A COLD CASE?

 

                   

                                        

This is an attempt to clear up a mystery, a “cold case” from way back. 

 

How can it be that the Gospel accounts of the Crucifixion coincide so remarkably with the references in at least two Psalms (22 and 69)?

 

If we exclude the possibility that the Evangelists were deforming the reality in order to make it conform to the Psalms, and if we also, at least for now, discount the idea of a mystical and prophetic conformity of the Psalms to the later reality, we need to find some probable and realistic explanation. Here is a possibility:

 

The Sanhedrin and its mob bring the captured Yeshua to Pontius, howling for his blood. Pontius is awoken disgracefully early to deal with this. I do not believe that he saw Yeshua alone. A colonial Governor like him would always have staff on hand. And on that staff I postulate one Marcus Manlius ‘Judaicus’, his expert on the local population and its culture. (Even Manlius may have had staff under him.) He might have gone native to the point of having married a Jewish woman. But he is of good family and highly cultured, and indispensable to Pontius (who, historians tell us, is a faily average colonial administrator). 

So, Pontius tells whoever wakes him to call and summon Manlius immediately, to assist at the hearing. 

            We know how the hearing went. Yeshua is his usual taciturn self, replying only with two enigmas: first “the words are yours”, and later “my kingdom (basileia) is not of this world.” However, it is clear to Pontius (and to Manlius, who has not spoken but watched and listened) that this chap has done nothing that should lead Romans to execute him. He curtly says so to the Sanhedrin people, who insist that he is challenging the authority of Cæsar (and imply that they may send a complaint directly to the Emperor if Pontius doesn’t give in). 

            So eventually he goes along. Now for my insertion. I imagine a conversation between Pontius and Manlius, along these lines:

 

P. OK, I guess we’ll have to crucify him, but boy, does it go against the grain. Those bloody Jewish elders! You know, he genuinely made me wonder with his kingdom. I’m wondering if he mightn’t be genuine, and important. And we’re going to string him up?

M. I know what you mean, sir. I felt the same way. 

P. If we do crucify him, isn’t there something we can do to show that we do it reluctantly and that we take him seriously?

M. Well, there might be something. In fact, I can think of two things. First, as we always put up a sign above each cross with the description of the crime, how about in his case putting one up that simply says “Jesus Nazarenus Rex Judæorum”? That will placate those who believe in him and infuriate the elders.

P. Brilliant. And the second?

M. The Jews have a prophet, Yeshayahu, who describes the Meshiach, the great future king and liberator of Israel, not as a conqueror but in terms of a suffering sacrificial lamb, slaughtered for the sins of the people. This Yeshua of ours clearly identifies with that character. Now, they also have a Psalm that closely describes what could be seen as his execution: “they pierced my hands and my feet,” “they cast lots for my clothes” and so forth. These texts are known to all the Jews. How would it be if we conducted the crucifixion precisely as described in their texts?

P. Sounds a bit different.

M. Well, we don’t usually nail them to the cross, but it has been done on occasion. And as for the lads drawing lots for his clothes, we can tell them to do that, and perhaps put something decent on him before we nail him up so it’s worth dicing for.

P. Manlius, I like it. At least we can make them look foolish, even if he has to go.  Carius!

[enter Publius Carius, the Centurion in charge of today’s executions]

C. Sir?

P. This latest prisoner, Bar-Yosef, we’re going to do something different with him. It’s important for the effect. So you get the armourer to make up some 12-inch nails, and instead of tying him to the cross you nail him. Here’s the text for the notice on top; and I need the execution detail to put on a little show once he’s up. [describes the dicing]. And prepare some gall and some sour wine to put up on a stick if he calls for it. I know it sounds odd, but it’s important  for the politics of the thing.

C. Yes, sir. May I say, sir, how sorry I am to have to execute this fellow? He’s a truly good man, who healed my servant a year or so ago, quite miraculously and at a distance.

P. I know, Carius, but the situation is tense enough, and I really cannot let him go. After all, if he is who and what he seems to imply he is, this may not be wholly the end of him. Anyway, get the men together and get this show on the road. I want all three of them up there by noon. 

C. Very good, sir.

 

And Carius gets together the execution platoon with a sergeant. They perform the ritual flogging, though without much enthusiasm, but several of the legionaries have had a few drinks before the distasteful task, and so they decide to have some fun with the prisoner. “Since we have to crucify a king, let’s dress him up as one. Jam some thorn branches on his head; here’s a broomstick for a sceptre, hey, anyone got a nice red cloak?” Private Varus has nicked one from the officers’ cloakroom, so they wrap him in it. Carius passes by and gets very angry. “Sergeant, take those men’s names!” he snaps. But it is in these improvised regalia that he is led to the waiting beams and nails. And it is for the stolen officer’s cloak that the soldiers draw lots . . . . .

 

Of course I have no idea if this is how it happened. But I’m morally sure that Caius Pontius Pilatus had a Manlius on his staff; and something like this makes the parallels at least plausible.  

THINKING THE UNTHINKABLE?

