Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened.
While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?”
Yes, we all have done that … walking with a friend, chatting amiably, and nodding in a friendly way to an acquaintance as they join us. Being friendly; being neighbourly.
They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?”
But how could he not know what has happened? The world has been turned upside down. From jubilation to catastrophe, in just a week. Everyone knows. Everyone we know. Where has he been?
He asked them, “What things?” They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”
Hopes. Ah, yes, hopes. How we had hoped. All for nothing, now. Shattered. Destroyed. Lost, never to be retrieved. We have no hopes remaining. None.
“Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.”
It is evidence-based, you see. The evidence is clear. No body. Gone. Not a sign to be seen. And a message that confirmed what they had clearly seen. Believe the women. They don’t lie. He has gone. It is devastating. There is no hope. Just devastating.
Then he said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.
The scriptures. Our scriptures. Stories and songs, oracles and omens, commandments and commissionings … yes, all of that, but nothing about a suffering Messiah … a Messiah entering into glory … no, when the Messiah comes, the world will be transformed, and we will all know it. It will be perfectly evident. But what difference is there now? Noting. Only shattered hopes, broken dreams, frustrated yearnings … just dark, dark gloom. … … What will the scriptures say to us about that?
As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.
So sitting at table, sharing in bread, mulling over the events, drinking the wine, talking about dashed hopes, seeing where slivers of hope might glimmer before us … at least, we can try this … weary, dejected, uncertain as we are. A moment of recognition? Surely not?? Could it be? I wonder … … …
Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.
The scriptures … the table … he took and blessed, he broke and shared … he spoke words familiar, his actions so familiar … explanations making sense, opening the scriptures, opening our minds and understanding, opening our eyes … could it be? was it true? is this real? what to think???
That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!” Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.
Such an experience — never to be expected — opening up new possibilities — such an experience!!
Jesus has died. His body has been handed over to followers, placed in a tomb, and left for the Sabbath. By tradition, the body would next be anointed with spices. Normally, the role of anointing a body of a deceased person is undertaken by women. Perhaps the reference to washing the body of Tabitha after her death (Acts 9:37) refers to this?
Josephus describes the rites relating to the body of the young Jonathan III Aristobulus, a High Priest who was murdered in 35 BCE. After his death, there was “great preparation for a sepulchre to lay his body in; and providing a great quantity of spices; and burying many ornaments together with him (Antiquities 15.4). This was a lavish provision for a high status person; we can deduce, by analogy, that similar funeral rites were offered to the bodies others of lesser status on their death.
Indeed, two of the Synoptics note this practice: when the women came to the tomb, they “bought spices, so that they might go anoint him” (Mark 16:1); they came, “taking the spices that they had prepared” (Luke 24:1; see also 23:55–56). Matthew, by contrast, simply states that the women “went to see the tomb” (Matt 28:1); there is no mention of spices in this version, where the focus is more on the claim that the disciples stole the body (Matt 27:64–66; 28:13–15).
This anointing of the body was to be done, at the first possible opportunity, after the Sabbath. Yet, although the women come to the tomb, prepared to anoint the body (Mark 16:1–2), they are curiously unprepared with any plan to roll away the stone that had been placed over the mouth of the tomb (Mark 16:3; perhaps this inferred at Luke 24:1–2 ?).
Matthew, of course, tells of the exact moment that “an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it” (Matt 28:2). This is one of two dramatic apocalyptic events that Matthew recounts. When the curtain in the temple is torn in two, the scene evokes the apocalypse: the earth shook, the rocks were split, the tombs were opened, the saints were raised (27:51–53).
So, when the women arrive at the tomb, and the angel rolls back the stone, there is another such moment; “his appearance was like lightning, his clothing white as snow” (28:3); the guards at the tomb “shook and became like dead men” (28:4). Both scenes evoke the apocalyptic scenario that Matthew has had Jesus point to before his arrest (24:29–31, referencing Isa 13:10–13).
In John’s Gospel, by contrast, there is an interesting twist. John reports that the anointing of the body was undertaken immediately by the two men who had taken custody of the body of Jesus—Joseph of Arimathea, “who was a disciple of Jesus, though a secret one because of his fear of the [Jewish authorities]” (John 19:38), and Nicodemus, “who had at first come to Jesus by night” (19:39).
The two men had a large amount of “myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds”, which they wrapped “in linen cloths, according to the burial custom of the Jews” (19:40). I can’t find a specific reference that substantiates what those burial customs were in the first century (the relative dearth of historical sources for this time is a regular problem encountered in biblical studies). There are laws relating to this from later centuries. Did they apply in the first century?
James McGrath, in his book on “The Burial of Jesus: History and Faith”, 2008 (see https://www.amazon.com/Burial-Jesus-History-Faith/dp/1439210179) argues that “the account in Mark’s Gospel itself seems to suggest that some of the concerns of later Jewish laws preserved in rabbinic sources existed at the time of Jesus”—laws such as not leaving the body exposed overnight, not giving the body of the deceased to the family immediately, and placing the body in a nearby tomb used for the bodies of those executed. He thinks that later changes to the story reflect the discomfort and embarrassment of the earliest followers of Jesus regarding the burial of Jesus; an hypothesis that has much merit.
The story of the anointing of the body of Jesus this grows over time; the respect accorded to Jesus has been overlaid across the bare narrative of the earliest account. The notion that the body of Jesus could be left out for the vultures, or thrown into a communal grave, is anathema to the faithful Jewish followers of Jesus.
Powerful figures step into the story, to request the body and deal reverently with the body. The story grows in each telling, with another small element being added, to ensure that the holiness of the body of Jesus is maintained. Even in the despair of death, the story claims the importance of Jesus. Such is the power of the storytelling amongst the earliest followers of Jesus.
The following liturgy was written in April 2022 and conducted at Tuggeranong Uniting Church on Maundy Thursday, 14 April 2022. The liturgy was conducted around a labyrinth, laid out in the worship area. There were six tables, each forming the focus of one section of the liturgy.
Seven candles were lit at the end of the first section, as reflective music played. Participants were invited to remove their shoes for the service, to sit and meditate or gently walk the labyrinth whilst the reflective music was playing.
After the words for each following section, a candle was extinguished, and reflective music was played, during which participants could sit and meditate, or walk a section of the labyrinth. Participants were encouraged to stay in their place on the labyrinth, or move to a nearby chair, as the words of each section were spoken.
The first and last sections took place focused around a table on which some cups, grapes, and bread were set, forming the elements for communion in the last section.
***** *****
ALITURGY FOR MAUNDY THURSDAY in the YEAR OF LUKE (Year C)
1 The Room
(Please remove your shoes)
Tonight, we gather, and remember;
we remember, and rejoice …
for it was Passover time.
