I am pleased to announce that after an interregnum due to work commitments I am now in a position to begin blogging again. Please visit my new website, visualtheology.uk, for all my new content, which will shortly include videos on YouTube too.
Love and peace, David
I have taken the opportunity to rename and refresh my blog. I now blog at visualtheology.blogspot.com and davesdistrictblog remains here with all its content as an archive.
The new name reflects the purpose of the blog more accurately and sums up what I am trying to achieve through the use of photography. I hope you continue to enjoy my work.
Please check that your rss feeds and bookmarks are set for the new blog.
Love and peace, Dave
If divine presence is an unvarying constant, a given term in our theological equations like the speed of light in physics, then our awareness of God is not. On the human side of the equation everything seems to be in a constant perceptual flux, like the wind, rain and sunshine of this Easter weekend. For me picturing God and capturing decisive moments of spiritual meaning-making has far more to do with the art of photography than with the intellectual pursuit of truth through philosophy and academic theology. Beauty, not logic, is what ultimately persuades my soul of the enfolding presence of God’s love. Images and not arguments convince my heart to trust. Why? Surely it is because love is primarily sensual and experiential rather than intellectual and propositional. ‘God is love’ is not simply a gobbet to be deconstructed and picked over; it is a living, breathing, passionate truth which encounters us personally. This line of thinking has been triggered again for me by Madeleine Bunting’s excellent piece in today’s Guardian ‘God is attracting more debate than ever’. She says
“The faithful are not mugging up on critiques of reason for an argument with New Atheism, but turning to religion to offer meaning and purpose…This search for meaning is part of what drives the religious spirit….belief is a commitment not a proposition; faith, as in "I have faith in you", is an expression of confidence, not an assertion of the existence of something. Dogma is "a truth which cannot easily be put into words and which can only be fully understood through long experience" – rather like the love of a parent for their child growing into adulthood.
The loss of the original meanings of all these words show how religious faith in the west came to be interpreted as a matter of the head and the intellect, and was bound up with the authority of an institution which expected submission: God was regarded as something to think about rather than do in large chunks of western religious practice…
The paradox of New Atheism is that in its bid to make religion unacceptable, it has contributed to making it a subject that is considered worth talking about again…God hasn't attracted this quantity or intensity of debate for decades.”
Meaning and purpose often come as flashes of insight, like the light catching the reeds in the photograph. Light makes photographs. The quality, quantity and direction of light is principally what brings an image to life. It determines the contrast between the various components of the picture. For a few moments the light paints a composition which holds our attention, then it is gone, and the scene is rendered flatter and somewhat lifeless. The photographers particular viewpoint coupled with their choice of lens and their judgement of the best moment to press the shutter determine whether the response to this enlightening gift is dull or arresting. I would contend that our faith is enriched most by those mystics whose spirituality has a recognisable style in respect of their generous seeing and appreciation of God’s love-light and the distinctiveness of their inclusive point of view. Pondering my own story I realise that Julian of Norwich, the Celtic Saints, Aelred of Rievaulx, St Francis, Hildegard of Bingen, St. John of the Cross, John Wesley, Thomas Merton, Joan Chittister are the sorts of names which spring to mind, gifted artists of light each one. And many more ordinary Christians whose faith, companionship and support has shaped my own seeing of God’s love in the world around me and pulled it into sharp focus.
In often fleeting moments of deep contrast, the light of the world invites us to see, record and share the brilliance of resurrection which is such an unvarying constant of God’s loving presence and intention.
With each passing year this wooden wreck disappears a little bit more completely. It is difficult now to imagine it as it would have been when new, freshly varnished and painted. I suppose it could even have been a tiny jetty; my untrained eye struggles to make sense of the wooden skeleton poking up through the enveloping mud. And what of those whose craftsmanship and energy constructed this rowboat, skiff or landing, are they lost forever too? I am left wondering what was in the minds of those who first used it and of the stories of which it was a part. Whatever its original form and purpose, life here has long since gone on without it. Looking down at these pathetic remains resurrection seems irrelevant and unengaged, a word denied meaning by the cloying mud and the ravages of time. But what if I am looking in the wrong place?
