A Million Dreams

 I think my favourite song from The Greatest Showman is probably ‘A Million Dreams’.  It’s sung by the young PT Barnum, and then the adult one.  I find it such a poignant and powerful song, full of meaning.  People who know me well may recognise why this song in particular speaks to me: I’m a dreamer.  I readily identify with the sentiment of the chorus:

“Every night I lie in bed, the brightest colours fill my head,

A million dreams are keeping me awake.

I think of what the world could be, a vision of the one I see,

A million dreams is all it’s gonna take –

A million dreams for the world we’re gonna make…”

 

I’m especially struck by that second part, about what the world could be.  That’s my story, this is my song.  It’s like the famous saying by George Bernard Shaw, “You see things; and you say, ‘Why?’  But I dream things that never were; and I say, ‘Why not?’”

  In the song ‘A Million Dreams’, young Barnum is open to the possibility that people will call him crazy, and say he’s lost his mind.  The echoes of Jesus and his story are loud and clear.  People said Jesus had “gone out of his mind” (Mark 3:21) – his own family, no less – in view of his attracting large crowds who wanted their lives and their world to be better, so they came to Jesus for healing, and to hear his incredible teaching.  Stories of a better world.  Pictures of how life can be.  In fact, in Mark’s story of Jesus, immediately after that incident of Jesus being insulted by his relatives, he launches into a set of stories about God’s kingdom (Mark 4:1-34 – it’s paralleled in Matthew’s account, mostly in chapter 13).  These parables, as they are called, paint a radically inclusive, gently influential way of life, an alternative reality.  This is the reality that comes about when the life presented by Jesus in his ‘Sermon on the Mount’ (and modelled by Jesus) is taken seriously and actually lived (or at least aimed at).

  To many (probably most) people, it all sounds crazy.  Loving enemies.  Not getting angry at people.  Turning the other cheek.  Not worrying about… well, anything, really – but trusting in God’s providence of the necessities of life.  Not judging others.  Treating people the way you’d hope to be treated.  Generally making choices that promote life and not death.  Maybe it is crazy.  A pipe dream.  But it’s Jesus’ dream, of what the world could be.

  “A million dreams is all it’s gonna take.  A million dreams for the world we’re gonna make.”

“Ladies and gents, this is the moment you’ve waited for…”

 

 The first line of the movie The Greatest Showman, and its opening number ‘The Greatest Show’, has ring master P T Barnum announce: “Ladies and gents, this is the moment you’ve waited for…”  It heralds something new, exciting, different.  A longed-for experience now becoming reality.  For Barnum in the film, it’s the start of his circus show, where he will challenge perceptions by introducing and showcasing the wonderful, unusual and unexpected performers in his troupe.

In various fields and disciplines, from classical and modern rhetoric, to science, and Christian theology, there’s a term for this ‘moment you’ve waited for’ phenomenon: kairos.  It’s a Greek word, and it means something like ‘timely’ or ‘the opportune moment’.  The word occurs notably in the New Testament’s Gospel of Mark (1:15), when Jesus goes public with his message and ministry, saying,

“The time [kairos] is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near [or, is at hand]; repent and believe in the good news.”

In other words, it’s like Jesus was saying, “Ladies and gents, this is the moment you’ve waited for.”

‘Kairos’ could describe a breakthrough, a lightbulb moment.  When ancient Greek thinker Archimedes got in the bath and discovered displacement, and shouted ‘Eureka!’ (so the story goes), that was a ‘kairos moment’.  Theologian Paul Tillich spoke of kairos moments, the highest example of these being the ‘conversion experience’, by which is usually meant the spiritual change resulting from encounter with Jesus.  But it could mean any transformative experience, any moment where we learn, re-assess, discover something profound and new – or old for that matter.  Kairos can happen for anyone, anywhere, anytime.

The kairos Jesus spoke of was his announcement of the availability and reality of the kingdom of God – a reality that reflects the rule of God.  And so, any time the kingdom of God ‘comes near’, any time it’s close, perceptible, tangible – that’s a kairos moment.  So maybe it’s all those lightbulb moments and red-letter days and tiny or large victories.

Matthew’s Gospel has an equivalent to Mark’s ‘inauguration speech’ by Jesus (Mark 1:15, above).  It’s in Matthew 4:17 –

“From that time Jesus began to proclaim, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near’.”