Now of course, it began in celebration;
a gathering of friends and family;
a joyful occasion, with the drinking of wine,
some singing, some laughing; a meal shared together;
but then, a kiss … a betrayal … a denial … a trial …
Yet it began in celebration.
For years, it was so; for decades, for centuries,
on this very night, we would gather, joined as family,
to remember, to rejoice, to recall the act of liberation.
So we praise you, Lord our God, King of the universe; You who have chosen us and made us holy,
a nation of priests, a people set apart.
Yes, we praise you, Lord our God, King of the universe; You who create the fruit of the vine. Yes, we praise you, Lord our God, King of the universe; You who bring forth bread from the earth.
We praise you in the lighting of the candles,
signs of your presence amongst us tonight;
in these sparkling, enlivening lights,
we remember that we are a light to the nations.
THE CANDLES ARE LIT
SONG: Bless the Lord, my soul (Taize)
*****
2 The Road
It was yet another Passover meal — or was it?
We began like every other Passover meal;
we began by recalling the story …
and yet, although we did not know it,
this time it would be different;
a different Passover celebration;
a different time entirely.
It probably began with what he said
as he went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem.
“Sell all you own, care for the poor;
Take up your cross, come follow me;
Lay down your life, deny yourself.”
Looking back, we can hear the resonances;
the hints were there; but we were deaf.
We couldn’t grasp these words;
for the journey was the moment,
the crowds that surged as he healed,
the crowds that marvelled as he taught,
the crowds that continued with him on the way,
enthralled, persuaded, believing.
You see, the journey was the moment,
destination Jerusalem, holy city,
city of the prophets, city of the kings,
the holy place where God still dwells.
Hosanna, blessings, celebration;
“Bless the king, sound hosannas;
peace in heaven, the promise is near,
glory abounds”, the crowd cries out;
the day of salvation is at hand.
“Sell all you own, care for the poor;
Take up your cross, come follow me;
Lay down your life, deny yourself.”
We cared not for those hard words now;
the swirl of the crowd, the shouts of acclamation,
the spreading of cloaks and waving of branches,
reminders of the times of triumph,
anticipation of the coming glory.
Blessed is the king;
he comes in God’s name.
He comes in God’s glory,
he comes bearing peace.
When would we see it?
A CANDLE IS EXTINGUISHED on table 2
SONG: Hosanna, hosanna, hosanna to the king of kings
*****
3 The Room
Now the festival drew near:
unleavened bread, called the Passover,
the celebration of redemption,
the time of God’s salvation.
God came, God saved us,
we hurried to respond;
no time to prepare, no time to bake the bread;
we gathered what we could, left hurriedly,
in haste, intent on being ready—
it was the Passover of God,
when God saved the people.
So we gathered, now, to remember,
retell the ancient story,
relive the present promise.
The table was set, with bread and wine,
for this festival of the Lord,
the celebration of Passover …
We met around the table; a family extended, with brothers and sisters, children and friends; aunts … uncles … cousins … disciples … a cacophony of colleagues, family and followers.
As we met around the table, we joined our voices,
with a psalm of celebration; a psalm of hallelujah.
We gathered as a family,
with roasted lamb and bitter herbs,
unleavened bread, four cups of wine;
we gather now, to celebrate,
and as we do, we anticipate:
God, you saved us then;
O God, save us now.
A CANDLE IS EXTINGUISHED on table 3
SONG: Laudate Dominum
*****
4 The Room
You know the Passover is coming,
when God will save the people;
“and the Son of Man will be handed over;
they will mock him, they will whip him,
they will nail him to the cross, to die.”
For the Passover is coming,
when God will save the people.
“I have eagerly desired to share this time,
to celebrate this Passover, with you, my friends.”
First, the cup which signals the kingdom to come;
“take it, drink from it, remember as you drink”;
then the bread, “this is my body”,
words that strained our incredulity.
Then yet again a cup, the covenant renewed;
familiar ground? yet curiously,
“the cup poured out, a new covenant,
sealed in my blood, shed for you”.
Then words of betrayal; woe to that one,
one we had trusted, one we had honoured.
What was going on in his mind?
We could not know:
of the gathering of leaders, we knew not,
of the plot to seize him quietly, we knew not,
of the thirty pieces of silver, we knew not.
Unthinkable, it turns out, what he was doing:
unimaginable, the consequence of this squalid deal.
But we were at a meal that was filled with celebration;
the somber notes he sounded were lost amidst the joy.
It was the Passover of God,
when God has saved the people.
It was a gathering of friends and family;
a joyful occasion, with the drinking of wine,
some singing, some laughing; a meal shared together.
A CANDLE IS EXTINGUISHED on table 4
SONG: Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom (Taize)
*****
5 The Garden
Not too long after the betrayer left him,
not too long after, they came for him.
Not just the crowd in the garden,
not just the priests from the temple,
not just the elders who had formed an unholy alliance,
scribes and priests together, on the hunt;
but they came with their thugs, the temple police,
intent on arresting him, as if he were a criminal.
“I was with you, day after day, in the temple,
and you didn’t come for me there. But now—
but here, in this dark moonlit moment,
under cover of night, you seize me?
This is your hour; this is the power of darkness.”
So began this cruel, twisted fate,
from Gethsemane to Golgotha.
With brute force they manhandled him;
to the High Priest, mocking him on the way.
The mocking continued in the assembly,
priests and scribes, elders of the people,
taunting, baiting, condemning.
And then to Pilate, accusing him of crimes
that made no sense to our listening ears.
“Sell all you own, care for the poor;
Take up your cross, come follow me;
Lay down your life, deny yourself.”
That’s what we remembered him saying.
They said, however, that he perverts the nation,
forbids the paying of taxes,
claiming to be Messiah,
claiming to be king.
So Pilate sends him to Herod;
and Herod sends him back to Pilate;
and Pilate insists there is no charge to answer.
Of course there was no charge to answer!
His words cut to the heart of what it means
to be a disciple, to be committed to the covenant,
to share generously with those in need,
to put the concerns of others before oneself,
to open the eyes of the blind
and enable the lame to walk,
to proclaim good news for the poor
and liberation for the captives …
… then again, then perhaps,
that can sound somewhat …
confrontational …
revolutionary …
no wonder that they say he came
to turn the world upside down.
But we had no notion of this
as we walked the road, while he healed and taught,
or as we entered the city, surrounded by jubilations,
or as we sat with him at table, remembering with joy.
Yet there he stood:
charged, condemned;
sentenced to be crucified,
the punishment of slaves,
the fate in store for rebels,
perhaps, even, the inevitable outcome
of a predetermined plan?