In his autobiography ‘The Eye of the Wind’, the acclaimed naturalist Peter Scott recalled a wonderful piece of wisdom which was offered to him by a Sikh in the RAF. Scott was a naval officer, but in August 1941 he wanted to have a couple of trips with Bomber Command so as to better understand that aspect of the war. Singh, the second pilot of a Stirling bomber in which Scott was to fly that night, said this to him: “Tonight, when you are looking out of the window, if you see something you do not like, look out of a different window.” As Scott acknowledged, this simple piece of advice seems applicable well beyond its original context.
How sad it is to look out and dwell on all the things in life which resemble the wreck in the photograph. Once a valued ‘given’ of our everyday world, now they are gone and are lost forever. Destruction, decay and death seem to have an inexorable grip upon our perception. But what if we look out of a different window? What if we frame our seeing from the standpoint of resurrection? What do we see then? Well the wreck is still at wreck, it is not magically transformed and restored to its prime. It does not rise phoenix-like from its muddy tomb. But looking around it soon becomes apparent that the purpose for which it was built is still evident today. Looking out of a different window, as it were, and just a few tens of metres away from the wreck, this is what we see.
Out of the water and perched on the mud a boat is tied up next to a small landing stage. The particular craft that became the wreck was clearly not an ending. The sea still entices people to cast off from this place and venture out on the tide. This unchanging purpose and intention are as real as the salt on the breeze and as tangible as the call of the lone curlew away on the marsh.
At Easter we celebrate the spectacular view from the window of God’s creative love at work in the world. Jesus takes us by the hand and points to where we should look. From wreck to resurrection. And within our imaginations the salt-fresh tang of the Holy Spirit’s presence births the divine purpose afresh. The tide turns and we are minded to voyage.
As his life ebbs away the cross of Jesus casts a deep shadow. This absence of light imposes itself across the landscape like a shroud. All that sparkles and shimmers in humanity seems threatened by enveloping darkness. Evil and wickedness blot out these love lit highlights, leaving the surface of life devoid of the luminous and bereft of enlightenment. Dark stitches of death embroider hopelessness and dejection within the fabric of reality.
As his life ebbs away the cross of Jesus casts a bright light across the unlit wasteland of dejected humanity and disempowered belief. The light of divine love blazes with fierce, self-giving intensity. The creative word unleashes hope with astonishing power: ‘Let there be light’. All that is dark and shadow-cursed is transformed by the pure white brilliance of grace delighting in the human. Violence and hatred disappear, wickedness is overwhelmed and death served notice to quit. The bright stitches of God’s presence embroider hopefulness and exhilaration within the fabric of reality.
Cross stitches of darkness and light embroider Good Friday with meaning.
As we approach Good Friday the gospels challenge us to engage in pattern recognition, something at which our brains are particularly adept. We have evolved to be hard wired to see patterns and make sense of what we see. Look at this picture of a rockface in the Scottish Highlands and you should see exactly what I mean. Once you ‘get your eye in’, the arrangements of joints and fissures produce numerous “crosses”. As soon as you start looking for a shape you will usually start to see it all around you.
Look for the cross in the weatherbeaten and fractured surfaces of everyday life and for sure you will find it. The meanings signified by this pre-eminent symbol of Easter are easily discerned, because all around us there is suffering, pain, agony, cruelty, violence, injustice, loss and distress. As recounted in the gospels the death of Jesus spares no indignity to its victim and causes immense distress to those closest to him. Nor does it hide from us the blunt realities of facing the end of life. Mapping these experiences from the first century onto our twenty first century world is not difficult; the psychological patterns are clearly recognisable today.