It’s worth noting that Matthew tells us about Jesus relocating at this point from Nazareth to Capernaum, “in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali” (Matthew 4:13).  This is important for Matthew because it means Jesus is ‘fulfilling’ the words of the prophet Isaiah:

“Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles –

 the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death

 light has dawned” (Matthew 4:15-16).

Matthew is quoting from Isaiah 9:1-2.  That passage goes on to talk about the people rejoicing like at harvest time (a big moment in an agrarian society), because their oppression is over, the threat of violence and war is gone, as God’s special representative is establishing a kingdom of justice and peace.

When Jesus pronounced the blessings known as ‘the Beatitudes’, he said “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled” (Matthew 5:6).  The moment these people have been waiting for is justice – that’s probably a more Jewish understanding of the word translated ‘righteousness’.  Justice is their kairos moment.  That may mean they are desperate to receive justice because it has been denied them, or it could mean people who are fighting and campaigning for justice for others – either way, they are waiting for and seeking justice.  And each glimpse of it is a little kairos moment.

Every time light shines in the darkness; every time peace and joy increase; every time a yoke, a chain, of oppression is broken; every time justice is established and upheld – that’s a kairos moment.  Isn’t that the moment you’ve waited for?

The Greatest Show – Introduction

  Ok, cards on the table: I quite like musicals.  I love the Wizard of Oz, and I really quite like The Greatest Showman.  For those who are less familiar with the latter, it is a highly stylized interpretation of the life of P T Barnum, who is credited with inventing the modern circus (he did a lot of other stuff too).  In the film, Barnum recruits people who are very much on the outside of society – ‘curiosities’ – and invites them to display their uniqueness to the world.  I saw the film at a time in my life when I was dealing with a lot of stuff, in my own life, and in a world where prejudice and oppression seemed rife.  This movie reminded me of the Good News.  That’s a technical term in Christian circles, sometimes called ‘the Gospel’, which is its Old English version.  What is the Gospel, or the Good News?

  In the New Testament (the Christian addition to the Hebrew Bible, or Old Testament), there are 4 books called Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke and John).  They tell the story of the life of Jesus – well, the 3 years before his death at least.  I found echoes of that story in the narrative (and perhaps especially in the soundtrack) of The Greatest Showman.  I want to explore this over my next few blog posts.

  You may have heard the expression, ‘good show’, or ‘jolly good show, chaps’.  It signifies approval, like ‘well done’.  I think the Gospel could be called The Greatest Show on a similar basis.  It represents the best news the world could ever receive.  But as well as being transformative, it is also performative.  It’s a story.  It has ‘actors’, in the sense of people who participate and make it happen.  The Gospel is never a slogan, a statement, a theory, a doctrine, an abstract belief… It is lived out in real life.  Jesus painted it in his stories, which were brought to life in his actions and attitudes.  He lived the good news of God’s kingdom – a counter-reality to the dominant structures and cultures.

  Probably the first Gospel to be written was Mark’s version.  It’s the shortest, it’s punchy and draws you in, with lots of little details to make it real, like you’re there.  Mark’s Gospel is quite political – written for Christians in Rome in the mid-first century – in the belly of the beast of a vast empire.  It’s in this context that Mark begins:

 

“The beginning of the good news [gospel] of Jesus Christ…” (Mark 1:1)

 

  The term used for ‘good news’ is a word that was sometimes used by the Romans to bring tidings of a general’s victory.  In fact, Mark uses lots of Roman imperial language and imagery in his Gospel – especially around the Easter story, where the Crucifixion narrative is a mock imperial coronation.

  Mark is, of course, turning everything on its head, subverting the dominant order, with Good News of a different kingdom, which invites us to join in the Greatest Show.

The Last Word

 You’ve possibly heard of a woman called Jackie Weaver.  She was the star of a viral video of a virtual meeting of Handforth Parish Council, in Cheshire.  Ms Weaver was famously told, “You have no authority here,” by the Council’s chairman.  To prove how wrong he was, Jackie Weaver – as host – promptly removed him from the Zoom call.

  Ms Weaver was facilitating the meeting of the dysfunctional group on behalf of Cheshire Association of Local Councils.  The chairman, Mr Brian Tolver, may not have recognised Weaver’s authority, but she certainly had it.  Perhaps this was an authority that transcended the normal structures of the group.