Lord, have mercy;
Lord, have mercy …
A CANDLE IS EXTINGUISHED on table 5
SONG: Stay with me (Taize)
*****
6 The Hill
So they led him away, to the top of the hill,
the place of punishment for rebels and criminals.
There were no echoes, now,
of the jubilant cries of the crowd;
there was no sound that fitted
with family celebrations at Passover;
there most certainly was no longer the basis
for acclaiming him as King,
for announcing him as Saviour,
for decreeing he was Lord.
Naked, bloodied, scourged, humiliated,
brought down to common status
as the wooden beam was lifted high;
the mocking words of the soldiers,
the scornful tongues of the leaders,
the taunting cry of the disbelieving thief;
the silent sobbing of companions on the way,
the eerie overshadowing, the turmoil of darkness.
This, to be sure,
was a cruel, twisted fate.
So he died.
What cry pierced the air?
Distraught rejection, some would say;
a cry of sheer abandonment.
Others claim it was far more serene;
“Abba, Father, into your hands
I commend my being, I place my spirit.”
“Sell all you own, care for the poor;
Take up your cross, come follow me;
Lay down your life, deny yourself.”
Who remembers those words now?
A CANDLE IS EXTINGUISHED on table 6
SONG: Be still, and know that I am God
*****
7 The Room
We returned to the room;
the place of celebration;
the place of remembering.
There is no doubt that we would remember;
the events of the past few days
are seared into memory,
caught in the web of recollection,
every year, every month, every day.
But how could we celebrate?
The Passover of God,
the time of salvation,
the deed of redemption,
in the days of Moses.
That surely would continue;
we would most certainly recall,
we would indeed remember,
embedding the story for our children
and their children.
Would this passing of the master
be a Passover for God?
How could this untimely ending
be the cause of celebration?
So we gather, we remember.
It began in celebration;
a gathering of friends and family;
a joyful occasion, with the drinking of wine,
some singing, some laughing; a meal shared together;
but then, a kiss … a betrayal … a denial … a trial …
“Sell all you own, care for the poor;
Take up your cross, come follow me;
Lay down your life, deny yourself.”
SONG: Eat this bread (Taize) as we exit the labyrinth
(Around the final table)
So he took the bread,
as they had always taken the bread;
and lifting it high, he offered his prayers to God.
And we take the bread, and break it: and we praise you, Lord our God, King of the universe; You who bring forth bread from the earth.
WE EAT THE BREAD
Then he took the cup,
as they had always taken the cup;
and lifting it high, he offered his prayers to God.
And we take the cup, and drink it,
and we praise you, Lord our God, King of the universe; You who create the fruit of the vine,
You who bring forth hope from anguish,
You who bring forth what was promised,
You who bring forth life from death.
WE DRINK THE CUP
A CANDLE IS EXTINGUISHED
For it was the Passover of God,
when God redeemed the people,
when God saved his chosen people.
And it is the Passover of God,
when God still redeems his people,
when God still saves his faithful people.
And the shouts of acclamation
and the silent shedding of tears
join mysteriously in celebration,
join as one across the years.
In this cruel, twisted fate
is the Passover of God;
for God still redeems his people,
for God saves his faithful ones.
THE FINAL CANDLE IS EXTINGUISHED
We step out in faith
we walk forth in hope
treading the path before us
walking into life as his follow ers …
WE LEAVE TO THE MUSIC of Wait for the Lord
***** *****
Song playlist
0 As people gather, a selection of quiet meditative songs and chants
1 Bless the Lord my soul
2 Hosanna, hosanna
3 Laudate dominum
4 Jesus, remember me
5 Stay with me
6 Be still and know
7 Eat this bread
8 Wait for the Lord
Tables
1 In the Foyer, with communion elements. White
2 The Road. Green. Branches, cloaks
3, 4 The Room. Purple. Each has a cup and plate
5 The Garden. Red. Sword.
6 The Hill. Black. Cross.
7 In the Foyer. White. Broken cups and plates with elements
There are many scenes, and much close description, of the events that took place in Jerusalem in the days leading up to the death of Jesus, in the year 33CE) by most scholarly reckoning). We have already seen some differences in the way that the very last moments of Jesus, on the cross, are reported. But what happened after Jesus died?
What takes place immediately after Jesus utters his last words, and dies, is reported with reasonable consistency across all four canonical Gospels. All four canonical Gospels report that a request for the body of Jesus is made of Pilate by Joseph of Arimathea; Pilate permits Joseph to take the body, the body is handed over, and it is reverently placed in a tomb. See https://johntsquires.com/2022/03/18/joseph-of-arimathea-rich-and-righteous-devout-and-a-disciple-of-jesus/
By contrast, the Gospel of Peter (a second century document, written to counter some emerging “heresies”) claims that “the Lord screamed out, saying: ‘My power, O power, you have forsaken me.’ And having said this, he was taken up.” (Gosp. Peter 19). This was presumably his soul departing into heaven, for the body of Jesus was given to Joseph and placed in a tomb (Gosp. Peter 23–24). For the text of this Gospel, see http://www.earlychristianwritings.com/text/gospelpeter-brown.html
The earliest account of the actions of Joseph is found in Mark’s account. “Then Joseph bought a linen cloth, and taking down the body, wrapped it in the linen cloth, and laid it in a tomb that had been hewn out of the rock; he then rolled a stone against the door of the tomb” (Mark 15:46).
The action of Joseph would accord with the instruction in the Hebrew Torah: “When someone is convicted of a crime punishable by death and is executed, and you hang him on a tree, his corpse must not remain all night upon the tree; you shall bury him that same day, for anyone hung on a tree is under God’s curse. You must not defile the land that the LORD your God is giving you for possession.” (Deut 21:22-23). Joseph, by requesting the body, demonstrates his fidelity to Torah.
I am indebted to James McGrath for drawing this text to my attention; he has canvassed many of these issues in his book on “The Burial of Jesus: History and Faith”, 2008; see https://www.amazon.com/Burial-Jesus-History-Faith/dp/1439210179. Dr McGrath notes that Mark’s account tells us that “Jesus’ disciples were not in a position to accord Jesus an honourable burial … a pious Jewish leader named Joseph of Arimathea made sure that Jewish law was observed”. He cites a note in Josephus’ Jewish War that indicates this was a practice known elsewhere. As Josephus puts it, “the Jews are so careful about burial rites that even malefactors who have been sentenced to crucifixion are taken down and buried before sunset” (Jewish War, 4.317).
