Brothers! - October Bible drabbles 8

“I don’t like my brothers,” said Joseph, whose brothers dreamed of killing him or throwing him away. Meanwhile young Joseph dreamed of brothers bowing down to him.

“I don’t like you at all,” said Joseph when his brothers sold him as a slave.

“I don’t like my mistress,” when the woman preyed on him.

“I don’t like jail,” when the doors were closed.

“I don’t like nightmares.” Screeching birds stealing bread, wine drippnig like blood, cannibal cows and crippled grain, and a pharaoh filled with fear.

“We’re hungry,” said the brothers, bowing down to pharaoh’s friend. They liked him now.

Real God's not fickle - October Bible drabbles 7

Abraham knew God called him. He knew God gave him victories in war. He knew God gave him his son. But Abraham’s neighbors knew something more. They knew gods were fickle and needed gifts, or else they’d take away more than they offered. A real god wouldn’t let Abraham strut around with a second perfect child. “So kill him,” they said. “Your god needs to know you’re willing.”

Isaac knew God called him. He knew God loved and cared for him. So he carried the wood for sacrifice and he trusted something good. Their real God wasn’t fickle after all.

Towering Terrors - October Bible drabbles 6

No one knew what they’d find at the top of the tower. A monstrous dragon with fiery breath perhaps. A fearsome demon with eyes all red. A god with thunderbolts in either hand. But just imagine—if they could ride the dragon, they’d conquer all their enemies; if they could tame the demon they’d have slaves till the end of time; if they could control thunderbolts then everybody would fear them. It was worth climbing those thousand steps, worth carrying a thousand stones, worth ignoring those who fell from lofty heights before the end. Then the tower fell. They lost.

Beware the Nephilim - October Bible drabbles 5

“That guy’s a giant,” they said when they saw him approach; huge-boned, wide-bodied, and stronger than an ox. “That guy’s scary. That guy’s not one of us.” They threw their stones and tried to chase him away. Then the girl disappeared.

“That guy’s evil,” they said as they drank their wine. “That guy’s a monster. That guy’s not even human.” They threw their knives instead of stones and tried to chase him away. Then the girl came home.

“That guy’s my husband,” said the girl. “I need your aid to heal him.” And those were the days of the Nephilim.

When Life Is Good - October's Bible drabbles 4

The river’s drying. No-one cares. The sky’s on fire, but no-one dares deny that life is good; so they won’t change. The end is coming. Build a boat. A boat won’t sail on river-beds. The land is dead. They’ll seed a wider field instead.

Old Noah led his flock inside, his wife, his kids and grandkids, sheep and goats, a cow or two, some birds who’d taken roost inside the roof.

The sky’s all smoke. The field’s all broken. No-one dares deny that life is good.

The swollen river rose like heaven’s fist in mighty waves. Only old Noah’s saved.

Ear-Worm - October's Bible drabbles 3

I whispered once in heaven’s ear. I told him in wouldn’t work, but did he listen? Did he hear? I whispered fire in the burning star and taught it to explode, but he made planets from the seeds exposed. I whispered dark volcanoes; he made plants to clear the air. I whispered shifting waters; he made fish and birds and mammals and made man.

I whispered once in the woman’s ear. She learned to disobey him. I rejoiced.

I whispered in the young man’s ear. He learned to kill his brother. I rejoiced.

I’m whispering in your ear too. Listen.

Just Testing The Boundaries - October's Bible drabbles 2

She only wanted to test and try; she only wanted to taste and pry sweet fruit that dangled high; she wanted to treasure it so why be denied? She only wanted a moment to do an action wholly her own, to choose a path not overgrown with dues and don’ts. She only wanted to see if what was forbidden could be as harmful as she’d been told. She only wanted... too much.

And he, not so bold, only wanted that she be the one who took the fruit and blame and carried all the shame.

The snake wants it all.

In The Beginning - October's Bible drabbles 1

In the beginning, in the silence, in the emptiness of space; in that nowhere place where no-one can hear you scream; in the shadowed wastes of deep dark pits of chaos; in the blackest black hole, God created order and said, “Let there be light.”

In the beginning, when visions streamed in glory from hell’s all-swallowing halls, God made holiness, and the whole new universe began.

In the beginning, this was what we gained; God’s law was wholly wise and gave all we’d ever need, but we, God-made, all disobeyed. Then all creation screamed. In the beginning, let us pray.

Holy Week - Easter Sunday !

“King of the Jews.”

“So they say.”

“D’you think he’ll stay dead?”

The older man laughed. He’d been a soldier long enough to know, the dead don’t walk. “We killed him son.” And if they could keep the body guarded, maybe peace would return to the violent province.

They sat around the fire, telling war stories to flames, cursing the land, scorning people who might be foolish enough to try to steal a corpse.

Then they saw what they could not see, and heard what they could not hear. In the morning, the grave stood empty; the dead had walked.