  With today marking the Christian Feast of the Ascension, I wanted to round out my musings on Matthew’s version of Easter and the events afterwards, by turning to the final words Jesus delivers in that Gospel.  His remaining disciples had gathered, as per his instructions, on a hill in Galilee:

“And Jesus came and said to them, ’All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me…” (Matthew 28:18)

 

Jesus had been crucified because people refused to recognise his authority.  But now, after his resurrection, Jesus tells his followers about his authority.  It had been commented on before – at the end of the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew chapters 5-7, also on a hill in Galilee), Matthew reports that “the crowds were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as their scribes” (Matthew 7:28, 29, emphasis added).  There’s a sense here of Jesus actually knowing the stuff he teaches, and not just regurgitating someone else’s teachings.

What we have here, at the end of Matthew, is the vindication of Jesus.  All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to him.  Given – by whom?  The witness of Hebrew scripture and thought says that only God could give that authority, because it belongs to God.  Some examples:

“heaven and the heaven of heavens belong to the LORD your God, the earth with all that is in it” (Deuteronomy 10:14);

“The heavens are yours [ie God], the earth also is yours; the world and all that is in it – you have founded them” (Psalm 89:11)

These are just two of many verses that make it clear: heaven and earth belong to God.

So this authority is devolved, it’s given, by God alone.  This is in opposition to the dominant views that say Rome or Caesar has all authority (even though that seemed to be the case) or that the priests and teachers of the law, and “their scribes”, were the custodians of authority.  Jesus subverts that, by asserting this transcendent authority.  Despite appearances to the contrary, the final authority lies with God, and has been given to Jesus.

This is inextricably linked with the idea of Messiah.  In Daniel 7:13-14, there’s a vision of

 “one like a human being [or, son of man, Jesus’ favourite self-designation]… And he came to the Ancient One… To him was given dominion [in the Greek version, it’s the same word as Matthew uses for authority] and glory and kingship, that all peoples, nations and languages should serve him…”

This became a pretty solid picture of a Messianic king.  And Matthew suggests that Jesus fits the bill.

Remember when Jesus started out?  Way back in Matthew 4:17, his message was clear and simple: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near [or, is at hand].”  In other words, an alternative reality is close, you can reach out and touch it almost.  In the person of Jesus, there was a visible, tangible manifestation of this reality – that God really is in charge, and that God really will do things God’s way.

This is important because the first word of the so-called Great Commission of Matthew 28:19-20 is “therefore”.  And that always refers to what was immediately previous: ‘in light of what we have just said…’  So, bearing in mind that all authority in heaven and on earth has been given to Jesus, bearing in mind that God’s heavenly kingdom – the rule of truth and peace and hope and love and justice and faith – is present among us in its greatest emissary – so what?  What about it, what next?

Well, the next line, the commission itself, is what I would term, ‘the phrase that launched a thousand ships.’  It has been responsible for almost any ‘missionary’ endeavour that has ever been undertaken by the church.  The line is, “Go… and make disciples of all nations…” (Matthew 28:19).  Most Western empires, the entire colonial project, were built on this.  It was used as a rationale for powerful people(s) to “make disciples” of all nations – subjugating them, enslaving them, converting them by force often.  Yet, on so many levels, this missed the point.

Firstly, from a purely linguistic perspective, it’s a misinterpretation.  There is one actual verb in the sentence, in the Greek.  And it’s not ‘go’ or ‘baptise’ or ‘teach’.  Each of these words are actually participles in the original, and some carry that in the English (“baptising”, “teaching”).  The only verb is ‘to disciple’.  That’s the command.  Not go.  The disciples were not being told to go anywhere.  The sense of it is more like, ‘going’, or ‘as you go [about your life, for example]’.  The verb and command is ’disciple’.

In Greek, the verb is actually the same whether it’s being a disciple or making a disciple.  So it could be an instruction to ‘be disciples’ or to ‘make disciples’.  What is a disciple anyway?  It’s a learner (Latin discere = to learn).  A student.  The idea and the term was already in use among Jews.  A rabbi, a teacher, would have disciples who would follow him around, just as Jesus’ disciples followed him, learning from their master, so that they could eventually be like him and pass on his teachings.