Whether the governor, Pilate, would have been amenable to this specific request, is dubious—given that the bodies of criminals who died by crucifixion were regularly cast into a communal pit outside the city, or there bodies were left out in the open for vultures to pick over. There was no honouring of the lives of criminals for the Romans. However, as the Torah prescribes an early burial of a dead body, it may well be that Joseph, a righteous man, and Nicodemus, a member of the Sanhedrin, would have been pressing Pilate to ensure that they were able to adhere to that commandment (Deut 21:22–23, cited above).
The first thing that we know about the tomb, in Mark’s earliest account, is that it was a tomb hewn out of rock (Mark 15:46). When Matthew takes this account and retells it, he adds two striking details: first, the tomb belonged to Joseph; and second, it had not yet been used. Matthew reports that “Joseph took the body and wrapped it in a clean linen cloth and laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn in the rock; he then rolled a great stone to the door of the tomb and went away” (Matt 27:59–60).
That Joseph owned the tomb may well have been inferred in Mark’s account, but Matthew makes it explicit. That it was a previously unused tomb is new information. Again, James McGrath argues that this added detail was an apologetic argument added because of difficulties with the story; the addition is “an attempt by later followers of Jesus to honour Jesus in their depiction of the burial, in a way his disciples had been unable to in historical reality”. The tomb, he maintains, in contradiction to the explicit claim in the text, was actually not owned by Joseph.
Luke includes this detail in his account: when Pilate permits Joseph to claim the body of Jesus, “he took it down wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a rock-hewn tomb where no one had ever been laid” (Luke 23:53). Luke, like Mark, makes no direct statement as to whether Joseph owned the tomb. It is the pristine, unused character of the tomb that he highlights. Could this be a reference to the significance of Jesus? He is accorded an honour, as God’s holy one, of being interred in a pure, unused tomb. Matthew makes sure we know that he was wrapped in a clean linen cloth and placed in a new tomb; both details undergird this apologetic claim about Jesus.
Luke does not indicate that Joseph was doing this because he was a disciple of Jesus; he is simply “a good and righteous man” (Luke 23:50), perhaps in the same way that Elizabeth and Mary “were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord” (Luke 1 6)—that is, a faithful and devout Jew.
Of course, in the Apostles Creed (shaped not by the original apostles but in a later time), there is a statement that Jesus “was crucified, died, and was buried; he descended to the dead”.
This affirmation was presumably included on the basis of the claim in the first letter attributed to Peter, that Jesus, as a spirit, “went and made a proclamation to the spirits in prison” (1 Pet 3:19), the later statement that “the gospel was proclaimed even to the dead” (1 Pet 4:6), and the reference in Ephesians, a later circular letter attributed to Paul, that Jesus “descended into the lower parts of the earth” (Eph 4:6).
There is, however, no reference to this journey to the underworld (the so-called Harrowing of Hell) in any of the Gospel narratives. The symbolism that these anonymous apostles develop is not evident in any way in the Gospels. The implication is, rather, that the spirit of Jesus goes to be with God in a heavenly realm, even as his body is dealt with in the earthly sphere.
There are many scenes, and much close description, of the events that took place in Jerusalem in the days leading up to the death of Jesus, in the year 33CE (by most scholarly reckoning). The scene of his death is portrayed by all four evangelists.
Mark reports that, when Jesus was drawing near to his death, “darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon” (Mark 15:33) and, after he had uttered his last words, “the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom” (15:38).
Luke repeats this, bringing the two happenings together into one moment of time, before Jesus utters his final words: “darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, while the sun’s light failed; and the curtain of the temple was torn in two” (Luke 23:44–45). For both evangelists, the death of Jesus was a moment of high drama, underlined by these unnatural happenings.
Matthew repeats the words and the order found in Mark (Matt 27:45, 51) but adds a graphic happening—“the earth shook, and the rocks were split; the tombs also were opened, and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised” (27:51–52).
The narrator continues, breathlessly, jumping ahead in the story: “after his resurrection they came out of the tombs and entered the holy city and appeared to many” (27:53). It’s a striking element, more noteworthy because it is neither explicitly told nor hinted at by any other canonical evangelist. But for Matthew, the moment of death brought to the fore the apocalyptic turmoil of God’s direct intervention in history, signalled by the earthquake, the seismic fissure, and a premature resurrection of saints.
Quite by contrast, the Johannine version reports no darkness over the land, no tearing of the temple curtain, no earthquake, and certainly no opening of to,bs and no resurrected saints walking the streets! John simply reports that Jesus, thirsting, was given wine, and “when Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.” (John 19:30). It is a most serene ending.
Each writer indicates that Jesus spoke words moments before his death; just as there are differences relating to the way Jesus died, so there are three rather different versions of the last words spoken by Jesus just before he died. Mark says that Jesus “cried out with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”” (Mark 15:34); soon after this, he “gave a loud cry and breathed his last” (15:37).
The words on the lips of Jesus come from Psalm 22, which is one of a group known as the psalms of the righteous sufferer (a group often identified as also including Psalms 27, 67, and 109). Jesu, in his pain and anguish, is drawing on his religious tradition; the psalm he quotes is most apposite for what he is experiencing at that moment.
The version of Jesus’ last words, reported by Mark, is followed almost exactly by Matthew, writing his book of origins some years after Mark had completed his writing. (One relatively minor difference is that Mark quotes the psalm in Hebrew, the formal language of scripture, whereas Matthew renders it in Aramaic, the vernacular of Jesus.)
Luke also has Jesus quoting a psalm, but it has a very different tone. “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit” (Luke 23:46, quoting Ps 31:5) has a very different feel—it depicts a man going to his death with certainty, knowing his fate, assured that he will be received by God. It has a heroic feel, with the key figure almost choosing his time of death at the climactic moment in the story.
Indeed, Luke portrays this scene as a moment of theatre (the NRSV refers to “the crowds who had gathered there for this spectacle”, 23:48). Immediately after Jesus utters his last words, says Luke, “having said this, he breathed his last” (23:46). His manner of dying evokes praise to God from the centurion standing watch by his cross (23:47).
John places just one solitary Greek word on the lips of Jesus at his last moment; it needs three words to render it in English (“it is finished”, or “it is completed”, or “it is fulfilled”; John 19:30). This, too, has a sense of acceptance, a recognition by Jesus that all the he had been undertaking had now been completed.
“The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified” (John 12:24); it was “his hour … to depart from this world and go to the Father” (13:1), the hour when the Father would “glorify your Son so that the Son may glorify you … by finishing the work that you gave me to do”, as Jesus prays just before his arrest (17:1, 4). The hour had come; the work was done; all was complete. The moment was calm and serene; Jesus “bowed his head and gave up his spirit” (19:30).
