you bless me.”

    And so the man blesses him, saying, “You will no longer be called Jacob; from now on, you will be called Israel, because you have wrestled with God and with people, and you have won.”

    Jacob asks the man who he is, but he refuses to reply. So Jacob names that place Peniel saying, “I have seen God face to face, but my life was saved.”

    *****************************************

    Sometimes, when we’re faced with a problem that refuses to be solved, when things become intractable, when we can’t see how God will lead us through, or we’re trying to ignore his prodding to do something we don’t want to do to solve things, we can feel like Jacob. Like him, we are hanging on for dear life with no end in sight, clinging with faith to a God who has become both our assailant and our life belt.

    When that happens, we need to cling on with all the stubborn determination of a squirrel who refuses to give up wrestling a stash of peanuts he can never carry; we need to cling on with all the audacity of a man who, faced with God himself, cried out, “I won’t let go until you bless me!”

    When God left Jacob, he left him changed; the strike on his hip caused him to limp away from their encounter. Wrestling with God, holding on for his blessing, cannot leave us unchanged. There is a price to be paid; seeking God’s heart makes its mark, such an encounter will leave us challenged – and that can be uncomfortable. But it is a price worth paying…

    May your days be blessed – and if they’re not, hang on, the blessing will come!

  • On Empathy…

    Skara Brae 2

    Empathy. That’s where my thoughts have been. The power of real, deep heart-to-heart human connection.

    I spent some time on the Orkney islands in the summer. It was my first visit, fulfilling a soul-yearning for the area that I still don’t really understand. It’s a place that is rich in Neolithic history, the landscape literally stuffed full of five-thousand-year old human stories.

    We spent our first full day there visiting the archaeological dig at the Ness of Brodgar’s Open Day, the archaeologists on hand to explain the treasures they had found beneath our feet. And it was fascinating. How science, and care, and precision, and knowledge, and expertise, and the good old-fashioned hard graft of digging combined, enabling them to find and unearth and interpret the stories written into the ground, connecting humankind across thousands of years.

    And it was fascinating how an ancient community, even older than the pyramids, still had so many stories to tell, of how they lived and organised themselves, of extraordinary creativity and ingenuity, craftsmanship and artistry, society and shared living.

    As the week went on, we visited other five-thousand-year-old treasures. The chambered cairn of Maeshowe, engineered so its entrance was perfectly aligned with the light of the setting midwinter sun, and covered in runic graffiti, tagging the names of Viking invaders and their bawdy exploits. The standing stones at the Ring of Brodgar, built in line with the remains at the Ness and the cairn of Maeshowe, mysterious in their size and placement, hinting at Stone Age transport innovations and a shared communal spirituality. Skara Brae, the Neolithic settlement hidden beneath the sand dunes, uncovered by a nineteenth-century storm, revealing the perfectly-preserved secrets of our ancestors who lived there – a community who in all likelihood lived in family groups, gathering around a central hearth, sleeping in box beds, displaying their treasures on stone-built dressers. We saw the four-centimetre tall Westray Wife, the earliest known carving of a human form found in Scotland and one of only three such carvings found throughout the whole of the UK; a tiny stone person, with pin prick eyes, an M-shaped brow line, a possible nose and mouth below.

    And everywhere we went, there was human connection. Shared humanity. Shared values. Our Stone Age forebears were not primitive or inhuman; they were innovative and societal, craftspeople and artists, spiritual beings and master engineers, their monuments surviving for thousands of years.

    And it struck me time and again that the only reason we know all this, the only reason we can connect with them across millennia, is because of humans now – archaeologists, historians, volunteers and more – whose minds, hearts and souls yearn across the ages to connect with our forebears, to understand them. Empathy. Deep human connection.