So, here Jesus instructs his disciples to make disciples – or simply to be disciples – as they go about their living, among all the people(s), cultures, etc, they find themselves in.  The word that’s translated “nations” is a very strong word, that Jewish hearers or readers (if they knew Greek) would recognise.  “Ethnoi” was the word for Gentiles, or the nations – basically, this was the whole world of non-Jewish people.  But the Greek word – from which we get the term ‘ethnicity’ – actually has to do with a group of people connected by custom or culture (the way we do things round here).

This kind of makes me think that disciples of Jesus maybe shouldn’t put limits or boundaries on who they mix with, and on who can be a disciple of Jesus.  People of all customs, cultures and colours can be disciples of Jesus.  All sexes and sexualities and gender identities and ages.    All demographics.  They can be invited into this radical, alternative lifestyle that recognised the sovereignty of God and goodness, and lives in response to that.  Could this even include people of other traditions?  I think it could.  Let’s review some of the radical inclusion of Jesus.  There were women in his group, and one of them, Mary (Martha’s sister) even takes the position of a disciple in Luke 10:39, sitting at his feet and listening – that’s what disciples do.  In Acts 8, an Ethiopian eunuch is baptised as a believer, after they ask the question, “What is to stop me?”  Just to be clear, this was a black, African, Gentile, castrate (sexually ambiguous), and a slave.  And there was nothing to stop this person being baptised.

That brings me to my next point: “baptising them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit…” (Matthew 28:19).  It sounds very formulaic, like something we’d actually hear in church.  And it is.  This phrase was used by early Christians in the ritual of baptism.  In a very early text (mid-late first century perhaps) known as The Didache, there is instruction on baptism: “immerse in running water, ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit’”.  The preference was for cold, running water, but if not available (it was Palestine after all), then warm would do.  And as a last resort, water could be sprinkled on the head.  In fact, the Didache may been written for the same audience as Matthew: late first century Christians in the Syrian hills?

Baptism, then, is about immersion.  The word literally means to dip or immerse (Greek baptizo).  The Trinitarian formula is interesting to me, partly because Jesus doesn’t really talk about the Trinity in Matthew, but especially interesting when we take into account that the preposition ‘in’ could also mean ‘into’.  So it could be about immersion into the mystery of God as Trinity.  In Hebrew thought, someone’s name was their essential character.

My own experience of baptism speaks to this.  There was nothing especially magical or even spiritual about it – no doves or voices from heaven.  I was in a large inflatable paddling pool with cold water and 2 good friends, one on either side.  And at the appointed moment, they dipped me into the water.  It was a strange moment.  I felt completely at their mercy – hoping they would lift me back out!  But that is what true community is.  It is opening ourselves up to the other.  Mutuality.  Like the Trinity – sharing of personality, giving and receiving.  There’s a vulnerability.  Once again, this is a key aspect of being disciples: sharing of lives.  Look at Jesus – he was rarely alone.  Something about Jesus generated community.  And disciples of Jesus seek to do the same – to create spaces where we can all experience something of God in and as community.

Disciples follow their master’s lead.  They do as the master said and did.  And they also look to pass on the teachings of their master.  I think this is a lost element in much of Christianity.  We spend a lot of time celebrating ‘what Jesus has done for us’ (i.e. his death on the cross, and sometimes his resurrection), but fail to take seriously what Jesus said, and we have a good collection of his sayings – especially in Matthew where Jesus is presented as a teacher as much as anything else.  To paraphrase C S Lewis, it’s always Easter but never, well, any other time.  I actually think Jesus did expect his followers, then and now, to obey his teachings.  To try to live the way he taught and lived, to embody the kind of life and world he spoke of.

It's reminiscent (perhaps unsurprisingly) of the book of Deuteronomy, the fifth book of the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament.  Its name means ‘second law’ because it is a recapitulation of the law (Torah) already laid out in Exodus and Leviticus – with a different angle and from a different time (possibly written down earlier!).  There’s almost a refrain running through the book, to observe the entire commandment of God that Moses has commanded.  This, says Deuteronomy, is the way to life – the way of life.  The alternative – disobedience, failure to keep the law – would result in death and disaster and exile.  I think we are faced with the same choice by Jesus.  We can follow his teachings – actually take seriously his words and his vision for life – and find life, or we can pay little or not attention to those words and find ourselves in a kind of exile, in patterns of destruction – of the self, of others and of creation.  Disciples learn, and disciples teach – they pass it on.