Three different perspectives on the significance of the work of Jesus, placed into his mouth at the moment of death, by three different authors, providing their own accounts of his life and importance.
“So Pilate, wishing to satisfy the crowd, released Barabbas for them; and after flogging Jesus, he handed him over to be crucified” (Mark 15:15). Each of the four canonical Gospels report that there was a chance that Jesus of Nazareth might have been released, and not sent to his death on the cross; and that Barabbas was released in his place.
Is this factual reporting? Did this actually happen in real historical time? Or was it a fable, a myth, a story “made up” in the telling? Barabbas appears in all four Gospels (Matt 27:15–26; Mark 15:6–15; Luke 23:13–25; John 18:39–40). What are we to make of him?
Certainly the actual death of Jesus was an event that happened in real historical time. Although some critics have disputed this, the evidence is clear that Jesus did exist, and that he did actually die. The year 33 is the year that is normally identified as the year of his death. See https://www.patheos.com/blogs/keithgiles/2022/04/did-jesus-even-exist/
I
In thinking about this story, there are a number of elements to consider. The name Barabbas is the first of these. It is an Aramaic name, combining two nouns: bar, meaning son, and abba, meaning father. So he is “the son of the father”—a name replete with symbolism, especially when he is placed alongside Jesus of Nazareth, son of God.
Indeed, the third century writer, Origen, in his Commentary on Matthew (ch 27, para 17), indicates that he had access to versions of Matthew’s Gospel that identified Barabbas as “Jesus Barabbas”. This strengthens the symbolic power of this figure and suggests that he might have functioned as an “alternative Jesus”, a literary device, to invite the reader to see the choice available to the crowd, and by extension, to consider their own choice in relation to Jesus: a kind of ancient altar call, “whom do you choose: Jesus, son of the father, or Jesus, the Son of God?”
Some interpreters suggest that perhaps there might be an allusion to the Israelite ritual of the scapegoat, in which one sacrificial goat is released whilst another bears the weight of sin as an atoning substitute (Lev 16:8-10; 23:27–32). In the Gospels, one son is released on behalf of the people; but this person is not the true “son of the [F]ather”; rather, the true son of God is forced to his death, which is later interpreted as a death that does carry the weight of Israel’s sin, in the manner of the scapegoat. It’s an ironic, dramatic depiction of the scapegoat process. Perhaps.
II
The status of Barabbas is a second factor to consider. Mark describes him as “a man [who] was in prison with the rebels who had committed murder during the insurrection” (Mark 15:7). The word used to describe this “insurrection”, stasis, has the sense of a violent uprising. A word from the same root is used to describe those in prison with Barabbas—“rebels”.
The word stasis had long been used to describe the civil wars that broke out within the Greek city-states, often because of economic inequalities, social conflicts, and class struggle. Barabbas, it would seem, had been implicated in such an uprising; he was imprisoned with others (rebels) who had taken part in such an uprising, and he had committed murder in the course of this insurrection.
Matthew describes him, more succinctly, as “a notorious prisoner” (Matt 27:16); the word used here, desmion, has a less dramatic force, for it is the usual term for a prisoner, with no sense of political agitation attached (for instance, it is applied to Paul when he is in prison at Acts 16:25, 27; 23:8; 25:14, 27; 28:17; Phlmn 1:1, 9; Eph 3:1; 4:1; 2 Tim 1:8). Matthew has reduced the tension and removed the dimension of political agitation in his version.
John is similarly succinct, describing Barabbas as “a bandit” (John 18:40). However, the word used here, lēstēs, is loaded with political weight. It can refer to a robber, or a bandit; or it can have a more focussed sense of a rebel, a revolutionary. The former meaning is conveyed by the word in the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:30, 36) and in the words of denunciation that Jesus speaks to the money changers and buyers and sellers in the temple forecourt (Mark 11:17; Matt 21:13; Luke 19:46). Such people are robbers who steal by surprise attack or by their unscrupulous practices.
It is, however, the more political sense of the word lēstēs that is more clearly in view in John’s narrative. Josephus, writing his account of the war that took place between the Romans and the Jews in 66–74 CE, uses this word forty two times; most of these instances describe either men who lay in wait beside the roadside to rob passing travellers (like in the familiar parable), or, more often, individuals who took part in the counter-insurgency against the Romans.
Their actions are violent and threatening; such men would work in groups, attack individuals (often in a crowd, which gave a protective cover to the perpetrator), acting with brutal violence. A number of times, in the reports of Josephus, these are violent actions undertaken for political purposes, by members of the group known collectively as the Zealots. The political overtones of the word are strong.
In such company, then, we find Barabbas (John 18:40) and, by implication, Jesus; certainly, the inscription that is placed over Jesus on the cross (Mark 15:26; Matt 27:37; Luke 23:38; John 19:19) refers to him as “King of the Jews”, a political attribution without doubt. Even when (as John reports) the chief priests questioned this wording, Pilate insisted: “what I have written, I have written” (John 19:20–22).
Indeed, those crucified alongside Jesus are described with the same term for the political insurgents described by Josephus, lēstēs, in two Gospel accounts: “with him they crucified two bandits (lēstas), one on his right and one on his left” (Mark 15:27; so also Matt 27:38, repeated at 27:44). Luke modifies his description of these two (Luke 23:23:33, 39; they are kakourgoi (literally, those who do wrong). Nevertheless, the NRSV and NIV both render this as “criminals”.
In fact, Jesus had already opened the door to a politicised interpretation of his mission, when he was approached by Temple soldiers in the garden, kissed in betrayal by Judas, and handed over to be taken to the authorities. Seeing the soldiers arrive, he said, “Have you come out with swords and clubs to arrest me as though I were a bandit (lēstēn) ? (Mark 14:48; the same word is also used at Matt 26:55; Luke 22:52). Jesus had already indicated that he knew that the Roman and Jewish authorities were perceiving that he was a political agitator.
Luke intensifies the negative portrayal of Barabbas, alongside of the way that he strengthens the innocence of Jesus. He depicts Barabbas as “a man who had been put in prison for an insurrection that had taken place in the city, and for murder” (Luke 23:19, repeated in 25). The word translated as insurrection is the Greek term stasis, already noted above as referring to a political uprising. Barabbas, in this account, is clearly a political agitator, prepared to commit murder in the course of his violent activism.
Luke provides this description in the context of the accusation that the chief priests made to Pilate against Jesus, that “he stirs up the people by teaching throughout all Judea, from Galilee where he began even to this place” (23:5), and the later indication by Pilate, that they had presented him as “one who was perverting the people” (23:14). This sounds clearly political; Jesus was being accused of being an activist, an agitator, at the very least.