    And it struck me that empathy, deep human connection – that is kingdom work. Jesus embodies empathy. He saw people, he read them, he understood. From the widow who gave all that she had, to the woman caught in adultery; from Zacchaeus in the tree, to his encounter with Judas at the Last Supper; in his response to Peter cutting off the soldier’s ear at his arrest, and in the way he allowed for the restoration of their relationship at the barbecue on the beach. He is all about empathy. That is at the heart of how he relates to people. When Mary and Martha sent for him as Lazarus lay dying, he delayed his journey – allowing for the greater miracle of resurrection, yes, but also for that short but well-known Bible verse. He wept. He allowed time to feel their deepest grief and loss alongside them. Empathy.

    In a world where so many of our political leaders choose to build a stance of unassailable power on bullying tactics and threats, on retribution and sanctions, it is empathy that is needed. Empathy is how we bridge the divide, geographically, culturally, spiritually, historically. Empathy is how we draw together across the division of values and beliefs. Empathy, built through shared stories and experience, founded on strong and sacrificial love for our fellow humans and our world.

    Shared humanity. Real, deep, heart-to-heart human connection. Hospitality and openness. Empathy.

    That is my choice. Join me?

  • Love is…

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    Love is fierce.

    Love is strong.

    It cowers, and bends, and withstands crushing pressure; it folds in on itself.

    Love clings, love grips, love hangs on in the storm.

    It looks for the spark of light when there is none.

    Love knows when it is not enough. It seeks unceasingly for the scaffolding to shore it up.

    Love weeps.

    Love mourns.

    It sacrifices itself again and again.

    Love is steel.

    It digs in deep. It bides its time. It burns slowly into bloom.

    Love survives.

  • We went in search of you…

    IMG_3565We went in search of you,
    Wild and elemental,
    At home in the storm,
    With feet that walk waves.

    And we found you.
    In sand-blasted skin
    And salt-tanged lips,
    In sun-beaten cheeks
    And sea-sprayed hair,
    In briny-deep swell
    And wood-sweet smoke.
    In grit between our teeth.

    IMG_3683

    We went in search of you,
    Spirit and creator,
    Bidder of oceans,
    Wilderness wanderer.

    And we found you.
    In swallows’ nest
    And rock-pool weed,
    In basking seals
    And pebble beach,
    In wide expanse
    And sinking-sun glow.
    In puffin’s clumsy gait.

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    We went in search of you,
    Incarnate and relational,
    Caller of all
    To hallowed community.

    And we found you.
    In a bunkhouse
    And in love that held our children,
    In the arms of beach-met friends
    And in nights of gin-soaked laughter
    Carrying us past the stars to first light’s dawn,
    In broken bread and sun-warmed wine.
    In gathering around the table.

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    We went in search of you,
    Threaded through history,
    Eternally present,
    Holder of time.

    And we found you
    In your story
    And in ours,
    In a beach breakfast barbecue
    That echoed through time,
    In Cuthbert’s eyes and hands and feet
    And centuries-stretched shadow.
    In memories shared and memories made.

    IMG_3623

    We went in search of you.
    And we found you.
    Wild and elemental.
    Spirit and creator.
    Incarnate and relational.
    Threaded through history.

    We went in search of you.
    And we found you.

     

  • Floating around…

    I led a discussion about Noah last night. I hadn’t planned to. My vicar was supposed to be doing it. Then he phoned an hour before people were due to arrive at my house. He wasn’t well – could we manage without him? Of course! He needed to rest. Not a problem. More than happy to lead it. And I was.