7. All mine enemies whisper together against me : even against me do they imagine this evil.

8. Let the sentence of guiltiness proceed against him : and now that he lieth, let him rise up no more.

9. Yea, even mine own familiar friend, whom I trusted : who did also eat of my bread, hath laid great wait for me. (Ps. 41)

12. For it is not an open enemy, that hath done me this dishonour : for then I could have borne it.

13. Neither was it mine adversary, that did magnify himself against me : for then peradventure I would have hid myself from him.

14. But it was even thou, my companion : my guide, and mine own familiar friend.

15. We took sweet counsel together : and walked in the house of God as friends. (Ps. 55)

Given the peculiar and oniric relation of the Gospels to the Psalms, I am moved to wonder whether we might not find in these passages the beginnings of an explanation for the strange conduct of Yehuda of Kerioth. 

I have always found the explanation in John 12:6, that Yehuda (Judas) was the group’s thievish treasurer, scarcely believable; and the whole story of the actual ‘betrayal’, the kiss in the park, too theatrical to make sense. As Yeshua himself said, he was not exactly hiding himself: he taught and preached in public practically every day, and the Temple guards could have taken him whenever they wanted. He did not need to be identified.

Once again, I am transgressing Benedict XVI’s injunction against writing a ‘Jesus novel’: first, I believe that if His actual, historical existence as a man in Galilee is of such crucial importance, then whatever we can find out or reasonably deduce about that existence is worth while; secondly, a combination of a historian’s and a reporter’s mind makes me bridle at improbabilities and search for what might actually have happened. 

And in the case of Yehuda of Kerioth, there is a possible narrative. That it comes to us from the Psalms would normally invalidate it at least in part: the Psalms are poetry, and from a time much earlier than the Gospels. Yet the relation between the two is so strange and close at times as to be unnerving. Most of us discover it first in Psalm 22, parts of which read like a description of the Crucifixion even unto the foolish details of the soldiers dicing for the robe; and we meet it again in Psalm 69:22: ‘They gave me gall to eat : and when I was thirsty they gave me vinegar to drink.’

Does this mean that Yeshua modelled his life upon the Psalms? That the Evangelists took Psalm passages to fill in details of the Crucifixion? Or that there was a deeply strange but real coincidence between the two? My narrative concerning Yehuda, I suppose, postulates the third of these possibilities. Here it is.

Imagine that from the beginning of the Disciples’ life as a group it was Yehuda who was the ‘disciple that Jesus loved’. That it was he who was the ‘familiar friend’, especially close to the Master; that it was with him that the Meshiach took sweet counsel in the Temple and who had the favoured place beside him at meals. 

And then, gradually, over the two or three years that we know of, Yochanan the ‘Son of Thunder’ began to make inroads upon that relationship. He it was, young and charming, who wormed his way into Yeshua’s confidence; he it was who became the new favourite. One can then easily imagine Yehuda’s feelings. Disquiet growing slowly but surely and morphing into a green-eyed monster. At first, dislike turning to hatred for the young co-disciple; and little by little a turning of that hatred to the Master himself. The verses from Psalm 55 might then equally well have issued from the mouth of Yehuda of Kerioth himself. 

That the end result was a pointless but deliberate and vengeful giving-up of Yeshua to the Temple authorities makes, in this case, perfect sense. Hell hath no fury like a loving friend and disciple scorned. And it makes all the more likely and understandable, also, his instant and total remorse once the inevitable consequences of his action began to unroll, and his swift dramatic suicide.

There are holes in this narrative, sure; but it seems to me a great deal more likely than the grubby suggestion that he had been stealing shekels. Poor Yehuda. It would indeed have been better for him had he never been born. And yet, if this story is true, may there not, at the end of time, be mercy even for him?

 

BE VERY CAREFUL

 

Fortunate are the merciful, for they shall experience mercy in return.

Makarioi hoi eleèmones, hoti autoi eleèthèsontai.

 

The Greek text translates with eleos the Hebrew chesèd (ch as in ‘loch’), one of the three words that could become English ‘mercy’. In one sense it can mean ‘kindness’, but not, like praios, as a character trait but rather as a form of action. Chesed is taking care of someone else’s need: Jonathan protects David from Saul in an act of chesed. It is always seen as reciprocal: someone who receives chesed from another is expected to return it. 

 

So this Beatitude does not really introduce something new or unexpected, but rather reminds the audience of the way conventional relationships ought to be. It is really a form of ‘do as you would be done by’. And yet it goes beyond that also. God shows chesed to his people, both collectively, as the people of Israel whom he feeds in the wilderness, and individually in persons such as Abraham, Jacob, David and Job. For human beings it is of course impossible to return this to the Father himself; but He expects them in return to show it to others. So there may well also in this Beatitude be a sense that those who are merciful to others may receive the mercy of the Father, just as in the Lord’s Prayer those who forgive others’ debts to them may receive the forgiveness of their own debts to the Father.

 

In Psalm 85/86:11, ‘Mercy and truth are met together’, it is chesed that is joined to emet; and the ‘truth’ that is also characteristic of the Father is not so much ‘truth’ in the sense of conformity to a factual norm as ‘truth’ in the sense of faithfulness, of being ‘true’ to a loved one, one’s lord, or one’s country. So if that is joined to chesed, it means that Fidelity is joined to Care. 