A final thought, to tie it all up.  Ascension is not unique to Jesus, or to Christian tradition.  Of course, there are stories of people ascending bodily to heaven in the bible, and traditions outside the canon around people within it.  Mary, the mother of Jesus, is a prime example.  The prophet Elijah’s story, in the books of Kings, concludes with his ascent in a whirlwind, and passing his mantle to his disciple Elisha.  The patriarch Enoch in Genesis disappears – it’s unclear, but there’s a sense that he was ‘taken up’ alive.

Other faiths have similar stories.  Muhammad is said to have ascended into heaven at site of the Dome of the Rock, although he returned and eventually died.  There are stories of Hindu kings entering heaven in their human bodies as well.

The tradition of Jesus’ Ascension is recorded in Mark and in Luke-Acts (2 volumes by the same New Testament author), but not actually in Matthew.  The scene is set for Jesus to rise on the clouds, from the top of this mountain, but he doesn’t.  Jesus doesn’t leave, he doesn’t go anywhere.  His final words in Matthew: “And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).  The absence of Ascension here underscores the message, “I am with you”.  Jesus stood on a hill in Galilee – near where Matthew’s community found themselves.  And Jesus never left.  They could meet him in the story Matthew had written down for them.  They could meet him in community, in one another.  So can we.

  Above all, we can meet Jesus as we follow him – as disciples who disciple in daily stuff, living as though Jesus really is in charge, as though all authority in heaven and on earth has been given to him.  Despite how things may appear, and no matter who recognises his authority, Jesus has the last word.

 

Between Two Worlds

There's a term that has gained some currency in Christianity, that likely came from Celtic mysticism: 'thin places'. The idea is probably quite ancient, but the term perhaps more recent. it speaks of a place or a situation where you experience the here and now, at the same time as perceiving something of the 'other world', the 'eternal'. Like being between two worlds. There are certain places on earth that are renowned for this - whether areas of outstanding natural beauty, religious sites, or somewhere else. 

It's something akin, perhaps, to the mountaintop experience - literal or metaphorical. There's an incomparable aliveness that comes with the achievement of reaching a pinnacle, a peak, a milestone. But part of this entails the contrasting experience of the valley, of coming back down to earth. 

After the drama of Easter, Matthew's gospel draws to a close with a mountaintop experience. The remaining disciples of Jesus go to the mountain in Galilee to which he had directed them (this is in Matthew 28:16-17). There's no definite identification of this mountain. Some people think it might have been Mount Tabor, the site of Jesus' transfiguration - where he appeared to shine with the glory of God in the presence of three of his disciples (and Moses and Elijah, who dropped by, Matthew 17:1-8). Some think it could be the hill near Capernaum where Jesus delivered the 'Sermon on the Mount' (recorded in Matthew chapters 5-7). It doesn't really matter which mountain it is. What's more important for Matthew and his audience is that it is a mountain - that's where a lot of thin places have been.  And so much of the story of God and Israel had high points on high points.  God reveals the Divine Name to Moses and launches the Exodus (Exodus 3).  Later, on the same mountain, God gives the Ten Commandments to Moses.  Elijah, the great prophet, also met with God on a mountain, shortly after demonstrating God's superiority over Baal on another mountain.  The temple in Jerusalem was built atop Mount Zion - the place that was to represent the meeting of earth and heaven.

Also important was that this was a mountain in Galilee - it could be the very place that Matthew's community found themselves, or nearby, possibly in Syrian hills.  And so, at this hilltop location, not too far from or dissimilar to where they are, they read of Jesus appearing to his followers.  And those followers displayed two reactions.  First, they worshipped him.

Worship is one of the main contexts you might hear about thin places among Christians today.  In acts of worship - sung, spoken, symbolic acts of worship - people sometimes find themselves in thin places.

What the term 'worship' literally denotes here is kneeling and kissing the feet.  Like one might do before a great monarch, or before a liberator, or as one might do in desperation, when pleading.  I wonder, then, if the disciples were literally kneeling before their risen Master - in desperation, or relief, or awe - perhaps a combination of overwhelming emotions.

