Seeker

Experience teaches that death wins. Experience teaches that life is what you make it, so get what you can while you can, because it will be over soon. And the Easter message says, “ Really? How can you be so sure?” Death is real. We humans are not immortal. Jesus certainly died. Roman soldiers were efficient at barbaric executions. Jesus was buried, the tomb sealed and a guard set. There were eye-witnesses of this. There were no eye-witnesses of Jesus' resurrection. By that I mean no-one saw him rise from the dead. So why didn't the Christian story end with the crucifxion? Jesus'  disciples, who ran away in fear of their lives when Jesus was arrested, gave just one answer. They proclaimed that 3 days after Jesus was crucified, died and buried, God raised him to life. They preached it because they were witnesses, not that they saw it happen, but they saw an empty tomb, discarded grave-clothes, a stone rolled aside. And they met Jesus, in a garden,...

This last day of Holy Week is Easter Eve or Holy Saturday. It is the day after Good Friday. On Good Friday Christians remember Jesus' crucifixion. Tomorrow the great celebration of Easter begins but if we try to rush into that joy too quickly I think we miss something important. We miss entering into the desolation and grief of Jesus' mother Mary or of his close friends like Peter, John Mary Magdalene and others. We miss sharing with all who this Easter weekend are mourning the death of someone close.  We miss getting in touch with our private griefs and sorrows and finding a way to express them. The deepest joy is that joy that comes after tears. Joy will come 'in the morning', but for today it can be helpful to find the space to pause, to stay in imagination with those who watched Jesus' burial and who grieved. This is how the writer of Matthew's Gospel describes Jesus' burial and the sealing of his tomb: When it was evening, the...

For reflection on Good Friday here is a poem by the Scottish poet  Edwin Muir (1887 - 1959) THE KILLING That was the day they killed the Son of God on a squat hill-top by Jerusalem. Zion was bare, her children from their maze sucked by demon curiosity clean through the gates. The very halt and blind had somehow got themselves up to the hill. After the ceremonial preparation, the scourging, nailing, nailing against the wood, erection of the main-trees with their burden, while from the hill rose an orchestral wailing, they were there at last, high up in the soft spring day. We watched the writhings, head the moanings, saw the three heads turning on their separate axles like broken wheels left spinning. Round his head was loosely bound a crown of plaitied thorn that hurt at random, stinging temple and brow as the pain swung into its envious circle. In front the wreath was gathered in a knot that as he gazed looked like the last stump left of a death-woun...