 

It is both interesting and useful to pursue these words a little, because the English word ‘mercy’ has a connotation of opposition to ‘justice’ which in this case is not present. Our ‘mercy’ is usually closer to ‘compassion’, which translates the Hebrew racham/rachamim. The latter is word that does not imply as much reciprocity as does chesed: its root is linked to the Hebrew word for ‘womb’, hence the otherwise curious English term ‘the bowels of compassion’. So in the case of the fifth Beatitude, one might almost translate the text as ‘Fortunate are those who care, for they shall experience care in return’. And one should always remember that this does not refer merely, or even especially, to human interactions only, but to the very real Care and aid we children receive from our Father in heaven, and which we must pass on.  

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

 

“Fortunate are those who hunger and thirst for justice, for they will be fed.”

Makarioi hoi peinōntes kai dipsōntes tèn dikaiosunèn, hoti autoi chortasthèsontai.

 

In our time, in Western societies, those who ‘hunger and thirst for justice’ tend to be those we see on television demonstrating in the streets for a righteous cause, usually on behalf of some group of people less fortunate. But in simpler societies, the people indicated in this sentence are the downtrodden, the oppressed, the cheated themselves, hungering and thirsting for justice. And the ’justice’ referred to here is not ‘social justice’ but downright legal justice as meted out by a righteous judge. We get a picture of the situations meant when we read the Psalms. Time and again we meet references to false witnesses, to the poor being robbed of what little they have, of unjust judges and neighbourhood tyrants: the overall picture is more that of some Neapolitan slum with its slumlords and its judges in the pocket of the Mafia. Here it is the poor who are the victims and who hunger and thirst for equitable justice, for honest judges, for witnesses who will tell the truth. They do not ask for charity; all they want and need is for decent institutions manned by decent people who will award them what they are entitled to. And this need goes right to the bone. It is not something that it would be nice to have: it is as necessary as the most basic food and drink.

 

The victims are turned out of their meagre lodgings, they are impoverished by being forced – sometimes at sword- or gun-point – to pay the vig on a desperate loan, they are jailed for stealing food for their children. So, in the Psalms that are so often the background, the score, the text for Yeshua’s words and actions, they cry to the heavens: ‘Up, Lord, do something!’ ‘Lord, judge thou my cause: thou seest that I am innocent!’ And all too often, nothing happens, the heavens do not open, the oppressors are not struck by lightning.

 

This, I think, is the background to this Beatitude. In the Reign of God that is now beginning; under the new Torah, the new Law that will go further than the old because it is a Law of Inwardness; the poor who hungerand thirst for justice, for righteousness, for simple decency, will be fed. Again, this metaphor of feeding is so often met in the Psalms -- ‘my soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness’ – and in the closely-related Isaiah: ‘And in this mountain shall the Lord of hosts make unto all people a feast of fat things, a feast of wines on the lees, of fat things full of marrow, of wines on the lees well refined.’ For those who often go hungry, in a world where the rich are fat and the poor mere skin and bones, the promise of being fed, well fed, richly fed, is a pleasure and a joy. 

 

Now: why and how ‘will’ this happen under the new Law? Is it a promise for some unimaginable time in the future, to be realised in one great sweep by a distant Saviour? Is Yeshua’s audience being promised ‘pie in the sky’? I think we should read it differently. The basileia tou Theou, the regnum Dei, the Kingship (not ‘Kingdom’!) of God is that of the Meshiach; the Meshiach in question is Yeshua; therefore, it is here and now. On the other hand, it has to be realised by humans. So the key is the new Torah of Inwardness. What will feed the hungry is the fact that a judge who believes in Yeshua and ‘follows his words’ cannot give unjust judgements; a man who believes in Yeshua, if he is called as a witness, cannot give false testimony; a landlord who believes in Yeshua cannot cheat or brutally evict a tenant family. Once again, what is spoken here is the description of a situation that has not hitherto been brought about but that will be – and in the English translation shall, must be – brought about. 

HOPE AND STRENGTH?

“God is our hope and strength : a very present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46)

If one has faith, this is stirring; and instinctively one feels it’s true. But it it? And if so, how? 

First of all, the Psalm says that God is our, not my, hope and strength. As always, the original referent is the people of Israel; as always, for a Christian, the Psalms’ people of Israel is now the Church. 

As members of the Church, then, we can say that God is our hope. Between faith and charity; between our belief in the Resurrection and our active love for our neighbour, there is hope. Hope is symbolised by an anchor: it is what prevents us from drifting on to a lee shore. Hope is what permits us not to give up. Hope is what sustains us when we see the decline of Christendom, when we are depressed by the oceans of complete indifference to religion around our battered fleet. And our hope is – God. Is it our hope that He will, magically, act? that he will come flying into history on the wings of a divine wind and take over? We may daydream of such a dénouement, but we are pretty sure it will not happen. If our hope is God, it is perhaps rather that He will give us the strength and the stamina to carry on regardless; that He will continue to be the well of life, where we can go to draw the living water of renewed faith and energy.

As members of the Church, again, we can say that God is our strength. He is our strength, the strength of the Church: and the Church, in turn, is the strength of its members. There are times when our belief in this is sorely tested: when the Church, through its leaders, singularly fails to cope with the travails of modern life; when the Church, through some its visible groups or individuals, shows itself foolish or sinful or both. And yet – anyone who has tried to maintain an active and lively faith for a long time on his own knows how much the strength needed for that surpasses his little private store of resources. Within the Church, through the liturgy, through the Eucharist, but also through the sharing of thought and feeling in both theology and devotion – within the Church there is strength in abundance, available to all. 