Both times that this claim is raised, Pilate declares Jesus innocent; yet the same declaration is never made in relation to Barabbas. Luke’s apologetic intent is to lessen the blame placed on the Romans for the the death of Jesus, and to divert attention towards the Jews, as the prime instigator of this action against Jesus. This is yet another indication of political intent in the way that Jesus is perceived.
Did this incident involving Barabbas actually take place? The historical implausibility of this incident is a third important factor. The fact is that there is no evidence of such a custom in other ancient sources. Certainly, some conservative scholars have searched carefully and drawn from other texts incidents that they claim provide an analogy to the Barabbas incident.
An incident retold by Josephus is cited to indicate that the liberation of a prisoner did once take place (Antiquities 20.9.3); but this one-off occurrence did not reflect an annual custom. There are far too many dissimilarities to the Gospel narrative. It fails to support the Barabbas story. Another incident recounted by Livy (History of Rome 5.13) does tell of a temporary release of prisoners from their manacles; but this was done, under difficult conditions, in an attempt to appease the gods, to bring a change in the weather. It’s quite different from the Barabbas situation.
A third alleged parallel, from Roman law, is in the Papyrus Florentinus (61, 59ff). However, the prisoner who is released in this scene, after pleas from the crowd, had not yet been declared guilty (as Barabbas had), and it was not at a Jewish festival or even a Roman feast day (as Barabbas was). The parallels are feeble. There is also a complex argument mounted in relation to a single phrase in the tractate of the Mishnah dealing with Passover (Pesahim 8:6), but the parallels claimed and the way in which the text needs to be treated both mitigate against there being any relevance to the Barabbas story.
So I think that the ways that these incidents are claimed to provide a demonstration of the existence of a Paschal pardon such as the Gospels report are not at all clear. The more such scholars trawl the evidence and mount their arguments to say that this could really have happened, the more I recall the famous words, “methinks they doth protest too much” (adapted from Shakespeare’s Hamlet).
There is a clear political improbability to the account found in all four Gospels. Pilate was a ferocious and fearless leader whose strength of character is made clear by the numerous times that, according to Josephus, he sent in his troops to quell an uprising, to scatter a crowd, to squash a rebellion.
American scholar Bart Ehrman writes that Pilate “was a brutal, ruthless ruler with no concerns at all for what the people he governed thought about him or his policies. He was violent, mean-spirited, and hardheaded. He used his soldiers as thugs to beat the people into submission, and he ruled Judea with an iron fist.” (See https://www.patheos.com/blogs/rationaldoubt/2019/05/pilate-released-barabbas-really/)
Pilate would not have been cowed by the crowd in Jerusalem for Passover; had he wanted to act, he would simply have ordered his troops to attack, scatter the crowd, and disperse the built-up tension. The Gospel accounts of Pilate, across all four narratives, are improbable; the apologetic purpose (to show the Romans in a better light, to avoid being seen as an agitator or rebel, and to place the blame on the Jewish authorities) becomes clear, when we read in this way. We need to bear all of this in mind, as we read and listen to the familiar narrative this Easter, and each Easter.
As we draw near to the annual celebration of Easter, we find that we have a story that is driven by antagonism and conflict, with scenes of aggression and violence. We need to think carefully about how we tell the story found in the Gospels, and reflect prayerfully about how we preach the good news from these narratives.
We know the main characters in the story: Jesus and his followers, and the key authority figures of his day, lined up against him: the Jewish Sanhedrin; Pontius Pilate, the Roman Governor of Judea; and Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea.
The way that the story unfolds, invites those who hear it—and those who preach on it—to make one party into “the villain”, even as others in the story receive (implicit) excusing. We side with Jesus, and that makes us view the other characters as “the baddies”.
So the danger sits before us, at Easter most especially: we might be tempted to target “the Jews”, to make negative or derogatory comments about Judaism and Jewish people, even (although I would hope not) to blame “the Jews” for the death of the Messiah. How close does this come to anti-Judaism, or even antisemitism?
We can be helped in our task by careful reflection on the nature of the texts, which we read, hear, explain, and reflect on, as we approach Easter, and especially as we move through Holy Week, from Passion Sunday to Good Friday.
Of the three key characters—the Jewish Sanhedrin, the Governor Pilate, and the tetrarch Herod Antipas—Herod has a somewhat tangential role: he appears only in Luke’s story (Luke 23:6-12) and simply rubber-stamps the decision of Pilate. Despite what Luke claims, there is no historical evidence that provides any reason why Jesus had to be presented to Herod, so the historicity of this scene is highly dubious.
‘Christ before Pilate’, by Hungarian painter Mihály Munkácsy (1881)
The Roman Governor, Pontus Pilate, is given a very big “exemption pass” in the Gospel narratives. In the earliest account, he questions the crowd as to whether he should sentence Jesus (Mark 15:5, 14). The same question is noted in Matt 27:23. By the time of Luke’s Gospel, there is a clear threefold affirmation of the innocence of Jesus (Luke 23:4, 13-16, 22).
By the fourth Gospel, the scene where Jesus is brought to Pilate is changed from a trial to a philosophical discussion (John 18:29-31, 38). In Mark’s account, Pilate (quite uncharacteristically) backs down in the face of a baying crowd (Mark 15:6-15, and parallels). In Matthew’s account, Pilate enacts the potent symbol of washing his hands of the whole affair (Matt 27:24).
The Jewish Sanhedrin, by contrast, is placed firmly in the firing line. All four Gospels tell the story in the same way: the central factor that leads to Jesus being condemned to death is the decision of the Jewish Sanhedrin (Mark 14:63-64, and parallels), and their agitation amongst the crowd (Mark 15:11; Matt 27:20; Luke 23:13-16; John 18:38b-40).
Jesus about to be struck in front of former High Priest Annas (Madrazo, 1803)
Matthew intensifies this by reporting that “the people as a whole answered, ‘His blood be on us and on our children!’“ (Matt 27:25). John’s Gospel reports that “the Jews cried out, ‘If you release this man, you are no friend of the emperor. Everyone who claims to be a king sets himself against the emperor.’” (John 19:12), reinforced by the later statement by the chief priests, “we have no king but the emperor” (John 19:15).
This telling of the story is, in my view, a rhetorical strategy which is employed by all four evangelists. It may well have been a common stance across the early church. The central problematic for the earliest followers of Jesus must have been that their leader, Jesus of Nazareth, was crucified by the Romans, who held great power at the time.
Crucifixion was a Roman punishment, and Jesus was crucified as a political rebel, on the basis of the notion that he was claiming to be “King of the Jews”. The phrase recurs as a regular refrain throughout all four accounts of the crucifixion (Mark 15:2,9,12,18,26; Matt 27:11,28–29,37,42; Luke 23:2–3,37-38; John 18:33,37,39; 19:3,12,14,15,19–22).
