Palm Sunday and Britney Spears

Today is Palm Sunday, this slightly anomalous blip of joyousness in the midst of Lent and Passiontide. Of course, those of us who creep around churches habitually will know that Palm Sunday recalls the story of Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Such is the joy of that occasion that we will hobble around our grounds nursing our newly blessed palm crosses whilst singing 'Ride on Ride on In Majesty' at seven different speeds, losing a verse between the front and back of the procession. It's tradition. It must be done.

The story of Palm Sunday has the implicit taunt of 'how the mighty will fall', and the uncomfortable semi-presence of unseen pedestals upon which we will place the soon-to-be-slain. Of course, we read the Gospel and we inwardly judge the perpetrators, knowing of course that we would never do the same. Oh no, not us, m'lud. 

Palm Sunday, for me, has taken on the tint of modern society and its ways, and dear old Britney Spears seemed always to be the poster girl for that tendency. I have never bought or owned one of her records, have no real desire to either. However, the fortunes of this young woman have always troubled me. She is no saint, and maybe even errs in the opposite direction at times. But we all do. I have to say too, that her fall from grace was painful and upsetting to behold. 

The tendency to which I refer is this psychopathy in all of us to raise people up so that we can enjoy the blood-sport of seeing them fall. Oh how we love to watch people fall into disrepute. Britney Spears, Billie Piper, Charlotte Church, Drew Barrymore, and many others - all relative kids who became idols in one moment, and the meat for the next press sandwich the next. In these cases, it was more to do with too much too young - but we have all enjoyed the parades of their retribution. This picture of Ms Spears summed it all up for me; a talented kid who had lost her way and the world itching to see her fall. Fall she did, watch we did. We bought the press editions too, watching our tellies tutting. 

Palm Sunday feels a little like that for me these days. Those who will eventually crucify the Bethlehemite carpenter will be guilty of not understanding what is really going on with Jesus. They were the ones who were so ready to elevate him to such celebrity in one moment only to haul him down the next. We in our third millennium churches will preach and heap curses upon the Jews of Jerusalem of the fourth decade - mere moments before we return to our newsprint and our internets to bay for the blood of the next hapless celebrity (or, in a fit of decency look away because it has nothing to do with us, of course).

And So It Begins

I have been reading a considerable amount regarding Christian antisemitism. For those of you who, like me, were appalled at the very suggestion - it is the sad fact that antisemitism has permeated Christian thinking for almost all of its existence. [My reason for this inquiry is a paper that I am writing]. 

For those of you still unconvinced, I would invite you to look at the work of St. John Chrysostom, Martin Luther or Ambrose of Milan - and a pattern develops. Why? In short, the basis of this antisemitism is the Christians' charge that the Jews were (and for some, still are) guilty of deicide. However uncomfortable I may be about that, it is a fact born out by the writings of our most loved Christian thinkers. 

For those of us of a more liturgical bent, we will have marked yesterday as Passion Sunday (as distinct from the Fifth Sunday of Lent, which is also the label for yesterday). Passion Sunday brings with it the behemothic Gospel account of the raising of Lazarus. We hear not just of a death, but of a rotting corpse, putrefaction. We are encouraged, in this account, not simply to engage with our spiritual senses but also our physical senses. Why? The simple message is that God can raise us to new life, that death is nothing - merely sleep; that faith in God is more potent that life itself, more powerful and more life giving than life. But how easy that is for us a couple of millenia later when the raising of Lazarus is no more a miracle to us than me getting up before 6am! We are used to the story, accustomed to it, desensitised. This applies to the account of the Passion too - hey ho, they just hammered a nail into Jesus' hand; what's the next hymn?!

Might we enter the mindset of a first-century Jew and consider these events, without our modern abilities to achieve so many more miracles, without our prior knowledge of the end of the story - and actually empathise with how they may have responded to a rotten corpse emerging from its tomb. Little wonder this is a tipping point. No wonder the crowd were split in two - those who believed and followed and those who believed and hated Jesus (through fear, probably). If some beardy-wierdy magicked my dad back to life, I would surely regard it as some vile hocus-pocus and reject it - because reason demands that. Same for the Jews, I think. If  something is too abnormal that we cannot assimilate it into our schema of thought - then I think the next thing we do is reject it, and the person promulgating it. 