Worshipping Jesus was not really something his disciples had done before this in Matthew's gospel.  Others had, occasionally, and mostly foreigners (like the wise men), lepers, and women (also foreign, Matthew 15:25).  It's rarely good Jewish men.  The only other time in Matthew that the disciples actually worshipped Jesus is in the middle of the book, in chapter 14.  There, Jesus gets into their boat in the middle of Lake Galilee - having walked to them on the water, in a fierce storm, which subsided as soon as he joined them on board.

The second response Matthew reports is that "some doubted".  What we don't know is, did they all worship, but some were doubting at the same time?  Was this an either/or thing - you were Team Worship or Team Doubt?  I'm more inclined to go with the former, that those who doubted had mixed feelings.  And the reason I think that is that the word literally means 'to double-think', to vacillate between two positions.  It's like being in two minds about something.

And who could blame them for that?  What a mixed-up turn of events they'd experienced.  One minute, everyone loved Jesus (well, not exactly everyone), the next they all want him dead; the next, he is dead; the next, he's not dead... And now, here he is.  And there were all his stories about how God sees things, and the miracles that proved it, and their own successes and failures as his students.  Yeah, it's no wonder some doubted, even amid the worship.

It's the same combo we find on that day when Jesus had walked on water.  Peter raised his head above the parapet and asked Jesus to call him out of the boat.  So Jesus called him, and Peter climbed out and started to walk on the water, to his Master and like his Master.  What a moment that must have been for Peter.  But then reality sinks in, and sinks Peter, when he remembers he's on a lake, in a fierce storm, and he's not in the boat.  As soon as he starts sinking, Jesus pulls him up - physically and figuratively, saying, "Why did you doubt?"  And then comes the worship part.

Maybe worship and doubt go together.  After all, if doubt is about holding together two disparate realities, trying to reconcile two positions, then that probably is a part of true worship, and it certainly speaks of thin places - where our experience, the world as we know it, meets with a reality we can't fully make sense of.

And in a sense, that's what was happening for Matthew's community too.  They were Jews, but were finding themselves at odds with their compatriots and their convictions up to that point.  They were finding their story now centred around Jesus, it came together in him.  Matthew's gospel is a re-imagining of the Jewish story, filtered through and focused on the person of Jesus.  Jesus was not only the ideal Israel - God's people as though they'd done everything right - but, somehow, he was also... God, as they were now worshipping him.

It may well have been an awkward space to be in. It's what we call a liminal space - on the boundary, between two worlds.  They were no longer truly what they had been - although it would always remain a part of them.  But neither were they fully 'there' yet; they didn't even know where 'there' was, or what they would end up being.

I get the sense that a lot of us can relate to this.  Whether it's to do with world or regional events - such as COVID, and the new normal/old normal/different normal - or in a faith context, where perhaps we've come to a point where we don't feel fully part of the tradition we've known, or the community we've been in.  Perhaps we've started to question some of the things we were once certain of, or that others are.  Maybe you are on a journey that others around you aren't on, and are not prepared for.

Doubt, of course, is not the opposite of faith - certainty is.  Doubt admits questions, welcomes diversity of opinion.  Doubt is open, and without openness, we can't imagine, and step out into new possibilities.

So, if this resonates with you, step out.  Join us.  There's plenty of (liminal) space.  And Jesus.

“Who hath believed our report?”