A help in trouble. That is where it comes to the nub. Trouble is always with us, and may emerge from any shadow at any moment: for the community and/or for the individual. In what way is God our help in trouble? First, as hope: it is our hope in God that gives us strength and stamina. That hope is what is expressed in prayer. When we beg and beseech, we do so hoping. Because we know that, if we do not ask for fishhooks but for the force that will allow us to do His will whatever befalls, He will not let us down. 

Second, as strength. In trouble, God is our strength. Our strength. If we face trouble as a body, as members of the Church, as the Church, we will have the strength needed to survive and overcome trouble. This means unity. This means solidarity: not (only) in the now usual sense of helping the poor, but of knowing how to bury our differences and metaphorically link arms, watch each other’s back, and deal with it, whatever it is. And if God is our strength, that means that we receive it through prayer.

Finally, God is a very present help. Present, here; present, now. Not absent, not future. I often find it hard to remember, to realise, that God is with me here and now. As air is. As radio waves are. As light is. So, in trouble, prayer does not have to be elaborately organised and anticipated. It can be hurried, panted, cried, whispered; and if there are more of us, physically, it can be remembered and recited, or improvised, together. 

If I am in trouble, let me remember that I am not alone, but that I am a member of a body, the Church, the new people of Israel. And let me remember that as such, I have at all times the ear of our heavenly Father, Almighty and everlasting God. Through – per, by means of, by way of, through the mediation of -- Jesus Christ our Lord. 

THE JOY OF --- WHAT?

In the readings and general exhortations I encounter in my daily Prions en Eglise, there is constant mention of joy. “Shout and dance for joy, people of God!” “Quiver for joy!” For those of us living outside certain evangelical movements and outside Southern US black churches, this is a curious injunction. For Anglicans/Episcopalians, it is virtually unheard-of, the sort of thing to make us seriously uncomfortable. Why?

Well, we are not a culture given to loud displays of emotion, first of all. Secondly, when we assemble and meet together, we tend to do so either as a quiet, well-behaved group of friends and neighbours, with smiles and murmured greetings, or as individuals in search of reverence, silence, beauty in music and in ritual, and prayer. We may have joy in our hearts, but we remember Jesus’ injunction not to show off while performing our religious duties. 

There is another reason, I suspect. We do not glow with joy because we aren’t sure what we are supposed to feel so rapturous about. When we reach down inside us for the roots of our faith, we will probably come up with the Resurrection (cf 1 Cor. 15:14); but from there to quivering with joy on this Tuesday in June the way is not, for most of us, entirely clear. We are happy that Yeshua rose from the dead, for His sake; we know that it means something important for all Christians, and perhaps for others beyond; but let’s face it, the world seems in at least as big as mess as at any other time since, so shout and dance for joy? Is that a joke? Grim fortitude, in faith, hope and charity as among castaways on a large raft in mid-ocean might seem more appropriate.

The Psalmist, and St Paul, saw it differently. Yeshua Meshiach (“Jesus the Anointed”), in his sacrifice, death and resurrection, saved Israel and by (crucial) extension saved humanity. Saved from what? Saved from the consequences of our unbelief and our non-acceptance of God’s love for us. Not the proximate consequences, usually: shit keeps happening, the planet is in danger, and the bad guys often win. But from the ultimate consequences: from the destruction of our immortal souls, from the hell that awaits all those who have made themselves incapable of living eternally near the radiant source of all love. 

If that does not at least inwardly fill us with a certain trembling and incredulous happiness, it may be because we have trouble envisaging what we have been saved from. We need, perhaps, to pay more attention to Shaitan. Not just as an active shooter, drawing a bead on us at all times and in all places, but also as a terrifying example. He is what we will become like if we refuse the gift. Grim and greedy; eaten up with jealousy; racked with the rage and pain that contemplating beauty and love causes us. Incapable of any pleasure not guilty or corrupt. And yes, it lies in wait for all of us, not least because there is Someone always ready to convince us how much braver and more fun it is to walk the edge of the abyss, and even to dive in.

Nobody alive and breathing is beyond being saved from this, unless he refuses to. As a priest I heard the other day said, that is why the Sin against the Holy Spirit is the only one that cannot be forgiven: because it is the Spirit that saves us, that pulls us out of the deep well we fell into, that rescues us by the skin of our teeth. Refusing Him means you’ve left no chink open to be forgiven through, no pulley for the rope. So here we are, wobbling, doubting, lurching, ridiculous: but saved. Saved. SAVED.

In the light of that, a certain joy is in order. Pour the martinis. Light the candles. Sing a silly song. Dance a bit. Yup. Joy. Remember?

OF WATER AND LIGHT

“For with thee is the well of life: and in thy light shall we see light.” (Psalm 36)

Coming upon this while reading through the day’s psalms, I always feel a thrill run down my spine: the sure sign of true poetry. The well of life reminds me of Spenser’s characterization of Chaucer as “the well of English undefiled”. The well, of course, is not un puits but une source, a wellspring, a spring in the grass from which water flows unceasingly. God, says the Psalmist, is not the well: the spring is with him. It is near him, in his proximity; it is complicit with him, on his side, part of what God creates and wants us to recognize. 

