Giles Winterborne and Good Friday

Warning - Spoiler of two great stories

There's a scene towards the end of Hardy's Woodlanders where Grace, having run from her evil philandering husband, ends up hiding in the woodland hut of Giles Winterborne.

Giles is suffering from one of those unspecified diseases that tended to wipe out Victorians if they so much as got their feet wet. But because it would be improper - and a smudge on Grace's character were it ever to be discovered - he refuses to stay in the hut with her and instead stays outside, in a leaky shelter, with non-hilarious consequences.

Giles is one of those Hardy heroes I like. The smug, prissy, spoilt Angel Clare and the earnest, gormless Clym Yeobright are a couple that I don't. But I still want to slap Giles, because he's a fool and he's so obviously wrong. He could marry the natural, impulsive Marty South - she'd make a great wife. He'd never know social graces and refined conversation - so what? What did they ever achieve? But he loves Grace. She makes a fool of him, and it kills him.

I feel a bit like that as Jesus drags that cross down the Via Dolorosa. If you're God's Son - why did you want to make us? When at the beginning of Creation you defined the Logic of the Universe - as your Father breathed Life into it - with all that perfection and beauty why did you envisage this scruffy race polluting such a beautiful blue island in the void?

Maybe you've a billion beautiful, talented, peaceful races strung like the sands of the sea shore across the dark of infinity - maybe they don't need saving, maybe they do. But if you had all that choice - why would you fall in love with us? Even if we're alone in the universe - why would you do it? Why love us? Who would do something so foolish? Why not go off and build another race - a less foolish one, on a planet less blighted? A race that won't demand the life of its noblest, finest member but instead would bow down and worship without all that sacrifice?

Well, it is as it is. Like Giles, you've made your bed, Jesus, and you're going to have to lie in it. There's nothing more human than a senseless, heroic gesture. But then there's nothing more divine than knowing which one to make.

Gethsemane

Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane - G.B. Tiepolo from Free Christ Images 

And it seems an age now,

the easy friendship around the table,

bread and wine and herbs, the stories and psalms

and the deepest words, so softly spoken.

But what feels so close now,

a loaded court and a dawn appearance

kicking, punching,  the spittle and shame

the fear of friends and the hate of others.

And it seems to loom now,

the hanging hours on a Roman gallows

blood and water, the mocking rebels

the sword plunged in a mother's breaking heart.

Is there more to see now?

Dim-seen light on a chilly grey morning

fleeing devils and the light of heaven

and Mary clinging, her joy beyond words.

But for now, there's just now.
A life just ending and a cup to drink
sleeping comrades and an angel's embrace
the coming footsteps, and that fateful kiss.

Washing Feet

Now, some Beaker Folk have been pressing for us to include Feet-washing as part of this evening's Maundy Thursday Meal. And the more dangerous element have been suggesting that the Leader ought to do it.

I don't know, it just doesn't feel right. I mean, it was OK for Jesus - he was naturally humble. You could see how he could pull it off. In those days all the leaders were blood-thirsty types, slave-owning farmers, tyrants like Caesar - so for Jesus to wash the disciples' feet made a real point about being a servant.

Whereas today we're a lot more managerial. You wouldn't expect Sir Alan Sugar to go washing the feet of his would-be apprentices, would you? And David Cameron wouldn't go out doing things like that, either - though he might have people to do that sort of thing for him. So it's not about not possessing humility - this is about preserving dignity.

And of course in those organic, free-range days, all the dust was nice and clean.
Whereas the roads today - they're covered in post-industrial dusts, and heavy metals from catalytic convertors - oh no, if someone these days had been walking down the roads in bare feet, their feet would be in a right state.  Nobody could be expected to take that chance.

And then, in Jesus' day they had different codes regarding personal space. Although Our Lord was perfect in many ways, he wasn't English. Whereas I am. And I'm not going all Continental just for Holy Week.

But don't get me wrong. The core of what Our Lord did - acting as a servant, showing devotion, carrying out an act of tenderness and duty - should act as an example to us all. So I'm not rejecting the idea - just updating it to these troubled, post-modern times when we know just how infectious Athlete's Foot can be.