The above quote is from the Hebrew Bible (Old Testament) book of Isaiah (53:1). It comes in a passage often referred to as the Suffering Servant Song. This speaks of God’s servant bringing hope and transformation in surprising ways – including an account of the servant’s abuse, unjust treatment and general experience of trauma. That text is commonly linked with the Easter story. And on this point – “Who hath believed our report?” – it connects directly with a part of the story that we read only in Matthew’s version of events. In Matthew (Mt) 28:11-15, we read about the report of the guards who had been stationed at the tomb of Jesus. When the earth shook and the angel rolled the stone away, the guards had trembled and became “like dead men”, frozen by fear. Now, they returned to the city to report to the chief priests what had happened. And the chief priests got together with the elders and concocted a counter-story. They paid the guards handsomely to spread the alternative version, that Jesus’ disciples had gone to the tomb by night and stolen his body – while the guards were sleeping. Because this was likely to come back on the guards for sleeping on the job, the chief priests assure them they’ll satisfy the governor. We’ll circle back to this. I want to look at the final verse of the story, verse 15: “So they took the money and did as they were directed, And this story is still told among the Jews to this day.” At the time of Matthew’s writing, “this day” may have been around 50 or so years after the event. But it does appear that there were Jewish alternative biographies of Jesus that were possibly written down in the forms we now have, perhaps in the 15th century. A text known as Sefer Toledot Yeshu (Book of the History of Jesus)can be traced to around that time. There are possible references to some of its content or traditions in works from the 9th century, and even in the Babylonian Talmud of c.600AD. These traditions will have been oral in the first instance, and quite possibly trace their origins all the way back to Matthew’s late 1st century, or earlier – perhaps to this episode itself. The broad points that Toledot Yeshu and other similar texts, like Maaseh Yeshu (The Episode of Jesus), cover are the illegitimacy of Jesus’ birth; his exceptional intelligence; his miraculous (or magical) works; his death (in disgrace); and explanations of what happened to his body (it was moved by Sages and then hidden by a gardener, to prevent Jesus’ followers taking his body out of the tomb). Some versions of this story are fierce in their derision and denunciation of Jesus, effectively saying, “He’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy…” There has been debate about how kosher such stories have been , and whether or not they were rabbinic (ie, endorsed or even perpetuated by the rabbis). The manuscripts that we currently have probably coincide with a time when Jews in Europe were suffering persecution, on account of the argument that ‘they’ had killed Jesus. However, the point here is not that Jews hated Jesus (some might have), because Matthew’s audience were very likely Jewish themselves – ‘Christian’ Jews, exiled from the mainstream, but still Jews. I believe, rather, that the issue is with the powerful. The villains of the piece in Matthew 28:11-15 are the chief priests and the elders. This is one of a long line of examples of powerful, privileged men paying to perpetuate lies and silence the truth, in order to protect themselves and their positions. They did not want this story out there. They would stop at nothing to invalidate the experience, the testimony, of those first followers of Jesus. So they literally added insult to injury. It’s the same old story. I see echoes here of the Me Too movement. Powerful men thought they could ‘get away with it’. Super-injunctions and Non-Disclosure Agreements are today’s equivalent of paying off those guards. So many powerful and privileged men have abused their status, abused others (especially women), and used their often immense resources to prevent the truth coming out, or to discredit the victims, or make them think no one will believe them – “Who hath believed our report?” They try to control the narrative, often by propagating a counter-narrative. This is basically the idea of alt-facts. But it doesn’t need to be that way. Me Too and more recently, Everyone’s Invited, demonstrate that reports sometimes are believed. Harvey Weinstein, in the end, didn’t get away with it. Donald Trump failed to secure a second term in office. What I find comforting about this is, most of us have never heard of Toledot Yeshu before. But we’ve heard the gospel account of Jesus. They weren’t silenced, those first followers, the witnesses. They spoke out. It’s a fine tradition in Christianity – speaking the truth, standing up for the truth. Sharing testimony, one’s own experience. I pray that the church, and all who call themselves followers of Jesus, will always be open to hear and validate the experience of those who suffer – and will never protect the corrupt at their expense.

Lo! Jesus meets us - Matthew's Easter Sunday

One of the finest Easter hymns – and certainly the most triumphant – surely must be ‘Thine is the glory’.  The words were penned by Swiss minister Edmund Budry, and translated into English, from their original French, by Richard Hoyle almost a century ago.  But the tune to which that fine lyric was set is older still.  It is often referred to as Maccabeus, because it is a movement from George Frederic Handel’s oratorio, Judas Maccabaeus.

Just in case you don’t know much about Judas Maccabaeus (the person, not the oratorio), he was the main leader of what came to be known as the Maccabean Revolt.  It happened in Palestine during the Second Century BC.  The Jewish land had been occupied by Greek King Alexander the Great of Macedonia, who died suddenly (and young) in 323 BC, leaving a monumentally vast kingdom around the Mediterranean, with no heir.  So his generals fought it out, and two dynasties were formed: the Seleucids and the Ptolemies.  Palestine changed hands between their rival empires, but ultimately came under Seleucid control.  Things came to a head during the reign of Antiochus IV, who apparently incited the Jews to revolt – after the invasion of Greek (Hellenistic) culture, the final straw was forced worship of Zeus.  (There is a belief among scholars that Antiochus merely intervened in a Jewish civil war, between the Hellenized Jews in Jerusalem, and the traditionalists in the country.)

In any event, there was certainly a sense of oppression in some quarters, of displacement, of lost or damaged identity.  A sort of exile, even within one’s own land.