    Only, when I sat down to think about it, I didn’t think I had much to say about Noah. And I wasn’t sure how to help others find something to say about it either. It’s a story everyone knows. Could there really be anything new to say about it? So I read it. And all I could come up with was –
    “There’s not much of a journey in here – they just sort of float around a lot, don’t they?”
    Genius.
    But somehow, through the conversation and the different perspectives that each person brought, by the end of the evening, I had found a new way of seeing the story.
    It’s always been a tricky one, Noah. Here’s a story of God obliterating all life from the earth, apart from Noah, his family, the animals and birds on the boat, and the sea creatures. Every other living thing is destroyed. Why? Because it’s not good enough. The wickedness of creation is so extreme that God is sorry he ever made it. But a God with regrets means a God who got it wrong… And how does that work?
    It’s so easy to read this story with the traditional Sunday School spin – gloss over the harshly judgemental God who destroys everything, concentrate on Noah who is saved because he is good. If only we could all be good like Noah…
    We didn’t find an interpretation of the story that made us feel at peace with God’s actions. But we did find a way of understanding it as a story containing a glimmer of hope, echoes of the God and his relationship with the world that become so much clearer in Jesus.
    Because even here, in the midst of such wrath and judgement, God doesn’t destroy creation entirely. He doesn’t wipe it out. He offers the chance for redemption, a fresh start.
    This is a story that comes relatively soon after that of the fall, after the moment when God’s relationship with mankind is altered and broken. But not broken beyond hope. Noah isn’t ‘good’ because he piously observes laws or never gets anything wrong – he’s good because “he walked with God.” Somehow, despite the shattered relationship between God and humanity, Noah has discovered the same relationship with God that Adam and Eve enjoyed in the Garden of Eden.
    And when God chooses to save Noah and his family, maybe it isn’t as a reward for being better than everyone else. Maybe he saves Noah because he wants to work with him, he has a job for him to do. Noah must save the birds, the animals, and the crawling things from the flood, he must take food, containing seeds and fruit. Noah must take on the task that God originally gave to Adam and Eve. He must take care of creation, and its potential, during this darkest of times, so that when it is over, creation can be redeemed and start again.
    There’s a moment as the flood waters are going down when Noah, having sent the dove out to find dry land, sees it return, reaches out his hand, takes the bird and brings it back safely into the boat. It is because he walks closely with God that Noah walks closely with the creation that still, in its most broken and ugly form, bears the image of the creator who made it. Noah’s relationship with God means that he can hear God’s voice, follow it, and play his part in redeeming creation, in building God’s kingdom. It’s a pattern of relationship that follows through the rest of the Bible, through Abraham, and Joseph, and Moses, and Joshua – right through to Jesus himself.
    We talked too about whether the story of Noah is a factual account of events that really happened or some kind of allegory, a story to help us understand the relationship between God and the world at this time – and did it really matter which it might be?
    Stories are powerful not because they are true or because they are made up. It is because they invite us somewhere outside ourselves. What we can experience is limited by time, and space, who we are, where we are and when we are. But through stories our experience is broadened beyond our own world. When we enter into a story – whether on film, in a book, in the theatre, or through the spoken word – we enter into another world and experience those events through our imaginations, almost as if we were there.
    If we are made in the image of our creator, a creator unbound by time and space, then our ability to experience things through our imagination has come from Him. And if we elevate factual experience, things that have physically happened, above the experience of our imaginations, perhaps we do that because of our own limitations. Perhaps from God’s perspective, the power and experience of the imagined is as strong as that of the physically experienced?
    I think we probably ended last night with more questions than answers. But a God who questions, who disturbs, who challenges me, is a God I’m happy to follow.
    And I do like Noah a little bit more now…

  • Small but significant…

    Nine years ago, I left university. With an English degree under my belt and an unknownc future stretching ahead of me, I embarked on a Gap Year working for my church. My work co-ordinator was a hairy gentleman by the name of John.

    It wouldn’t be over-stating things to say that that year changed my life. I found a husband (David, not John, although they do share a commitment to beards). I became a storyteller. And I discovered what it was that I needed to be doing.

    As part of my work, John arranged for me to go into a local primary school for one afternoon a week, supporting the teacher with their year two class. It was a typical class of children; from the timid girl who played with her hair whenever she spoke, to the giggling gaggle of girlies who were inseparable, from the boy who always had a smile on his face and a piece of Lego in his hand, to the lively pocket of lads who never quite managed to do what they were supposed to be doing. It was a place that was full of life.

