Deadlines, flipping deadlines

Today, 15th of the month, is the deadline for my next article for The Bay magazine. While I can't imagine that anyone will do anything with it before Tuesday it's a matter of principle for me to get it in on time. 

When I was in Linden church I edited the local newspaper we published and the problems I had with people missing their deadlines ... I'm clenching my fists even as I think about it.

So I'm sitting at the computer finishing off the article. Yes, it's a bit late - 7.59 pm - but it's still the 15th and that's what counts. I'd thought a bit about what I would write and thought I'd planned it out but when I started writing yesterday the prose was very dull and glum so I had to rethink it.

The rewrite began well but floundered towards the end, which is where I'm struggling now. I think I've finished it to my satisfaction but I'm in such a state of panic that I can no longer judge whether what I'm writing even makes sense.

But I'm going to send it off now - in a minute. That good old Welsh time, which could be anywhere between now and when I go to bed. Which had better not be too late as I'm up at 5.30 tomorrow to go and cook bacon at Zac's. Every Easter Sunday people from a number of churches in Swansea gather for a sunrise service on the beach and come back to us for breakfast afterwards. And then I'm in prison.

I know how to live.

Just call me Sucker

Before I was married I'd give a lift to work to one of my colleagues. He used to say that I had SUCKER written across my forehead in ink only other drivers could see because if ever a car was waiting to pull out, it'd pull out in front of me.

I reckon I still have SUCKER written across my forehead but now it's in ink that everyone can see. Except me.

So, tomorrow, I'm speaking in prison. I wasn't supposed to be but ...

I'm not sure when or how I became the sort of person who speaks in church. (When I say 'church' I mean Zac's or prison, of course, not 'real' church; they wouldn't have me.) Strangely enough I usually enjoy it - once it's over. 

Tomorrow I'm using the notes from the study we did in Zac's women's group on Thursday about Judas and Peter for my talk. It's going to end with something like: don't be a Judas (unable to forgive yourself and wasting your life), be a Peter (accepting that you'll fall and allow Jesus to help you up)! If I can just remember the rest of it I'll be fine. 

Having finished writing it out this morning I've read/orated it several times and I'm starting to confuse myself so I guess it's down to God and my memory from now on. I'll have my notes but I prefer not to use them too much.

I'll let you know how it goes.

And in the meantime I'll practise saying, 'No.'

Postscript, Sunday afternoon
Went okay. Apart from the whisperers, gigglers, sitters and man who knew more than me.

A mother's Easter reflections

Friday
And now. Now my baby is a man. And I kneel at the foot of a cross and watch him die. My first-born, my joy and my blessing, whipped and tormented. A mother should never have to see this. The infant that played at my feet. 

They said he would reign for ever. They – angels, shepherds, wise men – they all said he would be the hope and the saviour of his people. How can that be when he hangs limp and battered, dying a criminal’s death?

My hope has gone, crushed with my son. As his body is beaten and tortured so hope is cast out of my soul. As nails are hammered through his flesh, with each thud, my heart breaks a little more. 

Blessed. The angel said I was blessed. Blessed to have found favour with God. And how does my blessing takes its form? It finds me at the foot of a cross as life drains from my son’s body. With each agonised breath he takes, I gasp for air for him. I call upon God to send his angels, to move heaven and earth to rescue his son – my son. I beat upon the ground and scream out to God, ‘For this? This is why he was born? No! Where are you?’

My son is dead.

And now words return to me, words spoken by an old man in a temple. A sword will pierce your soul. And as my soul screams, I can only trust and wait, and wonder – what was it all for?

Sunday
‘What are you doing?’
I don’t reply immediately to the question. How can I explain? I'm sitting in the shade beneath a tree, apart from the others. I need to be on my own, to try and understand, to try and make sense of the things that had happened.

I’d knelt on the ground at the foot of a cross as my son, my precious, Jesus, my first-born, died a criminal’s death. I’d watched as my son who had never hurt anyone had suffered the horrible painful fate of a murderer.

I’d wept at last as the skies darkened and all heaven and earth screamed with my pain and his agony as he took his last breath. And then it had been done, and John had led me away while they took his poor bleeding body down from the cross and laid it in a cold empty tomb.

And now they are saying he’s not dead. They’re saying the tomb was empty. They’re saying they've spoken to him. That he’s alive. And I want to believe – oh I want to believe with all my heart - but I'm too scared to let myself hope. I start to tell John this. He has been caring for me; I need to answer his question. But then the voice speaks again.
‘Mother.’

And this time I know it isn't John who is addressing me.

I turn around quickly and look behind me. He is standing there, smiling at me. He holds out his arms. I stumble and trip in my rush to get up and I almost fall into him. He wraps his arms around me and holds me close. He strokes my hair and whispers, ‘It’s all right, it’s going to be all right.’ And I remember how I did the same to him when, as a child, he fell and hurt himself.

And now I know it will be all right.

Why I think Judas is in heaven

Judas has a bad press, and rightly so for the man who betrayed his friend for 30 pieces of silver. And to make matters worse he killed himself, which in the eyes of many is an unforgivable sin. So why do I think he's in heaven now?