I have long held that the Jews, and indeed Judas Iscariot (who made the ultimate sacrifice for his 'calling'), had to do what they did for our salvation. Take them out of the equation, and the Passion would not have happened and the whole shebang would have been for nothing. As I said to the kids at school - the seed has to die before the first flower and then the fruit can be born. Do we then blame the gardener? Of course not - we celebrate their horticultural prowess. 

The story that will unfold before us in our worshipping life over the next two weeks will invite so much judgement of people. The Jews, Judas, Pilate, Caiphas, Peter, Barabbas the Centurion - and the faceless nameless mocking crowds. In our judging we judge their judging. The Prophecy had to fulfilled and fulfilled it was - with every detail perfectly played out. Judge not ... 

(The essence of my sermon preached yesterday)

Where Two or Three (or Four) ...

...groups of children are gathered together in my name, says the Lord, there I am in the midst of them

Yesterday was a remarkable day. For most of you it was incontrovertibly Tuesday, and for me too - but it was not just any Tuesday - is was 'school production Tuesday'. Those of you who read this blog more often than I do may remember the fondness I have for such events. 

During the course of the day, it was my pleasure to witness no less than four schools perform productions, sing songs, play musical instruments, act, narrate, yell incomprehensibly into a microphone and tell stories - including the Passion, death and Resurrection of Our Lord. For the Early Years at St. Mary's CE School, it was the day when they gave us Red Riding Hood, and for the older kids from St. Mary's, the even bigger kids from Mandeville Secondary School, the tiny-weenies from St. Joseph's RC Infant School and the moderately pint-sizeds from Tilehurst Combined School, they all came to the church to read and sing 'Resurrection Rock' (or, as one youngster had written on a flyer that he had designed in class - 'Resuscitation Rock'). They sang their hearts out and read perfectly (and in an 800 year old barn that makes the Tate Modern seem like a garden shed is an achievement in itself for little ones). I should note that this would not have happened at all save for the vision and skill of the excellent Brian Dipple.

I do not care what anyone says about the world, the state of the church, the erosion of respect in the young - where children are able to come together and sing their hearts out, play such wonderful music, read the difficult account of a murder and a miracle - then for my money the world is a happy and hopeful place. Dear readers, it was stunning. Three-hundred children from the ages of 5 to 19, singing with one voice, with passion - that is about as good as it gets for me. The smallest and least inhibited children engaged with the sentiments of the story, and even pulled instinctive sneers at the cries of 'Crucify Him'. The look of joy in their faces in the final reprise when singing 'He's Alive' was enough to move me near to tears, and again as I recall it now. I have said it before; children embody such perfect freedom of worship. They convey emotion in a way I wish that I could by simply the light in their faces. 

I could leave it there, but a couple of things amused me yesterday. The first is the innate comedy timing that the tiniest of children have. The little lad playing the wolf in Red Riding Hood hammed it up perfectly. He had us in stitches. He had no inhibition, and just played to the crowd. I believe that he is still just 4 years old. Secondly, a lesson for us Anglicans when inviting our Roman Catholic friends in - remember their Lord's Prayer is not the same as ours. I lead the prayers for Resurrection Rock, and as is my custom, asked that they be concluded with the Lord's Prayer. The tiny-weenies from St. Joseph's are clearly drilled in this prayer so it was like flicking a switch. 'Our ... Father ... who ... art ... in ... heaven ... hallowed ... be ... thy ... name ... thy ... kingdom ... come ...', and so on. Except they don't do the bit at the end, do they. No embolism for them. Just as I was about to utter (with microphone and ceremonial dignity) 'For thine is the Kingdom', eighty tiny-weenies, as one, yelped their 'Amen' and cut me dead. How I didn't corpse, I shall not know, but it amused the gathering no end. 

Such a wonderful, hopeful, enjoyable day. Watching the creative talents of over 400 kids, and the faces of their parents and supporters - nothing is better than that. Nothing at all.