John 11:25 “…I am the resurrection, and the life…”

Jesus walked the earth again for forty days. His disciples saw Him. Huge crowds ate and talked with Him. And those who chronicled events wrote their tales, while eye-witnesses still lived to disagree. Like newspaper reporters today, each stressed his own version. But together they tell one story, one the authorities couldn’t suppress, though it would have been so easy to disprove—if there’d only been a body.

After the forty days, Jesus disappeared. After fifty, at the Jewish Pentecost, the Holy Spirit turned frightened fishermen into Fishers of Men. And two thousand years later Christians still follow the carpenter. 

Holy Week - 7 - Holy Saturday

“They tell me Judas has killed himself. I doubt I could even do that right.

“Remember me, Jesus? I’m the one that betrayed you; told them I never even knew you. I stood there, and I saw you look at me.

“Remember me? I’m the one that couldn’t walk on water after all; can’t even walk right on land. You said you’d build your church on me, called me a rock. Some rock. Some church.

“Remember me, Jesus? And you tell me to remember you.

“I remember seeing you dead and buried, so tell me, now what do I do?”

John 15:5 “I am the vine, ye are the branches…”

We left the church in silence on Good Friday, the altar bare—no candles, no flowers, no music, joyful or sad. On Saturday evening, we’ll meet together in the parking lot, beside the Paschal fire, the air filled with excitement and smoke, shouting “Alleluia” instead of “Crucify.” On Holy Saturday evening we’ll all stand forgiven, and the grave lie empty.

New light, new life, new hope tonight. My brother, the priest, sings “Lumen Christi” and we answer “Deo Gratias”—light of Christ; thanks be to God. Beautiful music, beautiful prayers, and beautiful hope.

This night, our Savior is risen.

Holy Week - 6 - Good Friday

It didn’t seem so long ago she carried her baby to the Temple, and an old man prophesied, “A sword will piece your heart.”

She hadn’t known what sort of sword. There were all the little swords of childhood, watching and caring for the boy, losing and finding him. There was the sword of his leaving home, and the day he addressed the crowds: “These are my mother and brothers,” as if she hadn’t left everything to follow him too.

This sword was a soldier’s spear, piercing her dead son’s heart.

A mother shouldn’t have to watch her baby die.

John 1:29 “…Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.”

Good Friday’s service is the long one. We stand and kneel and sit on cue, and pray for all times and all peoples.

The priest holds up the crucifix—“Behold the wood of the cross.” And all other symbols stay hid under their purple cloths—statues in mourning. The congregation marches forwards to bestow our reverent kisses, quickly wiped.

It must look strange—we fools for Christ; irrational kisses in remembrance of God’s salvation. I touch my lips to plastic, and my heart touches mystery.

Returning home we celebrate with hot cross buns, sweetness and spice, pleasure and pain together. 

Holy Week - 5 - Maundy Thursday

The streets were quiet. Night had fallen, everyone sleeping or praying, except for them.

“Strange about the bread,” said James, still tasting forbidden matzos eaten after lamb.

“And the blessing”—“This is my body,” the master had said, reminding them of something they were too full, or too tired to remember.

They stopped at a garden, sat on rocks, lay on grass, their bodies weary with food. And they barely noticed when Jesus left to pray with Peter, James and John.

Matthew looked up. “Huh? Where’d they go?” then, “Wonder what happened to Judas.”

Voices whispered. Armor jangled. Footsteps approached.

Mark 14:22 “…Take, eat: this is my body.”

After they’d eaten the Passover meal, Jesus blessed and broke another matzo. He prayed over the third cup of wine—cup of redemption, blood of the lamb—and the feast drew to its end.

Maundy Thursday evening begins a three-day celebration of Easter: Maundy pennies to the poor; priests washing the people’s feet. But it’s communion that matters most—bread and wine shared in remembrance of Him. We file out from church, leaving the light shining in a tiny garden—shrubs and flowers, a place of Easter prayer.

And through the night, people visit, to watch and pray one hour. 

Holy Week - 4

The city streets were crowded, visitors camped outside the Temple and all the houses full. But someone offered Jesus a room where they could eat.

He sent Peter and John to prepare—clean the area, inspect for leaven, lay out all the food. Everything in order now: the bowl for washing hands set beside where Jesus would sit; the cup for the first drink of wine; the bread and bitter herbs on their table; and the smell of cooking meat, savory and warm.

This was going to be their best Passover ever, or else their worst.

“D’you suppose he’s okay?”

John 13:8 “…If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with me.”

The lamb chosen on the tenth day (Sunday) was sacrificed on the fourteenth. As priests chanted psalms for the celebration, the congregation answered “Save now, I pray…  Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”

Jesus shared the first cup of wine—“I will not drink again of the fruit of the vine…”—then he took the bowl to wash his hands, but washed their feet instead.

Next came the table with bitter herbs, the second cup, questions and answers, and hands washed again. Jesus dipped the broken matzo in herbs and passed it on… Passover begun. 

Holy Week - 3

“One of you will betray me,” the leader said, and they whispered amongst themselves. Who?