We may imagine – as God always lets us imagine – himself, the Ancient of Days, seated in a meadow of his own creation, perhaps on the Seventh Day, tired but content, contemplating a new and unspoiled planet, and at his foot, in the unimaginably lovely fresh grass, a spring bubbling, its water coursing in rivulets down the hill. The water is life. Which is very insightful of the Psalmist: we now know that the sine qua non for a planet to support life is the presence of water. And the spring of that life is with God.

He created it, after all; but the beauty is that he kept it with him: close to him, never far away. He does not let the bubbling up of life out of his sight. Whatever it becomes later; whatever mud weighs it down, whatever filth pollutes it, whatever cruel droughts dry it up; if we trace it to its source, we shall find God, watching over it.

Life and light, in the good fortune of English, are alliterative twins; and the image of life is followed by an even more puissant one of light. Light allows us to see: to see things, to see the world, to see our neighbours. But what allows us to see light? In one sense, light is invisible; but what the Psalm tells us us that that is only one sense. In another, we see light; but we see it “in thy light”, in the light of God. No easy image of the Ancient of Days here. Can we get our mind round this? “In thy light shall we see light.” Light, the very essence of our consciousness, the primary element that allows us to see everything else, is itself secondary. We see it in, in the context of, as part of, as an emanation of, His light. 

How do we adjust this to our known and felt experience? We think we see light all the time, whether we ‘believe in’ God or not. We live, move and have our being in a world where light is an everyday occurrence. So in what way can it be secondary? Perhaps we should entertain the possibility that only when we see light in His light do we see light pure, light as it was created to be when God said “let there be light.” Any light, then, which we see on our own, without first adjusting our mind’s eye to God, is a polluted light, a light subtly touched by original sin. An uncomfortable thought; but those who have known conversion can tell you that it changes even your way of seeing – i.e. light. Perhaps they, for the first time, are seeing light in His light.

And finally, both life and light together spurred the Psalmist – unknown to us, but he must have existed as a real person, King David or no – to compress them together and so make a flash of pure poetry. Which in itself is always a new way of seeing.

BON APPETIT

On a Friday night as Yeshua, head of the family, was preparing to bless the bread -- baruch atta Adonai Eluhenu --, he looked at the pile of inviting, freshly-made blond loaves and thought: Yes, that too has its place in the prayer I'm building. We harvest the wheat, we thresh it, we mill the grain, we bake the flour; but without the wheat, and the millet, and the rest, what should we do? It was you, Father, who brought forth lechem min ha'aretz, bread from the earth. Nothing is so basic: it is 'bread', but sometimes we use it to mean simply 'food'. It is your gift, not our right.  And sometimes You withhold it, or seem to; sometimes rains or drought spoil the  harvest, and we go hungry. You have not given, but You have allowed, great famines. It would be proper to ask for it: "Give us today today's bread, today's food." Only today's, he thought; it would be wrong to demand tomorrow's, too like hoarding, control, security. Abba, you have taught us to care and not to care, to live lightly, loving only you so that we may the better love all else. Give us, just for today, the lechem we need.

And, he reflected, as every thing here below is itself but also an image, how true this is of the lechem! It is the warm bread we eat and enjoy this Shabbat, but at the same time it is the unleavened bread that reminds us of our flight from Egypt; it is the food that God provided for Israel in the desert -- and remember, they were told to gather only each day for that day (except for Shabbat). And the food God gives is not only that of ha'aretz, is it? 

As he meditated, walking in the fields that day, the subject opened out and out in his mind. What feeds us? What feeds our bodies? What feeds our souls? `What has fed my mind, that now I can access so many treasures of thought? And the Word of God swam into his mind: all those riches of Torah, Tanakh, all the words of the prophets, all the overflowing beauty of the Psalms -- what a banquet!

The Psalms brought him to the Meshiach, that supreme gift from God that we are promised. Meshiach, who will repair the great Ill and heal Israel of its wounds. Will not Meshiach be like bread also, not today's but eternity's?

JOY OF FORGIVENESS

Reading today’s Psalm, I was filled with joy as I always am when it turns up. Although I suspect most people who read this blog know it, I also think that in this time toward the end of Lent and in the midst of the usual grim news cycle, it may be worth rereading, both for its deep spiritual healing and for its sheer beauty. Could this be “the beauty of holiness”?

Psalm 103. Benedic, anima mea.