I don't think money was his motivation for betraying Christ; if it had been he got what he wanted and he'd have been happy. So I tried to imagine what went through his mind before his decision to betray and after Christ's death and I wrote what I think could have been his last prayer.

Our Father in heaven, have mercy on me.

Have pity on a poor sinner, oh, God have mercy on me.

Hallowed be your name.

You are the great and mighty God; you know the secrets of my heart; you know what I've done.

God have mercy on me.

Your kingdom come; that was all I ever wanted.

(Continued on my other blog)

Hangin' with the bikers

Sean and the God Squad (Christian motorbikers) organised a bike run today. It was particularly to commemorate bikers who've died over recent years (Sean, as an ordained minister, has taken several funerals himself). But today's run was a little extra-special as it finished in a recreation ground in Bridgend, a town in south Wales that has gained notoriety over the last year. Since January 2007, seventeen of its young people have committed suicide.

With so much bad news and a sense of sorrow about the town the bikers wanted to say, 'we haven't forgotten you.' A floral tribute, in especially bright colours, was attached to a hedge in the recreation ground at the end of the ride. A message signed by many of the bikers was left with it.

There were about 70 bikes and many more bikers on the run. They came from as far afield as Sussex and Manchester, and God Squadders, members of the Christian Motorcycle Association and other bike clubs rode alongside Hell's Angels.

This is a very short (less than 2 minutes) film. Please watch it to get an idea of the day.

The music accompanying it is by Bryn Haworth, recorded at a gig he played in Zac's Place a few weeks ago.





P.S. I was just there to make tea!

It all depends

There's an Easter Sunrise Service on Swansea Bay on ... well, Easter Sunday. It starts at 5.30 am ready for sun rise at 5.50, and it's being organised by a number of churches across the city as part of Hope08. This is a nationwide initiative to bring hope to our towns and cities through community action. How a crowd of Christians meeting on the beach at a time when normal people will be in bed fits that criterion is beyond me but greater minds than mine came up with it. Admittedly one of those minds was Alun's, so you can probably begin to see a flaw here.

He asked me this morning if I was going to the service. I said, 'That depends.'
'On what?'
'Whether it's raining.'
'You fair-weather Christian you!'
'And whether I can be bothered to get out of bed.'

It'll be full of proper Christians anyway, some of whom might even have fasted beforehand. Not that I've got anything against fasting you understand. On the rare - very rare - occasions that I've tried it, it hasn't been God I've spent my time listening to but my stomach telling me how hungry I am. I am such a bad Christian! It's incredible that Jesus still loves me too bits! Isn't that comforting?
xx

Don't tell me!

Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. I can’t cope with that. You want me to listen to you? To glimpse a shadow of hope? No, I don’t want hope. I won’t let it in; I can’t take that risk. My hope has gone. It was crushed with my son. As his body was beaten and tortured so hope was cast out of my soul. As the nails were hammered through his flesh, with each thud, my heart shrank a little more. I can’t take any more; don’t tell me these things. I’m covering my ears. Go away from me.

Blessed. He said I was blessed. The angel said I was blessed to have found favour with God. And how did my blessing takes its form? It found me kneeling at the foot of a cross as life drained from my son’s body. With each agonised breath he took, I gasped for air for him. I called upon God to send his angels, to move heaven and earth to rescue his son – my son. I beat upon the ground and screamed out to God, ‘For this? This is why he was born? No! Where are you?’

No, go away, I won’t listen. John, why are you letting them talk to me like this? Haven’t I been through enough?

I remember. Many years ago, an old man said a sword would pierce my soul. Now I know what he meant. On Friday that sword was thrust through me and twisted till I could bear it no longer. My son is dead. Don’t tell me otherwise.

xxx

It's certainly not an easter egg

While blog-browsing, I noticed a comment on someone's blog about the chocolate Jesus sculpture that has caused a storm of protest in New York.




Following complaints from Catholics, primarily the Catholic League, the exhibit has been withdrawn.



It is sad that most times when Christians are in the news it is because they are protesting about something - whether it's a chocolate Jesus or Jerry Springer, the Opera - or arguing amongst themselves about gay clergymen or whose way is best.


If they really want to protest about something why not speak out against the traffiking of children for the sex trade? Or the children made to work on cocoa farms - for the chocolate we enjoy? I can't help thinking that God cares more about that than he does about a chocolate effigy.


I don't even know exactly what the protestors are upset about. Is it that the sculpture is made of chocolate (a material like any other) or that Jesus is portrayed nude and anatomically correctly? Would they have preferred him to be sexless?


Unlike Action Man, Jesus was a real man. That was the point of it: that God became man and as a man went to the cross. He died for me, and, heaven help us, for the Christian protestors - and the artist.


I wonder if there've been any protests about these chocolate treats from www.chocolatefantasies.com


The chocolate crucifix will cost you $4.50, while a chocolate Mary or Jesus (haloed head only) is $5.50.



Postscript: as a bit of a pedant, I've found myself most disturbed by the fact that both CNN and FoxNews, in their online reporting of the story, have called it confectionary.

xxx