In those days of unrest and conflict, the traditions around the figure of Daniel were popularised.  The stories of Daniel and other heroic Hebrews in exile in Babylon (in the Fifth Century BC) became emblematic of the struggle of the Maccabees.  It’s thought that the book of Daniel was written or at least heavily edited around that time (the mid-160s BC).

Great.  What’s all that got to do with Easter?

Maccabeus, remember?  Thine is the glory…

In Matthew’s account of Easter Sunday, we read about a single angel “in bright raiment” rolling the stone away: “His appearance was like lightning and his clothing white as snow” (Matthew 28:3).  Each of the four Gospels – Matthew, Mark, Luke and John – recounts the Easter story slightly differently, for their own reasons.  I was interested in why Matthew wrote it this way.  So I looked into references to lightning, and found something pretty similar in Daniel chapter 10.  There, Daniel has an angelic vision, and the angel’s “face [was] like lightning” (Daniel 10:6).  That angel wore linen, but it was a very particular Hebrew word for linen, that denotes white linen.  It kind of sounds like Matthew wants people to link Easter Sunday with Daniel.

There’s more: in both cases, there’s trembling or fear among others present (the companions in Daniel 10:7; the guards in Matthew 28:4); the angel says “Don’t be afraid” (Daniel 10:12; Matthew 28:5 – ok, they usually say that…); there’s also something about the efficacy of words – Daniel’s words had been heard, prompting the visitation (Daniel 10:12), and Jesus was raised “as he said” (Matthew 28:6). 

A further connection between the 2 narratives lies slightly outside the immediate texts, and has to do with wider resurrection.  In Matthew 27, at the moment of Jesus’ death, we read that “many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised.  After his resurrection, they came out of the tombs and entered the holy city and appeared to many” (Matthew 27:52, 53).  Compare this with the end of Daniel’s vision, which comes in Daniel 12: “Many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake…” (Daniel 12:2).

Why, though, would Matthew be so interested in Daniel?  Perhaps it has to do with Matthew’s audience and context.  This gospel was probably written toward the end of the First Century AD, and probably for a group of Jewish Christians living either in Syria (adjacent to Palestine) or in Galilee.  They were possibly displaced, in a sort of exile.  Even if not geographically exiled, they were probably in a state of flux – by this point, relations between the early Jewish Christians and ‘mainstream’ Jews were strained to say the least.  So there people may have been looking for ways to be faithful to both their past and their present.  Trying to forge a new identity, not getting rid of their roots, but translating that for their new reality.

Into this context, Matthew’s angel announces that the risen Jesus is going ahead into Galilee (not staying in Jerusalem, but going to perhaps the very place they found themselves, or nearby).  God’s presence in the person of Jesus is a key theme in Matthew.  The gospel is virtually bookended with this promise.  In the opening chapter, the impending birth of Jesus is linked with the sign of Emmanuel from Isaiah: “…’and they shall name him Emmanuel’, which means, ‘God is with us’” (Matthew 1:23; cf Isaiah 7:14).  The closing line is Jesus’ promise, “And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

What’s particularly interesting in Matthew’s Easter is the phrase, “there you will see him/me [that is, Jesus]” (Matthew 28:7, 10).  This has a sense of discovering, meeting, encountering Jesus, out there, in Galilee.  Not in Jerusalem.  And not at the tomb.  But in the place where they live.  Where life happens.  That is where we, like them, meet Jesus.  In one another.  In our daily struggles and interactions.  In our circumstances.  In our working stuff out.

Jesus pushes and breaks boundaries, he doesn’t maintain and enforce them.  Easter is, of course, about triumph – over adversity.  And about hope.  But it’s also about this promise of God’s presence symbolised in Jesus, whose resurrection and ongoing presence show a breaking of barriers – barriers of place, of culture, or experience.  Jesus’ resurrection is the dawn of a new era, of new possibilities for new kinds of community – and a new humanity, where you don’t have to fit in, and it’s ok to be on the margins, because there you will see him.

If, like me, you feel isolated from your faith tradition, your religious roots, or whatever (whether physically or by ‘not fitting in’), you’re not alone in that, and you’re not the first.  Matthew’s Gospel was written for people like us – trying to connect where we’ve been with where we are, seeking and finding new ways to live the old story.