Praise the Lord, O my soul : and all that is within me praise his holy Name.
Praise the Lord, O my soul : and forget not all his benefits;
Who forgiveth all thy sin : and healeth all thine infirmities;
Who saveth thy life from destruction : and crowneth thee with mercy and loving-kindness;
Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things : making thee young and lusty as an eagle.
The Lord executeth righteousness and judgement : for all them that are oppressed with wrong.
He shewed his ways unto Moses : his works unto the children of Israel.
The Lord is full of compassion and mercy : long-suffering, and of great goodness.
He will not alway be chiding : neither keepeth he his anger for ever.
He hath not deal with us after our sins : nor rewarded us according to our wickednesses.
For look how high the heaven is in comparison of the earth : so great is his mercy also toward them that fear him.
Look how wide also the east is from the west : so far hath he set our sins from us. 
Yea, like as a father pitieth his own children : even so is the Lord merciful unto them that fear him.
For he knoweth whereof we are made : he remembereth that we are but dust.
The days of man are but as grass : for he flourisheth as a flower of the field.
For as soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone : and the place thereof shall know it no more. 
But the merciful goodness of the Lord endureth for ever and ever upon them that fear him : and his righteousness upon children’s children;
Even upon such as keep his covenant : and think upon his commandments to do them.
The Lord hath prepared his seat in heaven : and his kingdom ruleth over all.
O praise the Lord, ye angels of his, ye that excel in strength : ye that fulfil his commandment, and hearken unto the voice of his words. 
O praise the Lord, all ye his hosts : ye servants of his that do his pleasure.
O speak good of the Lord, all ye works of his, in all places of his dominion ; praise thou the Lord, O my soul.

THEY SHALL LAUGH AND SING

Samuel Palmer, "Harvesters by firelight"

I couldn't resist putting up the Psalm for tonight's BCP reading, for sheer beauty and glory. Enjoy.

65 ¶ Te decet hymnus Thou, O God, art praised in Sion; and unto thee shall the vow be performed in Jerusalem.  Thou that hearest the prayer, unto thee shall all flesh come.  My misdeeds prevail against me; O be thou merciful unto our sins.  Blessed is the man whom thou choosest, and receivest unto thee; he shall dwell in thy court, and shall be satisfied with the pleasures of thy house, even of thy holy temple. Thou shalt show us wonderful things in thy righteousness, O God of our salvation, thou that art the hope of all the ends of the earth, and of them that remain in the broad sea—who in his strength setteth fast the mountains, and is girded about with power, who stilleth the raging of the sea, and the noise of his waves, and the madness of the people.  They also that dwell in the uttermost parts of the earth shall be afraid at thy tokens, thou that makest the outgoings of the morning and evening to praise thee. Thou visitest the earth, and blessest it; thou makest it very plenteous.  The river of God is full of water; thou preparest their corn, for so thou providest for the earth.  Thou waterest her furrows; thou sendest rain into the little valleys thereof.  Thou makest it soft with the drops of rain, and blessest the increase of it.  Thou crownest the year with thy goodness, and thy clouds drop fatness.  They shall drop upon the dwellings of the wilderness; and the little hills shall rejoice on every side. The folds shall be full of sheep; the valleys also shall stand so thick with corn, that they shall laugh and sing.

SOMETHING TO BRIGHTEN YOUR DAY

I put this up a couple of days ago from an iPad, and my lamentable techo-incoherence created a monster. Here, I hope, is a better version. 

  In the Book of Common Prayer, this is this morning's second Psalm; and its infectious joyfulness seemed a good thing to share. The "beauty of holiness" is often interpreted by Anglican liturgophiles as if it meant the holiness of beauty; but reading Juliana of Norwich or St John of the Cross suffices to show that the original holds a deeper, and not incompatible, truth. I do like the rejoicing trees.

Psalm 96. Cantate Domino
O SING unto the Lord a new song : sing unto the Lord, all the whole earth.
2 Sing unto the Lord, and praise his Name : be telling of his salvation from day to day.
3 Declare his honour unto the heathen : and his wonders unto all people.
4 For the Lord is great, and cannot worthily be praised : he is more to be feared than all gods.
5 As for all the gods of the heathen, they are but idols : but it is the Lord that made the heavens.
6 Glory and worship are before him : power and honour are in his sanctuary.
7 Ascribe unto the Lord, O ye kindreds of the people : ascribe unto the Lord worship and power.
8 Ascribe unto the Lord the honour due unto his Name : bring presents, and come into his courts.
9 O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness : let the whole earth stand in awe of him.
10 Tell it out among the heathen that the Lord is King : and that it is he who hath made the round world so fast that it cannot be moved; and how that he shall judge the people righteously.
11 Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad : let the sea make a noise, and all that therein is.
12 Let the field be joyful, and all that is in it : then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice before the Lord.
13 For he cometh, for he cometh to judge the earth : and with righteousness to judge the world, and the people with his truth.

GOODNESS!

In the midst of Brexit, Trump, ISIS/Daech, and so forth, I found this snippet from St Matthias's Church website in Orange, N.J., entirely refreshing. One never tires of the Psalms.

"I believe I shall enjoy the Lord's goodness in the land of the living." Psalm 27:13

What a wonderful mantra the psalmist offers. Try repeating this belief statement as you go through a typical day. We most often see what we expect to see. Do you expect to see the Lord's goodness as you go through the day?  It takes many forms: a surprise phone call, a random act of kindness, some unexpected good news, or the daisy growing through the concrete. We are invited to one step further, however. After we see the Lord's goodness, we are challenged to enjoy it. That means slowing down to take notice. In this way, we are changed by what we see. Give yourself the gift of being transformed by the goodness of the Lord.