Interpreting their meaning theologically, however, is fraught with difficulty. In what way is the death of Jesus about God being at one with suffering humanity? This simple question exposes one of the main fault lines within Christianity today, our theological equivalent of the Pacific ‘ring of fire’ (for example see Gladys Ganiel’s post about reactions to Brian McLaren’s ‘A New Kind Of Christianity’ for a snapshot of what I mean’)
Is the crucifixion and death of Jesus a transaction or a demonstration? Is it a divine transaction which balances the books and gets the human account out of the red, a sacrifice demanded by God in which Jesus takes our place and suffers our due punishment? Or is it a divine act of demonstration – in both senses of that word – in which God in Jesus demonstrates the self-giving depths to which love goes for the sake of those beloved by God and demonstrates against all the forces of injustice which deny life to those same beloved? The notion of demonstration seems entirely consistent with the Kingdom lifestyle, actions and teaching of Jesus. His death was the predictable outcome of his revolutionary non-violent stance against the forces of oppression, exploitation, inequality and cruelty of his time, as one who stood firmly within the radical socio-salvific teaching and tradition of the Hebrew prophets.
It is this theological pattern which is so instantly recognisable today too. All around us the cross is evident as people take up its challenge and follow in the footsteps of Jesus to confront all that is wrong. God’s passionate love for this beloved world is being demonstrated by people of courage right across the globe. The resurrection of Jesus demonstrates that the power of love is ultimate and will not be denied. Look carefully and the cross can be found everywhere.
To the botanically uninitiated the exposed root system of this otherwise unremarkable tree is a staggering and wholly unexpected sight. Normally the roots are hidden away below ground level, but here the River Ure has washed away the bank side soil and exposed them to the atmosphere and not least to the wonderment of passers by. These roots both nourish the tree and anchor it within the ground. They are the vital key to its continuing success or failure. In large measure they determine its capacity to withstand the threats and hazards of the changing seasons in this habitat, everything from drought, inundation and raging storm. To be uprooted would be a total calamity, a natural catastrophe from which there would be little hope of recovery.
I have the sense that during Holy Week the roots of our faith as Christians are similarly exposed for all to see. This sight is equally surprising and also has the capacity to astonish the casual observer. Hidden away beneath the surface of a healthy faith is a remarkable system which likewise anchors us within our immediate context in God and the world, and nourishes and sustains us. It helps us to withstand the many vicissitudes and challenges which life brings to us. Without it we would be all too easily uprooted in our faith.
As we walk with Jesus through the events of Holy Week what do we discern beneath the surface regarding his own faith-rootedness which gives us the pattern for our own? As I have pondered this question for myself several possibilities have emerged; you can no doubt think of many others:
To be grounded, enfolded and held fast in our personal experience of the truth of God’s love
Confident that nothing can separate us from the loving presence of God
Knowing that there is nothing that such love cannot face
Being completely open to the empowering and transforming presence of God’s creative Spirit
Courage and integrity to follow the purposeful way of God’s liberating Kingdom
Strength and resolve to face up to all that is wrong
Willingness to accept the personal consequences of loving like God loves
Absolutely committed to be the human face of God’s love to and for others
It seems to me that in this way Jesus was already living what an Easter faith looks like. He was demonstrating what resurrection power can do in the life of the faithful. Without such rootedness and sustenance beneath the surface of his journey to Calvary it is difficult to see how Jesus could have given himself for the sake of love in the way that he did. Jesus lived and modelled the Kingdom life in action to the end. He only ever dealt with truth and reality. He steadfastly encouraged those around him in their discipleship and mission, no matter how tough the going got. He challenged those with responsibility and authority with the consequences of their actions and held them accountable.
And he calls us to follow him as those rooted and grounded in the same faith. Beneath the surface of church, discipleship and mission we should always find the vibrant truth of Easter.
A risk assessment for a typical English Good Friday would conclude that there is no undue cause for concern as far as the religious element of the bank holiday is concerned. It is as threatening as a children’s play area. Safe, benign and predictable would adequately describe what is likely to unfold; bold revolutionary fervour challenging the dominant world order, does not. The Stations of the Cross might as well refer to a succession of sleepy rural stopping places on a bucolic 1950’s branch line railway, for all the sense of radical resistance to the forces of oppression which they engender nowadays. The crucifixion too is stripped of anything which might offend our sensibilities. It has the character of the classic black and white ‘Brief Encounter’ type of British Cinema: cut glass accents, impeccable manners, emotions acknowledged but held firmly in check, all stiff-upper lip, decent and upper middle-class. All this is wrapped around with ‘there is a green hill’ sentimentality and topped off with a doctrinal framework of substitutionary atonement which resembles an out of court settlement reached between specialists in corporate litigation.