So this evening after our Not-Quite-a-Passover Meal, when we've enjoyed Bernie's taste-free Vegetarian Morocco Casserole, we shall have the Passing Round of the Soap. Everyone will get a fresh, new bar of soap - what could be more humble than me actually sending Young Keith down to Tesco to get each of you a free bar of Value soap?

But then we will all depart in silence, as befits a solemn occasion, and you can wash your feet in the privacy of your own rooms. I don't want a load of sweaty feet being washed in the Moot House. Ugh. It's meant to be a holy place.

A Sad Farewell to a Prophet

Stations of the cross: St Alban's, Holborn.

A mother's nightmare

...and a Father's, too.

Image from St Alban's Holborn

Last Supper and New Moon

I had a visitor the other day arrive on the site searching for "Last Supper and New Moon".  It's an interesting combination of blog search terms.  Because, without reading the mind of the searcher, I'm going to guess that (s)he was checking out the theory that the darkness at the crucifixion was caused by a solar eclipse.  It would chime in nicely with the Victorian Liberals' explaining away of everything miraculous.

Well not this one.  Like the Beaker Folk, Jews like their celebrations - or certainly the Passover one - at Full Moon.  And at Full Moon the moon is opposite the sun in the sky.  So you don't get a solar eclipse, which only happens at New Moon when the moon is right in front of the sun.  Lunar eclipses, of course, happen at Full Moon.

All day long I have held out my hands

Image from St Alban's, Holborn

It's just a job I do

"Crucifixion?
Good.  Out of the door, line on the left, one cross each."

You may not like the Life of Brian, but they caught the dispassionate nature of Roman slaughter just right there.

6,000  followers of Spartacus. Hundreds in the Jewish wars.  A rebel here, a bandit there.

So he was just one more.  Not even a statistic.  Just one more dead Jew.  On one more cross.

Just one more.  Just like so many others.  Just one more.

The politics of feeling Good

So I've had numerous complaints from the Beaker People about the series of Lenten and then Holy Week themes.  They said I've been a bit gloomy talking about temptation and death and suffering and stuff. But you know, I thought it was important that we put a bit of depth; some seriousness and consideration into our Beaker ritual year.

I mean, we do talk about the cycles of the season and all the rest of it - the ups and downs, the dying and waking of nature. But in fact, when you get down to it, we kind of don't like the bad bits. Apart from St Morrissey's Day, and St Thomas of Mellstock's Day, we don't ever really get any down moods at all. And even on those days, there's still the relief of, for example, going aroung pretending to be a Dorset yokel and painting on fake smallpox scars. Which is why, for all that it's supposed to be Lent, most of the Beaker Folk have been going to work on a Creme Egg since early January.

The main reason the Beaker Folk shy away from Easter in particular is that it includes death. And they don't like that one little bit. They suspect that, if even God had to die, then they might have to face that as well. And they're not happy with it. On the whole they have less problem with the pain and the cross per se, as they're happy to reflect on the knowledge that the suffering was happening to someone else. But they feel that at a time when the spring is springing and birds are building nests and daffydowndillies are bloomin and frogs are busy making little frogs, all this obsession with death and tombs is a bit in bad taste. And they told me if I kept going on about it, they'd decide it was time for a holiday. They said what good was the so-called Gospel if all I did was keep telling them bad news?

So I've just got back from a walk to find a note telling me they've all cleared off. They're staying at a Travel Lodge on the south coast from now till Sunday, when they're coming back for the traditional Throwing the Eggs over the Moot House rituals. They like Easter Sunday. It's a happy day.

A seamless robe

And 2000 years on
men and women
are still treated
as objects
to be bought
to be sold
to be abused
to be thrown away.

---

"Stations of the Cross" from St Alban the Martyr, Holborn.

A Fall

Let me cling to the One 
who falls to where we are Fallen
And lifts us up to where He sits. 

---

"Stations of the Cross" from St Alban the Martyr, Holborn.

Two processions

Five days earlier they'd cheered the coming King.

Simon had been looking forward to a peaceful Passover.

The earthly Powers had been shaking.

But the Hosannas echoed back as "Crucify", and died away as sobbing.

Simon had a job to do.

And it wasn't the earthly Powers that were shaking.

---

"Stations of the Cross" from St Alban the Martyr, Holborn.