Source:  Loyola Press, May 4, 2016

PURE JOY

Psalm 96. Cantate Domino

O SING unto the Lord a new song : sing unto the Lord, all the whole earth.
2. Sing unto the Lord, and praise his Name : be telling of his salvation from day to day.
3. Declare his honour unto the heathen : and his wonders unto all people.
4. For the Lord is great, and cannot worthily be praised : he is more to be feared than all gods.
5. As for all the gods of the heathen, they are but idols : but it is the Lord that made the heavens.
6. Glory and worship are before him : power and honour are in his sanctuary.
7. Ascribe unto the Lord, O ye kindreds of the people : ascribe unto the Lord worship and power.
8. Ascribe unto the Lord the honour due unto his Name : bring presents, and come into his courts.
9. O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness : let the whole earth stand in awe of him.
10. Tell it out among the heathen that the Lord is King : and that it is he who hath made the round world so fast that it cannot be moved; and how that he shall judge the people righteously.
11. Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad : let the sea make a noise, and all that therein is.
12. Let the field be joyful, and all that is in it : then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice before the Lord.
13. For he cometh, for he cometh to judge the earth : and with righteousness to judge the world, and the people with his truth.


This morning's Psalm. The trees rejoice before the Lord.

THROUGH THE DESERT

   I have long been fascinated by the lengthy Psalm 119, that curious love-song to the Law. One of its most striking features is the repetition of certain words: "Law", "commandments", "statutes" and "testimonies". They keep turning up in slightly different contexts, and strongly suggest a formal pattern. When I started looking them up on the Web, I found there are eight in all, and
this useful downloadable PDF lists them in Hebrew, in the usual translation, and gives the places and ways they are used by the Psalmist, as well as his responses to each.
 
   The overall impression one gets is indeed that of a formal song, but a formal song of passionate gratitude to God the Lawgiver: the gratitude of a nomadic desert people for a signpost, for a clear path through the wilderness, a path that shows shifting sands to be avoided, oases where one may rest and be refreshed, and at the end a promised land of milk (protein and fat, hard to come by in the Nefud) and honey (the universal sweetener before sugar, giving energy and pleasure). As so often, it teaches a Christian how absolutely the Old Alliance belongs to his own faith as well. I may believe that there is a new Torah, and that a living guide is even more precious than an Ordnance Survey map; studying such a Psalm in any depth explains why the new Torah in no way banishes or replaces the old but fulfils it: not an iota or punctuation mark of the old shall be eliminated, it keeps its full and glorious value.
 
   Moreover, one thing the Fathers teach us is that beyond studying the Psalms there is another approach:  praying the Psalms. For some psalms, this is both simple (though not necessarily easy) and evident: the Penitential Psalms and the Psalms of Praise, for instance. For others, it is much more difficult. Sometimes it's harder because of the spiritual depth and complexity: Psalm 22, even without its immense Christian resonance, has a range of thought and emotion that takes years to absorb fully into prayer. And what about 119? Its very length and insistence makes it difficult to pray: we tend to think, 'OK, enough already, I get the point, no need to go on and on . . .' The change-ringing of the terms for God's Word is alien to our ideas of both poetry and prayer.

   So how to pray Psalm 119? I think the answer lies in the list I cited above, in the notes on the full range of meanings attached to each term; and in a constant application of all these meanings to one's own life and experience. For instance, simply following and meditating upon the mishpatim, to us almost inexplicably glossed as 'judgements, ordinances', leads us to the insight that such judgements are those that express and echo God's loving-kindness by their justice. And that, in turn, sheds light upon on the one hand Angela Merkel's decision to receive positively the greatest possible number of refugees in Germany, and other hand my wife's decision to go and visit our 96-year-old peasant neighbour who lives a placid old age but is happy to be remembered. If one admits to one's reading of Psalm 119 such background and such echoes, praying  the psalm becomes both possible and a delight.

TWO FOR TODAY

Today, two verses from the Psalms. A good Lenten exercise, I find, is reading the Psalms daily, as they are divided in the Book of Common Prayer, morning and evening. And Coverdale's translation, though sometimes inaccurate, is incomparable in resonance and beauty. So here are two quotations from this morning's Psalms:

And the glorious Majesty of the Lord our God be upon us : prosper thou the work of our hands upon us, O prosper thou our handy-work. (90:17)

And our handy-work may be the grading of mid-term examinations, the concluding of business contracts, or the spring-cleaning of teenagers' bedrooms. All of which, as George Herbert knew, may be prospered by the presence of God's glorious Majesty, and made finer by dedicating it to Him.

Whoso dwelleth under the defence of the most High : shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say unto the Lord, Thou art my hope, and my strong hold : my God, in him will I trust. (91:1-2)

After all, we have no other strong hold, or stronghold. Much as we recite the old Marine's version of Psalm 23 ("Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil : for I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley"), we know, as the Marines did, that that is just a charm to recite; and although the very Bible-nourished General Orde Wingate called his parachuted bases behind Japanese lines in Burma "strongholds", we know that there are no strong holds for us poor, bare, forked creatures but the shadow of the Almighty, and the defence of the most High.

For thou, Lord, hast made me glad through thy works : and I will rejoice in giving praise for the operations of thy hands. (92:4)

                                                          George Herbert                                                     Orde Wingate

OH DEAR

Most of us know the story of the Pharisee and the publican in Luke 18. Well, up to a point. We know that there was this self-righteous hypocrite extremely pleased with himself and sure that God felt the same way about him; and then there was this poor sod who just felt like hell and hoped God would have mercy on him. Now, let's look at this a little more closely. 