For 2000 years Christians have been unwilling or unable to stomach the truth that Jesus was murdered by the state. Now this is not something your average official state religion is going to major on when the time comes to celebrate the events of Holy Week. Not a wise move during the time of the Roman Empire under Constantine for sure. Nor for that matter during the British Empire under Queen Victoria. The prospect of the church encouraging the general populus to reflect annually upon the seedier aspects of imperial power and of the consequences of their being governed by ruling elites would have been viewed as treasonable and seditious, something to be avoided at all costs. Far better to doctrinalise its power away and make it an individual issue between the believer, God and Jesus Christ. Better to say that he died for them than admit that he was murdered by the state for being a troublemaking one of them. A neat trick this, which has served the alliance between church and state well down the centuries.
But put into contemporary terms the truth of Holy Week still has the power to shock.
The interplay between civil liberties and the rights of the individual versus the collective security of the state are current, pressing and very much in the news. Torture, extraordinary rendition and imprisonment without trial are not just tactics of the Roman Empire in the time of Christ, or of Stalin's Soviet Union, they are practised now in the name of western democracies, allegedly for our common benefit. States do not take kindly to citizens questioning their methods and motivation. We are expected to accept that such things are necessary in order for us to sleep safely in our beds. Politicians loathe being held to account for their actions.
Holy Week is a wake up call from God which should inspire us to non-violent action. If it renders us compliant and tame it has failed utterly. If it reawakens in us a sense of holy outrage against all that conspires to oppress and harm ordinary people then it will have achieved its purpose, for then we will truly be following in the footsteps of Jesus. A Very English Crucifixion is the last thing we need. An authentic Palestinian one, complete with the horrors of foreign military occupation and oppression, most certainly is.
So the death of Jesus is not safe, benign and predictable. In no sense is it a play area for children. It is dangerous. This is risky territory, not to be entered lightly. It is the spark which ignites the flame of radical action and which changes lives forever. It is holy ground and the place where good and evil, light and darkness, fight to the death. And new life, rising, has the last living word.
They left the tomb and broke the news of all this to the Eleven and the rest. Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them kept telling these things to the apostles, but the apostles didn't believe a word of it, thought they were making it all up. But Peter jumped to his feet and ran to the tomb. He stooped to look in and saw a few grave clothes, that's all. He walked away puzzled, shaking his head (Luke 24:9-12)
A salvage company which looks derelict and in need of salvage itself does not inspire confidence. I think this is one instance of appearances not being deceptive. The premises seem deserted, empty and devoid of life, the building resembling the disappointing shell-like void of a snail that has long since died. There is no light, no sound and no movement. Behind the brightly painted white doors, with their bold purposeful logo and more recent graffiti, all is quiet and still, like death.
Looking at these images we are left with questions: has the business gone bust or simply relocated elsewhere? Are divers still working? Will anyone answer the phone? What became of Marco? Are Daz and Caz still in love? Who or what does ‘em’ signify? What is on the doors is as fascinating as what is absent behind them. The power of story and human interest is compelling.
As are the gospel narratives set for Easter Day. Looking at the stories of that resurrection dawn is similar to standing in front of the empty building of United Salvage; we are confronted with mystery, enigma and questions. People of faith believe that God is in the salvage business, raising wrecked lives and refloating sunken humanity. Our inherited tradition is of God diving deep below the surface of life into all that is wrong and hazardous, and of dignity, hope and fresh resolve emerging from the depths of all which was deemed lost and irrecoverable. Yet God’s revolutionary paradigm of love in Jesus was scuttled and sent to the bottom on Good Friday. The disciples had watched the disaster unfold. They had witnessed the waves of death claiming Jesus. To these grief-stricken, distraught, confused and despondent people the kingdom of God appeared deserted, empty and devoid of life. Behind their doors all seemed quiet and deathly. The graffiti of hopelessness was written on their faith. From both outside and inside the whole edifice of the Jesus movement now looked derelict and forlorn, a salvage company that could not salvage itself.