To identify as a follower of Jesus would be to stand in solidarity with him as a rebel, an unwanted criminal who was rightly (in Roman eyes) punished with death. That would be a very dangerous (and foolish!) place to want to stand. So a different strategy was required.
At the same time as the early church was considering how to continue living without being seen as a rebellious movement in the Roman Empire, a slow and growing struggle for this movement was taking place—initially, in just a few places, then spreading to many other places. The struggle was with the leadership of the local synagogue.
The Pharisees, in the decades after the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, had been gaining a dominant position amongst Jews of the time. The tensions between the followers of Jesus and the Pharisees grew and developed over time. The way the Gospels report on the interactions between Jesus and the Pharisees reflects the intensification of this relationship.
So, the Pharisees placed demands on the followers of Jesus, especially when made claims that Jesus was the Messiah. The earliest followers were all Jews, and they remained the dominant group in the movement for some decades. The followers of Jesus became increasingly discontented with their lives in the Jewish community, under the rule of the Pharisees. Accusations grew; tensions increased; conflict burst out into the open.
So, in retelling the story of how Jesus met his end, the followers of Jesus began, not only to downplay the role played by the Roman Governor (a very practical strategy, to be sure!), but also to increase the culpability of the Jewish authorities. And so grew the narrative of the last days, the arrest, trial, and sentencing of Jesus, that we are familiar with from the Gospels in the Bible.
The trap we must avoid, then, is this: do not read the Gospel narratives as straightforward, unadorned historical narratives. Do not accept “at face value” all that is recorded in those chapters. Apply careful, reasoned criticism as you approach the text. Consider the narrative of the passion, not only in its literary context, but in the context of the religious, social and political streams that were swirling in the later first century.
And invite those who reflect with you, or listen to your words, or read the stories in the text, to do the same—not to blame “the Jews” for what happened to Jesus; but rather, to consider how the story may well have been shaped, over the decades, in the face of the pressures and stresses of life for the early followers of Jesus, in the Roman Empire, with growing antagonism from (and towards) the Jewish authorities.
This is certainly quite consistent with the policy adopted by the Uniting Church National Assembly in 2009, which declares that “The Uniting Church acknowledges with repentance a history of interpretation of New Testament texts which has often failed to appreciate the context from which these texts emerged, viz. the growing separation of Christianity and Judaism with attendant bitterness and antagonism, resulting in deeply rooted anti-Jewish misunderstandings” (para. 9).
The Statement on Jews and Judaism also affirms that “The Uniting Church does not accept Christian teaching that is derogatory towards Jews and Judaism” (para. 16). We need to hold to this in what we preach at Easter.
All four Gospels report the arrival of Jesus in the city of Jerusalem, at the festival of Passover (Pesach), one of the three great Jewish festivals. Jesus enters the city along with countless other pilgrims travelling the winding route to Jerusalem, climbing the hills outside the city as they make their way to the capital of ancient Israel.
All four Gospels report this scene. This year, as we are in Year C of the Revised Common Lectionary, we hear the account offered in the orderly account of the things coming to fulfilment amongst us (Luke 19;28-40). As we hear this account, we can well imagine that he air was filled with the noisy, bustling sounds of these pilgrims, excited with anticipation as they make their way to offer their sacrifices to the Lord God, residing in the Holy of Holies, the inner court of the Temple.
Passover was a central religious celebration. Passover, the festival of unleavened bread, recalled the hurried departure of the people, long ago, from captivity in Egypt (Exodus 13). This was the foundational myth at the heart of Jewish identity: a story of the liberating actions of God, in the face of the military might of the Egyptians, the liberation of the people from their time of enforced slavery, as they set out, across the wilderness, to the land they had been promised (Exodus 14–17 and beyond).
Passover was also a thoroughly politicised procession of pilgrims, wending their way to the holy city, the city of peace. At Passover, lambs were roasted and eaten as a sign of the liberation of the people; bitter herbs were sprinkled eaten as a reminder of the bitterness of the slavery that they were escaping. Passover celebrated the intervention of God into the social and political situation of those ancient Israelites. So, the Passover pilgrims celebrate this ancient political action of God as the fundamental paradigm for what their faith means for them: “Yes, God is for us! Yes, God will save us!”
Passover was therefore a time of high alert for the Roman soldiers, looking out from the Antonia Fortress next to the temple, watching with care every move that was taking place in the approaches to the city. They knew, from many years’ experience, that the city swelled with the influx of pilgrims each year at this time, as the pilgrims made their way towards Jerusalem. They knew of the potential for dispute and conflict that simmered underneath the crowds. They knew that the pilgrims, would be attuned to the charged political consequences of this festival.
So the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee entered the city. Luke reports that he had long been preaching the good news of the kingdom of God (Luke 4:43; 8:1; 9:11), a kingdom for the poor and hungry (6:20–21), a kingdom that was coming soon (9:27) and was even in their midst (9:2; 10:9, 11; 11:20; 17:20–21).
This kingdom would be marked by God’s justice (13:28-30); those on the edge or cast out of society would be welcomed into the kingdom (14:13, 22). Jesus came into the city as the king, bringing peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven (19:38). The festival of Passover was a most appropriate time for him to enter the city and make his mark.
Contemporary re-enactments of this scene, taking place every year in worship services around the globe, depict it as a time of unbridled joy. That is faithful to the original scene–it was a time of high jubilation, as the people of Israel remembered their history. Children are often involved in re-enacting the “procession of palms”, walking alongside adults, waving their carefully-cut palm branches in the air. In churches with a commitment to high liturgy, those palm branches are carefully collected and stored for the following year, when they are burned to provide the ashes for the next Ash Wednesday service.
Some brave worship leaders even recruit animals to take part in the procession. To the joyful exuberance of the children, they may well add an element of unplanned chaos to the event! At any rate, there is often mention made of the striking juxtaposition of the high joy of Palm Sunday, to the sombre scene of the last meal on Maundy Thursday, and the devastating grief of the story retold on Good Friday. All of which is fair, and good.
What is perhaps not often addressed, either in the Liturgy of the Palms, or in the homilies and sermons on the story, is the deep sense of political intention that is embedded within the storyline. A number of elements in the story reflect this political dimension: the shouts of the crowd, the waving of branches (palm branches are specifically mentioned only in John’s account), the laying of cloaks on the ground, the choice of the animal on which Jesus rides: all of these would have had clear political resonances to the Jewish crowd (and perhaps would have been known to the commanders of the Roman soldiers).