Was it James, devoted to law and tradition, seeing unfaithfulness to God in every slip? Maybe Peter, his tongue racing faster than his mind? Or John, son of thunder; what violent temper hid under his quiet poise? Perhaps it was Matthew, eager for change; time to force the authorities’ hand? Or Judas, sure the crowds would unite and fight?

“One of you,” he said, “that dips his bread in the same bowl.” But when he passed the morsel, who knew, was it invitation or censure?

John 8:12 “…I am the light of the world…”

A part of me has always felt sorry for Judas.

I imagine him holding that bread in his hand, knowing Jesus has seen his plan, getting ready to make his move. They tell me all Judas cared about was money, but I see him convinced he’s helping God, nudging the world towards some spectacular victory, fulfilling prophesy.

I see him deceiving himself, and wonder how many of us make the same mistake. Then, when it’s all gone wrong, when we can’t fix what we’ve broken, should we just give up?

But Jesus is risen, and where there’s light there’s hope.

Holy Week - 2

They walked the streets of the ancient city, at once familiar and strange. Crowds that had cheered watched and waited. Soldiers listened cautiously while priests conspired in corners. Sudden strangers rushed out to challenge “What if…?” “Why?” “Would you dare…?” In dark evenings their leader spoke of dying. Death and disaster waited in every conversation; denial in their answers. Then bright daylight would promise a new age dawning, revolution even, at his command.

“He ought to declare himself,” said Judas.

“Soon. Maybe.”

But Jesus gathered them together and said he was going where they couldn’t follow.

“Where?” they asked. “Why?”

John 14:6 “…I am the way, the truth, and the life…”

There was always an air of excitement once Holy Week began; something much more visceral than a child’s anticipation of Christmas gifts. We would go to church for the ‘Stations of the Cross,’ following Christ’s final journey in pictures and prayers. And I would wonder why the images ended with the grave instead of resurrection.

One day I was waiting for Dad to be ready and saw my answer in the altar. Seven stations arranged down each side of the church (seven for God’s plan), and the fifteenth at the front—Christ’s sacrifice accepted and returned. He will come again. 

Holy Week 1 Palm Sunday

The king rode into town in a covered chariot, hidden from the mob, seen only by slaves. His soldiers led him to the royal palace, not so fine as Tiberias but good enough for the time of the Festival.

The governor rode a warhorse, standard-bearers waving the flag. And people threw stones.

Then the prophet rode a donkey through crowds that shouted praise, waved palm fronds, lifted children high and threw their cloaks down to the ground.

“Tell them to be quiet,” said the official, but Jesus said no. If the crowds fell silent then the stones would sing instead.

Psalm 118:26 “Blessed be he that cometh in the name of the LORD…”

The streets were always crowded with parked cars on Palm Sunday; the parking lot filled with parishioners holding palms. We’d march and sing out of tune with the timing all wrong. Then we’d file into church ready for worship.

The reading had to be the start of the Passion. I hear my Dad’s voice still in the narrator’s part—chosen for his teacher’s cadence. Then we, the crowds, shouted “Hosanna!” knowing full well that come Friday we’d be yelling “Crucify!”

One thing I couldn’t fail to learn—it was me that sent Him to die, and He died for me. 

The Final Page in the Month of Love - 28

It ends the way it all began. Two trees again. One land. And rivers flow. It ends when finally the tale is told. Then, in a city made of light, no tears are shed, no pain, no mourning sorrow shall remain. It ends, and in that place we’ll meet again.

Then, though a quarter shall be lost, yet all are found. And though third should fail, still all succeed. And though the whole is wrapped up, rolled into a final scroll, yet all again becomes our world of men. And he, who loved, who loves, will be with us, eternally.

Telling of Love in the Month of Love - 27

They risked it all for love. Poor fishermen, out-of-work taxmen, students of law, refugees, women and men; they traveled the world to tell of him. They lost their homes for him. They lost their livelihoods. They were imprisoned, beaten, stoned, thrown out of town. They sailed and suffered shipwrecks, were bitten by snakes and survived, and all for love. They told the world, because they loved him, and because the world needed to learn there is a way, a better way, a hopeful way, a truthful way, a way that isn’t stained by war and sin; that way is him.

Love. Loss and Hope in the Month of Love - 26

They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never love at all. But what if it’s your fault your love is lost, through your betrayal? The one had hoped to make him change; instead he saw him die. The other hoped to hide away; instead the strangers caught him by the fire. And now both knew they’d done what neither ever dreamed to do. He who they loved had died.

In sudden dark, in aching gloom, in terrors of the night, one killed himself. The other, waiting still, survived and saw him rise. But could he love again?

A Loving Son in the Month of Love - 25

The child learned to bake bread with yeast. He learned to put fresh wine into new skins. He learned to wait for figs to ripen, to build on good foundations, to plant the seed and watch it grow in fields and die on paths. He learned how mothers search for missing coins, how they mend clothes, how fishermen throw out their nets, and shepherds watch their sheep. He learned it all, because he loved them all.

In the end, he grew up, taught his friends, and learned to die for us because he loves us all. His name is Jesus.