    After several weeks, the teacher discovered that I was a fledgling storyteller and asked me to tell a story to the children at the end of the afternoon. This quickly became part of the weekly routine. I loved it – and so did the kids.

    But it was one boy in particular that I’ll never forget. He was one of the naughty boys, the ones who couldn’t settle to their work, who were always in trouble after playtime, who had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But he had a glint in his eye and a cheeky little smile and I know that he had a good heart.

    One week, he sidled up to me during ‘Golden Time’, the magic half hour at the end of the day when the children were allowed to choose what they wanted to do. This was one of those rare occasions when he had managed to not get into so much trouble that he had his golden time taken away.

    “Miss,” he said, leaning towards me.

    “Yes?”

    “What story are you telling today?”

    “Well…” I said. “I can’t tell you the story, cos it would spoil it…”

    His face fell a little.

    “But… I could give you a hint or two, just to give you a taste for it…”

    He looked up at me.

    “There’s a frog in it,” I said. “And a princess. And a talking tree.”

    He pondered this information briefly, then announced, “I’m going to draw the tree!”

    And off he went. When he returned a few minutes later, he brought with him a sheet of paper with a pen drawing of a tree in the middle of it, orange and green with a face carved into the trunk. And it was beautiful. He had a real talent.

    “Would you like to stand and hold your picture up when we get to the bit with the tree?” I asked.

    He nodded.

    So that’s what we did. When I got to the bit with the tree and he stood up, there was  a moment when his teacher wasn’t sure, when she assumed that he was doing something he shouldn’t, because that’s what he always did. But the moment passed, and he stood there, proudly holding his picture, for the rest of the story.

    It was a small moment, just a brief passing of time in one hour of one day of his whole life. But that moment made a difference. Because in that moment he knew what it was to be proud of himself, to feel like he’d achieved something. It was a good moment that he could share with his mum as they left school together.

    And from that moment, I knew that this was what I wanted to do.

    I love the charity I work for. It shines light and spreads hope wherever it goes. Those moments of light and hope may be small ones, but I believe that they really do make a difference.

    The schools we visit are wonderful places, full of life, where God’s image can be seen reflected in so many different people. But they are also places that need to see God’s light shining. In every school, there are adults and children who carry burdens, who need to know that God is there and God is real. They need us to keep our light shining.

    I still have the tree picture…

     
     

  • Water into Wine

    I told the story of Jesus’ first miracle three times on Saturday. I was asked to choose two Jesus stories as part of a story walk through Bradford City Centre for the Biblefresh Festival, organised by the local Methodists. Water into Wine was my immediate first choice.

    Why? Because I love it. Almost every time I read it or hear it told, it brings something fresh with it, sometimes asking a new question, or bringing a previously unnoticed detail to life, other times letting a familiar aspect of the story shine, like meeting an old acquaintance for the first time in ages.

    There is nothing better than telling stories that you love. As a storyteller, my job is simply to stand in the story and invite others to join me there. And that’s easy with a story like this one, so rich and vivid in detail.

    There is lots about it that I love. But this weekend, perhaps for the first time, I realised the thing I love best – here, right at the beginning of his public ministry, Jesus is revealed as fully divine yet also remains fully human.

    It starts two days after Jesus has called his first followers. He, his friends, and his mum are at a wedding in Cana, in Galilee. The wedding feast lasts seven days after the ceremony but sometime into the celebrations, disaster strikes – they run out of wine!

    Somehow, Mary finds out and goes straight to tell Jesus. His response? “Why are you telling me? It’s not my time yet.”

    In typical mum-style, Mary ignores him completely and bids the nearby servants to do whatever he tells them. And so begins the miracle – at Jesus’ command, the servants fill six large stone jars with water, fill a cup from one of them and take it to the Master of the Feast. When he drinks it, it has become the best wine he has ever tasted.