The Pharisee was a Pharisee: the word comes from Hebrew perushim, meaning those who are set apart or sanctified; they were the adversaries of the Sadducees, who were classy if Scriptural, while the Pharisees were more democratic but believed that there was also an oral Law and that salvation depended on observance and moral purity. 

However, when you read the story carefully and if you are also in the habit of reading the Psalms, a different angle starts to show. For what is the Pharisee doing? He is doing what we not only are all told to do at all times but in our better moments want to do: he is giving thanks. His prayer is a prayer of thanksgiving. And what is more, it's not just a thanksgiving of the kind 'Gee, Lord, thanks for not making me a shit like Joey there'. It's a serious, lawful, indeed laudable thanksgiving. Let's look at the text.

Two men went up into the temple to pray; the one a Pharisee, and the other a publican.

The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican. I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess.

Now look at this passage from Psalm 18:20-24:

The Lord rewarded me according to my righteousness; according to the cleanness of my hands hath he recompensed me.

For I have kept the ways of the Lord, and have not wickedly departed from my God.

For all his judgments were before me, and I did not put away his statutes from me.

I was also upright before him, and I kept myself from mine iniquity.

Therefore hath the Lord recompensed me according to my righteousness, according to the cleanness of my hands in his eyesight.

The Pharisee, in other words, is giving thanks in perfect accordance with the Psalmist. His one error, of course, is his mention of 'this publican': that gets it a little close to the bone. Still, it would have been forgiven him by his fellow 'sanctified ones'; and we know that the Psalmist has it in for the ungodly and the wicked at all times, in no uncertain terms. Moreover, the 'publican' is a known collaborator, a stooge of the pagan oppressors: someone to be socially and religiously avoided like the plague. 

So what does this mean for us, in the fifth week of Lent? Suppose you were giving up X, Y and Z for Lent. And by now, in Passiontide, you are led to look back, and you say to yourself 'Hey, so far so good, I've managed it this year: yea!' It could of course refer to something bigger than giving up Scotch or chocolate: any training you have set yourself for this year's Lent. And, unlike previous years, it's working. Now you know that it would be both wrong and, worse, foolish to pat yourself on the back. So what do you do? You give thanks to God for helping you to make it work. And Boom! Ouch! there you run bang into our friend the Pharisee. 

Ok, now, let us avoid our first reaction, i.e. 'Well dammit, I give up. Whatever I do, it's never enough, I'm supposed to feel guilty all the time, what kind of a religion is this anyway?' No. Not. Look at it differently. The Pharisee is not exactly sacrificing a bull, but within the later dispensation he is doing that same thing: he is acting according to God's rules, as laid down by Moses and updated by the Proper Authorities. But he has forgotten two other Psalms, 50 and 51:

I will take no bullock out of thy house, nor he goats out of thy folds. For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills. I know all the fowls of the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are mine. If I were hungry, I would not tell thee: for the world is mine, and the fulness thereof. Will I eat the flesh of bulls, or drink the blood of goats? . . . For thou desirest not sacrifice; else would I give it: thou delightest not in burnt offering. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.

No bullocks; no rules; no laws. What Jesus means by the story is that what matters is the heart. And however well our Lent has gone, we are still a bunch of messed-up collaborators with the enemy, and we know it. 'Deus propitius esto mihi peccatori'. Amen.

LEARNED, PASSIONATE, POETICAL

Today is the Feast of St Basil the Great, one of the awesome 4th-century Doctors of the Church. Monks love him for his contributions to the monastic life: St Benedict stood in awe of him. He was a powerful and influential bishop of Caesarea in Pontus: when the emperor sent his prefect Modestus to chastise him, he reduced Modestus to stammering vagueness, and when the prefect complained of being spoken to like that, Basil said crisply, "You seem never to have met a bishop." He was a giant of theology, who wrote a classic work on the Holy Spirit ; and he was a passionate, poetical character who wrote the following in praise of psalms:

"A psalm implies serenity of soul; it is the author of peace, which calms bewildering and seething thoughts. For, it softens the wrath of the soul, and what is unbridled it chastens. A psalm forms friendships, unites those separated, conciliates those at enmity. Who, indeed, can still consider as an enemy him with whom he has uttered the same prayer to God?

So that psalmody, bringing about choral singing, a bond, as it were, toward unity, and joining the people into a harmonious union of one choir, produces also the greatest of blessings, charity. A psalm is a city of refuge from the demons, a means of inducing help from the angels, a weapon in fears by night, a rest from toils by day, a safeguard for infants, an adornment for those at the height of their vigor, a consolation for the elders, a most fitting ornament for women.

It peoples the solitudes; it rids the market place of excesses; it is the elementary exposition of beginners, the improvement of those advancing, the solid support of the perfect, the voice of the Church. It brightens the feast days; it creates a sorrow which is in accordance with God.

For a psalm is the work of angels, a heavenly institution, the spiritual incense."

The illustration is an icon from the Cathedral of St Sophia in Kiev, Ukraine