I have written a series of blogs that canvass these aspects, which can be read as follows:
“The Lord God has given me the tongue of a teacher, that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word” (Isa 50:4). So begins this Sunday’s Hebrew Scripture selection that is offered by the lectionary—yet another passage from the section of Isaiah which is set in the period when Israel was in exile in Babylon. We have read other passages from this section of Isaiah on Lent 3 and Lent 5.
In considering those passages (Isa 43 and Isa 55), we noted that the experience of exile was experienced as a time of great difficulty for the people of Israel. The hope for a return to the land of Israel was strong and insistent throughout those years of exile. The imagery in the verses immediately before this passage (50:2–3) clearly convey this bitter sense. Hope is waning amongst the people. There is a need for strong leadership.
In this section of the text, the anonymous prophet speaks of an unnamed figure who will take on this function. He is known as the Servant (50:10).
In this song, the Servant specifically identifies himself as a Teacher, to encourage the weary and offer them hope (50:4). The Teacher is resolute, determined, fully committed. Yet he encounters opposition, resistance, aggression. He is called to stand up for what is right in the face of opposition (50:8) as well as to endure the negativity and abuse from those opponents (50:6). The call he has received is not an easy task. It requires resilience, being able to see the long view in the midst of immediate setbacks. The Servant, says the prophet, has “set my face like flint” (50:7).
The use of the term Servant at 50:10 (as well as at 42:1; 49:3, 5, 6; 52:13; 53:11) means that this passage is one of four songs known collectively as The Servant Songs (42:1–9; 49:1–7; 50:4–11; and 52:13–53:12). The identification of the Servant is contested. Do the songs refer to an individual? Or is the term intended to refer to the collective experience of Israel, as a nation? Certainly the hardships and oppression of life under various empires—Egyptian, Assyrian, and Babylonian—would attest to this latter identification.
Another aspect which points to a collective understanding (the whole nation as the Servant of the Lord) is the occurrence of the imagery of light. Israel as “a light to the nations” (42:6; 49:6) reflects a national understanding, developing and extending the earlier sense that nations would come to Zion to worship God (Isa 2:2–4; Mic 4:1–4).
Both of these elements feed into the later Christian interpretation that these song provide a prefiguring of the person of Jesus, “the servant of the Lord” (Acts 3:13, 4:27). The way that Jesus was treated in his trials and on the cross resemble the mistreatment of the Servant—and worse. The insistent description of suffering in 52:13–53:12 particularly correlates with the sufferings of Jesus in his passion (Acts 8:32–33; 1 Peter 2:21–25).
And the universal extent of the “light to the nations” image is also deliberately applied to the way the message about Jesus spread across the world (Luke 2:29–32; Acts 13:47; 26:23). In Christian interpretation, the songs of the Servant are usually taken to provide a pointer to the fate of Jesus—dedicated to God, committed to his calling, speaking forth with passion, enduring opposition, being utterly humiliated and thoroughly abused, and dying an abject death. Yet the power of the figure of the Servant was such that—for Israel, and for followers of Jesus—the message and example of the Servant (be that Israel, or Jesus) lived on for centuries.
“Oh, no—not another ZOOM meeting!” How often have you heard this lament? I confess, it has been uttered with some frequency in my household, over the last two years—with increasing frequency in the past 6–8 months!
Committee meetings. Worship services. Catch-ups over coffee. Bible study groups. Seminars. Why, even full conferences have been held online, by means of ZOOM. ZOOM meetings of Presbytery. ZOOM meetings of Church Council. Even the state-wide 2021 Synod was held online (although on a different platform from ZOOM).
Early on in the pandemic, the Synod organised for all Congregations to have a ZOOM account at a reduced rate, especially for church organisations. It meant that we were able to maintain connections with friends, family, people in our Congregation, people across the Presbytery, despite all the restrictions and lockdowns. There have been lots of online gatherings. People have been grateful for the continuation of connection that online gatherings have provided. And yet, people are getting weary of it. “Not another ZOOM meeting!”
However, there has been one opportunity for meeting online that has a different feel about it. It has only recently started. It has just begun to gain momentum in the past few weeks. At the beginning of Lent, opportunity was provided for people to gather, briefly, online, at the start of each day, and towards the end of the afternoon, for Daily Prayers. The offer was for something that lasted 8–10 minutes, a regular pattern of prayer, each weekday. It was an initiative of Elizabeth Raine, minister of the Tuggeranong Congregation, and was advertised across the Presbytery as well as on the TUC Facebook page.
Over five weeks, now, the online community has been meeting. There are about 20 people who participate—although, in true church style, “you never see them all together at the one time”, just like most Sunday morning worshipping communities! Over the weeks, the community of prayer has formed; the pattern and routine are becoming familiar. Each time, there are 8, 10, sometimes 12 or 13 people online. It changes each time.
The centering of heart and spirit for the day is now an expected part of each weekday morning. The slowing and gathering together at the end of the day is also a regular routine. And the invitation to reflect back on the past seven days, on Friday at 6pm, brings a sense of completion to the week. Each day the resources of the Northumbria Community (a dispersed monastic community) are used, providing reflective prayers, short scripture passages, and an opportunity to reflect in silence and then with gentle music.
But more than this has been taking place. The community of prayer has become a community of care. Some folks log in a few minutes early, chat with each other, share their news, and exchange plans for the day. More recently, one person reported that their partner was moving into palliative care. Those present, hearing this news, have ensured that this person and their partner are remembered in prayer; one participant has ensured that practical help and support is provided. Those gathering make gentle enquiries before prayers begin. The community of prayer has become a community of care.
And even more: the community of prayer, now a community of care, has become a community to share with still more people. Those participating are largely members of the Tuggeranong Congregation. A few people from elsewhere participate in the weekly online Bible Study of the Tuggeranong Congregation; some folks from elsewhere in Canberra, someone 300kms north, another person 250kms west, are joining in regularly for prayer.
Facebook advertising has drawn the group to the attention of a person in a large rural town; they are now “part of the group”, participating regularly. A welcome voice, an assurance of gratitude that they have joined, a clear expression that “we are glad you are here; you belong!” is all that it takes. The community is there, to share with others.
This is how the Church is meant to function! An open community, focussed around our spiritual needs; an invitational community, welcoming people in and actively ensuring that they are made to feel comfortable, valued, a part of the group. And offering food for the soul, a prayer gathering, can be a doorway into community as much as offering food for the body, a soup kitchen, or food for the mind, a Bible study group, or food for our relationships, a community worship service. For this Lenten experience, I am most grateful.
To join the Daily Prayer, go to the TUC website ( https://tuc.org.au ) and click on the Church Services icon.
An Informed Faith 