By Easter morning some his closest friends and followers began to realise that somehow its immediacy and power had resurfaced. There was indeed something to be salvaged. But it all seemed so improbable, so enigmatic and wrapped around with so many questions. Was the appearance of the empty tomb deceptive? What on earth was going on? What could they hope for? What would happen to them now? What had become of Jesus? What did the women’s experience signify? Did God still love them?
And it was from this empty void and out of the seemingly derelict premises of this failed movement that new life and energy emerged. God salvaged these people. For each of them in turn resurrection was transformed from a distant far-fetched concept into an immediate experience of face to face encounter. God raised Jesus to life in their consciousness and intention. The reality of his loving presence became compelling and energising.
It is just as puzzling and powerful today.
As the tide ebbs in the estuary the river reveals the muddy truth of its channel. Great banks of sludgy sediment, feet thick and sculpted by the current, deter all but the most curious or foolhardy from descending the iron ladder to explore their pungent and glutinous depths.
But we should at least look on the grey-brown gloop with respect. Here history is deposited at our feet. The grains and particles of sediment were weathered and eroded from landscapes near and far, each with their own story. Once they would have been part of rock, gravel, sand or soil. Sunshine, rain, wind, ice and flowing water wrenched them away to rest here for a while. Perhaps in time to come they will be reformed into solid rock again by geology’s hidden processes of genesis. For now they spend much of the time submerged and out of sight.
As a spiritual parable we can find our own truth here too. All of those experiences, relationships and memories which have shaped our identity are like sediment which is hidden beneath the surface of our life. They steadily accumulate and at times of ebb and low tide are revealed to the world. The unwary can be trapped in their depths and held fast. But it is out of such muddy realities that the bedrock of faith is made. Deep down in our soul, in that place where the pressures of life and the sheer immensity of God’s love come to bear, we are transformed and the hard rock of faith and trust arises. Such is the unseen miracle of grace which tells the truth of resurrection’s timeless process.
Moments of great clarity often occur when the surface of things is perfectly still and mirror-like. In such conditions of profound calm everything can just click into place and make sense. Our seeing becomes deep and crystal clear. The merest breath of wind or the tiniest disturbance will send ripples of confusion out across our perception. The whole picture fragments and distorts. The familiar is rendered strange and we see but don’t comprehend. The arrangements of colours and shapes lose their meaning.
Then patience is a virtue: the ability to sit with and endure the rippling derangement of pattern and order. The courage to watch and wait for that moment, however brief, when the chaos subsides and the incongruous superficialities disappear. To trust that there is an underlying picture which will make sense; one which will be disclosed, revealed and made plain to us. A picture which once seen is never forgotten; one which will therefore enable us to be patient when the ripples of confusion return.
Easter is just such a moment.
With the manhole covers of privilege removed the hidden world of our parliamentarians is not a pretty sight. Peering down into the murky depths the sheer volume of effluent is staggering and the stench is truly appalling. Until recently the raw sewage of political endeavour at Westminster has been filtered and discharged largely unseen and undetected into the flow of national life. This below the surface and beneath the rules outfall was as unknown to most of us as the sewers beneath our streets.
And all the time our politicians have been flushing their integrity and our trust down the drain. The expenses scandal, the Ashcroft affair, the money-making intentions of Byers, Hewitt and Hoon, the freebie trips abroad in return for questions asked in the House, the millions Blair has made since leaving No 10, Cameron and Osborne cosying up to billionaires: politics has been brought into disrepute. Our elected representatives seem enthralled by wealth and mesmerised by the super-rich. And indifferent to the plight of ordinary people.