    And there, at the wedding in Cana, Jesus shows his glory – and his followers believe in him. What a moment that must have been for them, ordinary men who had left everything they knew to follow him – a vindication of sorts, a sign of things to come.

    In revealing his glory, Jesus not only shows his ability to do great miracles, he also reflects the abundant generosity of God. Each water jar carries 100 litres of liquid – and Jesus tells the servants to fill them right to the top. 600 litres of the best wine ever tasted in celebration of a couple’s marriage – what better way to show his divine identity for the first time?

    Yet the miracle is also intensely human. It was while listening to my friend tell the story a few months ago that I first fully realised how much hard physical work would have been involved in the servants filling the water jars. The never-ending cycle of trips to the well, filling the buckets, carrying them back, pouring their contents into the jars, until 600 litres had gone by.

    And there is such human yet Godly beauty in how it is these hard-working lowly servants who, along with Jesus’ followers, are given the opportunity to see his glory and to understand. The Master of the Feast doesn’t know where this fine wine has come from, and calls the bridegroom out to thank him. But the servants know. Right at the start of his ministry, Jesus turns the world order on its head.

    But it is at the beginning of the story that Jesus’ humanity is most wonderfully revealed. For there is the moment when the miracle almost doesn’t happen, when Jesus says, “My time has not yet come.” And the start of his ministry, his first miracle, hangs on his mother’s response – she is the catalyst that makes things happen.

    There is something typically, comfortingly motherly about how Mary ignores everything Jesus says, over-ruling him, challenging him to do something he would have otherwise left undone. At the heart of this miracle is a very human relationship between a mother and a son.

    I’ve often wondered exactly what is behind this parent-child exchange. Is Jesus right – was this not his time to act, should the miracle never have taken place? Or was Mary more in touch with God’s timing than Jesus himself? Did Jesus’ first miracle need to be catalysed by someone else, someone who had faith in him before he had proven himself? If so, who better than Mary, his mother, who had been there for his miraculous conception and birth?

    Or is it just possible, I ask myself from my very human perspective, that Jesus, being fully divine, knew what must happen, where his public ministry would ultimately take him? And is it possible that, with this fully divine knowledge and a fully human heart, a part of him might have hesitated to set that chain of events in motion? Might he have needed a mother’s love, a mother’s encouragement, to take that first step?

    The best stories, the ones I love most, are the ones that leave you with so many questions…

     
     

  • He is alive!

    It was still dark when she left her home. She made her way through the silent streets to the garden where his tomb lay. She felt troubled but the silence comforted her. She carried spices to anoint his body.

    She reached the garden and walked down the pathways until she came to the place where the tomb lay. Her steps slowed as she drew nearer, then stopped. As she peered through the gloom, the entrance to the tomb looked darker than it should have done. Something wasn’t right.

    Where was the stone?

    She turned and ran, back the way she had come. The silence weighed down on her. She knew where to find two of his closest friends. She woke them and told them what she had seen.

    “They’ve taken him, his body has gone from the tomb. We don’t know where they’ve put him!”

    His friends hurried to the garden. She followed in their wake. She watched them enter the tomb. Alone in the semi-darkness, her eyes darted about, she was poised, ready to run.

    The two men came out of the tomb, approached her and shook their heads. One of them squeezed her hand as he passed. Then they left her.

    She stood and wept. Moments passed. She moved slowly towards the tomb, bent down and peered inside. She needed to see for herself. She took a deep breath and raised her eyes to the place where his body should have been.

    Her eyes widened. Two angels sat where he should have lain. They were dressed in white and they spoke to her.

    “Woman, why are you crying?”

    She replied.

    “They have taken my Lord. I don’t know where they have put him.”

    As she spoke the words aloud, she turned from the tomb. Her eyes flicked around the garden, seeking. Her hands grasped at her robe. She saw a man, standing where she had stood just moments before. He looked like a gardener.

    “Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?”

    She replied.

    “Did you take him? Was it you, sir? Please, tell me where he is and I will get him.”

    The gardener spoke again.

    “Mary.”

    She paused. She looked at him, full and long. And she knew. She turned to him and spoke.

    “Teacher.”

    He held up a hand and her eyes followed it.

    “Don’t hold me,” he said. “I have not yet gone up to the Father. Go to my brothers and tell them this: I am going back to my Father and your Father. I am going back to my God and your God.”

    And then he smiled at her. She smiled back, nervously, with her eyes fixed on his.

    Then she turned and left the garden. She walked back through the streets. She didn’t notice the silence because her head was full of questions. She went to where she knew she would find his friends and she told them.

    “I have seen the Lord – he is alive!”

    John 20: 1-18

  • It is finished…

    The man followed them when they left his house, walking in the shadows through the streets of Jerusalem. He watched as they entered the garden. Then he crept in after them.

    He heard their lowered voices as they talked. He saw the shadows shift and settle as they moved through the garden. The silence was immense. He slept.

    He woke to the sound of more voices. The Teacher was speaking.  A crowd of people entered the garden. One of them approached the Teacher and kissed him.

    He heard the sound of a sword being drawn, a cry of pain. His eyes strained. A torch flared and he found himself looking at those hands again. They were pressed to the head of a servant. He thought he saw blood. The hands moved away.

    He watched as men seized the Teacher and began to lead him away. He heard the rustle of leaves and quick footsteps all around him. A torch flared in his face, a hand grabbed at his clothes. He twisted out of them and ran.

    *

    She sat at the window of her spare, sparse home. The oil lamp had long been extinguished. She saw the people hurry past, heard their whispers. She rose, left her house and followed them.

    She came to the courtyard of the High Priest’s house where a fire burned. Guards sat around it, warming their hands. She listened as they talked. Her eyes widened. She turned them to the windows of the building behind her.

    She found a shadowy corner and settled herself to wait. She drew her cloak around her, looked to the fire. A man stood there with the guards. She knew his face. He had been there that day, outside the temple.

    She watched a servant girl approach him, study his face, speak. He shook his head firmly. She watched him turn and walk away. She heard a cockerel crow.

    He moved to the gate, where a crowd of people huddled. She watched as the servant girl walked up to them, spoke, nodded her head in his direction. She saw the man frown, shake his head again more violently. He strode away, came to a stop by her corner.

    She waited, her eyes fixed on him. Some people who stood nearby spoke to him.

    “Aren’t you one of those that followed Jesus? You’re from Galilee, aren’t you?”

    She looked at him as he frowned and shouted,

    “I tell you, I don’t know this man you’re talking about!”

    A cockerel crowed. She watched his face fall. He looked wildly about him. She stepped out of the shadows and their eyes met. As his tears began to fall, she remembered the eyes of the Teacher.

    *

    The man untied his donkey, climbed on and set out on the journey to Jerusalem. He followed the crowds until they stopped moving. They swarmed in huge numbers, swelling the courtyard.

    Stretching up, he saw the governor standing, addressing the people. He watched as two men were led out by the guards. He knew one of them – the man who had borrowed his donkey stood with his hands bound together.

    As the governor spoke, the crowds began to cheer. He saw men moving through the crowd, speaking into the ears of the people as they went. His eyes flicked between the two prisoners who stood on the platform.

    He watched as the prisoner he didn’t know had his bonds released and walked away. He watched as the guards raised their whips to the prisoner who remained. He heard the crowd roar as the man who had borrowed his donkey was beaten before their eyes. He closed his eyes. The cheers echoed in his ears.

    *

    She followed the procession from the palace to the hill. She saw him through the bruises and the blood, watched him struggle with every step. In her hands, she carried the alabaster jar.

    She found a way through the crowd so that she could stand as close to him as was allowed when they stopped. She knew he didn’t know she was there – she was too far away. She bit her lips and kept her eyes open as they hammered in the nails. She didn’t want him to be alone.