As the General Election has drawn ever closer our attention has naturally been focussed on the bright yellow lines of legislation and policy which politicians of all persuasions seek to paint across the surface of our national life. It is surprising just how sloppy, shoddy and careless some of it seems when seen close up. Isn’t it just so sad that these days we suspect that their minds are on other things, money and personal aggrandisement for example, with politics simply the means to their own more lucrative, status hungry and power obsessed ends.
Where are the good, decent and honest individuals with a passion for public service and the common good who will put people first and their own personal gain last? I meet them all the time in the life of our churches. I have no doubt that there are many of them in Parliament. Now, more than ever, they need our support and encouragement and we need them to have the courage to disinfect politics.
The issues which face our nation and our world are grave and pressing. We need politicians of the highest calibre and personal integrity to lead us through. Bullies, chancers, arrogant toffs and hot-air merchants just will not do. We deserve better. And we are not stupid. The power of the ballot box is ours to wield.
As a boy I can remember seeing this faded letter framed and in pride of place above the sideboard in my grandparents sitting room. My grandfather had been a top-link driver on the Great Western Railway at Stafford Road shed in Wolverhampton and he took great pride in having driven the royal train in 1955. Reading the text now in these postmodern times I am struck by the culture of deference which is so evident within it. Both this and the class-based social conventions of post-war Britain are long gone. Then the monarchy was still wrapped in majesty and mystique and deference was as natural as breathing. Nowadays, in our meritocratic culture, parity of esteem is the default position and we no longer depend on or defer to external sources of authority. In consequence royalty is seen much more for what it is, namely a rather curious and bizarre relic of an historically and morally dubious institution, rendered anomalous, anachronistic and absurd by the massive changes which have reshaped British society since 1955. That the terms ‘majesty’ and ‘highness’ should be applied to members of particular family and that ‘commoners’ are somehow less worthy sits badly in our celebrity-besotted and unapologetically egalitarian culture. The postmodern turn has swept away deference for good.
And I think that this goes some way towards explaining what has been happening to the churches in the 55 years since my grandfather received his £2 gratuity for driving the royal train. Once deference became passé and authority was located internally within the self it should have come as no surprise that religion was faced with a predicament. If the mystique, majesty and authority surrounding the monarchy was breaking down irretrievably, why should God and the church have fared any better? Respect was something that now had to be earned, not expected by virtue of one’s status and social standing. The radical attitudes of the 1960’s, the quest for equal rights and the struggle against inequality were here to stay. And as part of the old narrative, God and church were woven into the fabric of establishment, power and class. Citizens within a liberated society would not be told what to do or conform to norms, conventions and expectations; they would choose what they wanted to do and decide for themselves. They would no longer play the game as ‘subjects’ of the monarch in a society ordered and stratified by birthright and privilege. Religion became one commodity amongst the many that were on offer, each competing for the time and attention of secularised, emancipated ‘consumers’. Deference was well and truly dead.
So why should someone defer to God when that very model of relating was discredited and redundant? Surrendering one’s precious autonomy to a deity began to look as tenable an option as touching one’s forelock respectfully in the presence of the landed gentry. And of course the tragedy is that religion and church were bundled up with the rest of the cultural mechanisms of subservience whose power and authority had kept us in our place. What I believe is happening in the emerging church movement is the rediscovery that Christianity
is about self-giving love not self-serving power
is about service and not subservience
is about empowering people and not wielding power over them
is about choice and not imposition
is about following Jesus rather than about doing church
is about immersing ourselves joyfully in the presence of God rather than having our noses rubbed in our sinfulness
is about becoming truly human and has nothing to do with committing intellectual suicide or becoming less than we are and can be.
In other words it is all to do with living the gospel and being enlivened by the gospel. It is not about believing gobbledegook or being put down firmly in our place. The manner in which Jesus meets people in the pages of the New Testament should be music to postmodern ears. It is not old-school, old-fashioned or out of touch. Quite the reverse in fact. It feels startlingly contemporary in approach.
I think Jesus is waiting for the church to catch up with him. Perhaps he always is.
Even approaching from a fair distance away it is clear that something is amiss; the wavy shadows cast by the handrails of the little footbridge are wrong. Handrails are always straight so the shadows they cast are straight. What on earth is going on here? And of course the shadows are entirely correct and faithfully reproduce the curvy shapes which are a signature feature of the woodwork of this bridge. It was my assumptions that were at fault.
Often in the life of faith it is as though we are dealing with theological shadows cast across our experience by the reality of God. From these we intimate what God is like. The impact of our faith should correspond to the reality of God’s love and not to the fears and doubts of others. If not, we risk making God in our image as the sum total of our assumptions and ignorance, and how odd would that appear?
You would think that today slavery is a thing of the past, like this long disused and forgotten shackle by the side of the old cobblestoned wharf. Not so. You would think that in an enlightened and progressive society abuse of children and vulnerable adults would be unthinkable. Not so. You would think that extremist politics fuelled by race hatred and supremacist views ended with the Holocaust. Not so. You would think that the church is a safe space in which those in positions of authority and oversight have your best interests at heart. Not so. Experience suggests otherwise.
Paedophile priests in the Catholic Church, the odious policies of the BNP, the deaths of Khyra Ishaq and Baby Peter, and the continuing sex trafficking of women and exploitation of foreign workers all give a loud and clear “Not so”.
Desmond Tutu is absolutely right: good people need to be vigilant.
Look closely and you will discover that the shackles of exploitation and control are never too far away.
So when freedom and liberty are imperilled and innocent people are in jeopardy what are we supposed to do? The Bible takes an interventionist line, as in the story of Moses which unfolds through the opening chapters of the Book of Exodus. Faced with the slavery and mistreatment of his own people, there is no room for misunderstanding what God requires of Moses. Get stuck in and put it right.
Look! The cry of the people of Israel has reached me, and I have seen how harshly the Egyptians abuse them. Now go, for I am sending you to Pharaoh. You must lead my people Israel out of Egypt. (Exodus 3:9-10)
Moses and Aaron went and spoke to Pharaoh. They told him, “This is what the Lord, the God of Israel, says: Let my people go” (Exodus 5:1)
As disciples of Jesus we each have the God-given responsibility to be vigilant and engaged when it comes to the shackles of injustice, oppression and abuse at work in the world around us. As the road to calvary demonstrates, this is a costly vocation.
All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing
Old cannon at Minerva Terrace in Hull
Old days mean old ways. There would be no mistaking the target when this cannon was fired; the crew would have simply sighted along the barrel, ignited the charge and the cannonball would have shot out along the same axis. As a crude piece of not-smart weaponry this cannon is a reminder of the darker side of our history, of ‘might is right’ imperialism, of seemingly endless conflict and the brutal ways in which power was deployed to build and maintain a global empire. History was written without regard to those peoples who were defeated and subjugated. Such ‘rebels’ and ‘savages’ were as nothing compared to the ‘conquering heroes’ of Empire. Only in very recent times has revisionism opened our minds to the horrific truth of what was done in our name and to the wholly one-sided portrayal of such expansionist terror.
Of course nowadays more damage is done by those who wield the weapons of finance in order to achieve their aims. Huge global corporations, bankers, media moguls and billionaires exert the sort of heft that politicians dream of but struggle to achieve. It would seem that many of them are simply seduced by it. Are there any limits to what money can buy these days? With depressing regularity massive corporate takeovers, restructuring and outsourcing to cheaper labour markets lays waste to thousands of lives. The global financial crisis has caused and will continue to inflict collateral damage of epic proportions way beyond the banking sector. The greed-based culture of a few bankers has wrought carnage across the globe. Cuts in public services are likely to be savage and enduring. We are all in the line of fire.
What links the cannon to the bankers bonus-pot is a seemingly complete disregard for those who will inevitably suffer the consequences of such arrogant, self-serving and narrow-minded behaviour. And the fact that it is always the poorest and least powerful who suffer most. These are the ones who are always in the line of fire.
It was for them that Jesus rode into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday.