    She stayed as the sun rose higher and felt the heat on her back. She saw the soldiers throw lots for his possessions. She was there when the sign was hung above his head: KING OF THE JEWS. She stood and faced the passers by who mocked and insulted him.

    Three hours later, she was there when the sky grew black and the darkness settled. For another three hours, she stayed in the shadows. She heard him cry out.

    “My God, my God – why have you forsaken me?”

    She saw him drink from the sponge dipped in vinegar. She was looking at his face when he cried out a moment later.

    As he died, the jar slipped from her hands.

    *

    He offered to stay in the temple. He went there that morning as he did every day. He smoothed down his robes, made sure all was in order, everything as it should be.

    He did not think of the man who was dying on the hill.

    When the sky darkened, he went to the holy of holies to pray. He stayed there for three hours, on his knees.

    As he prayed, he heard a ripping sound behind him. He stood and turned, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. The curtain had torn in two.

    *

    It was finished.

     

    Mark 14:32 – 15:41

  • Those Hands

    He lifted the water jar onto his shoulders and set off through the streets. He knew people were looking at him, could feel their eyes on him as he walked. He didn’t fit, he was an anomaly. Men didn’t carry water jars – that was women’s work.

    He passed the city gate as two men entered through it. He saw their eyes widen when they saw him, saw them nudge each other. As he continued his journey, he saw them out of the corner of his eye as they followed in his wake.

    He tensed his shoulders, quickened his pace, lifted the jar a little higher. As he rounded a corner, he glimpsed them still weaving through the crowds, their eyes set on him.

    He made the last few strides to his door, opened it and went in. Putting the water jar down, he went to check on his wife and was glad to see that she was sleeping. He turned back towards the door and found himself looking at the same two men who had followed him through the streets.

    He regarded them, warily. Then they spoke.

    “The Teacher asks where the guest room is for him to eat the Passover meal with his followers?”

    The Teacher. He remembered the man outside the temple gates. He had stopped to listen. He looked at them again.

    “I have a room upstairs,” he said. “You can eat your meal there.”

    Later that evening, the Teacher arrived with a group of his friends. The man heard the clink of cups, the glug of wine being poured, as he tended to his wife. When she was settled, he seated himself at the bottom of the stairs. He wanted to hear more of what this man had to say.

    The talk of the group drifted down, increasing in volume and then breaking into laughter. He was lulled by the rhythms of their speech, the rise and fall of their conversation. Gradually, the sound stilled until he heard the Teacher’s voice. He sat up straighter.

    “Friends, I am glad we are here – I wanted very much to share this meal with you before the time comes when I must suffer. This is the last Passover meal I will eat until it receives its true meaning in the kingdom of God.”

    The man turned his head as the Teacher continued talking.

    “I tell you the truth, one of you will turn against me – even now, one of you, my friends, who sit and eat with me. I am going to die – and one of the people who sits and dips his bread into the bowl with me will betray me and hand me over to my enemies.”

    The man began to stand and creep up the stairs as a murmur of indignant voices drifted down them. When he had climbed halfway up, he stopped. He could see the Teacher’s hands and half of his face in the shadows where he reclined at the table.

    The hands reached out, picked up a piece of bread and broke it, sharing the pieces with those around the table. The Teacher continued speaking.

    “Take this; it is my body.”

    Then the hands lifted a cup of wine and passed it round. The man watched the cup as it was raised and lowered, dancing from one mouth to the next. He pressed his lips together. The room was quiet.

    “This is my blood. It makes a new agreement between God and his people and is poured out for many. I tell you the truth – I will not drink of the vine again until I drink in the new kingdom of God.”

    Silence fell. The man’s gaze was fixed on the hands of the Teacher. A voice started singing, then another joined it, and another, until the room was filled with music.

    The man crept back down the stairs, went to his wife’s side and tucked the blanket tighter around her. He sat down beside her bed, raised his eyes to the ceiling and closed them. He could still see those hands.

    Mark 14: 12-26