Tomorrow, being the first Sunday of the month, it is Communion, and as is my practice I have been writing a new liturgy to fit with our service.  This time I found myself wondering how Jesus felt that night as he gathered his frineds for the meal that would be his last.  Presuambly he knew what he was going to tell them, or at least had an idea.  He knew, or had a pretty good inkling, of what lay ahead of him (whether we think he was prescient or whether it was just self-evident that events had reached an inevitable conlcusion).  So how did he feel?

Was his stomach churning as he climbed the stairs?

Did he taste the lamb prepared for his meal, or might he as well have chewed a piece of leather?

Did his voice quiver, even everso slightly, as he spoke words he'd spoken many times before?

Did his hand shake, if imperceptibly, as he tore the bread?

Did the wine slop in the cup as he gave an involuntary shiver?

Did the words of the psalm pierce his heart as they foretold his pain?

If I'm honest, the Jesus of my imagination has always been strong at this point.  I have 'seen' him agonise in Gethsemane and I have 'heard' the cry of dereliction from the cross.  But until now it has never crossed my mind that, "on the night of his arrest the Lord Jesus experienced anxiety as he took bread...."

Yesterday our new midweek Bible study group met for the first time.  We were a disaparate group - in age, theology, nationality - but it seemed to gel.  We are using the Nick Fawcett guide Women of Faith: What They Can Teach Us and the first study was on Ruth, the voice of an outsider.  Our conversations seemed natural and flowed quite well.  We ended with tea/coffee and Waitrose cupcakes - it seemed fitting to mark our first meeting with a special treat.  One person was surprised we were ending with cakes - but seemed reassured when I told her I'm sure Jesus would have had cupcakes if they'd had such things in his day.

I think people enjoyed the afternoon together.  Someone suggested we take it in turn to bring the cakes.  Someone else was inspired to go home and read the rest of Ruth.  Someone else was free to admit aloud that there are bits of the Bible she doesn't understand.  Everyone shared something of herself.  We are not a 'women's' Bible study group but yesterday we were all women meeting to share and to listen and to pray.  That was good.

A while back I said I'd post a list of the books we were using to recource our upcoming Theological Reflection group looking at the complex issue of assisted dying.  There are two in favour and two against.  I'm glad I read those in favour, even though I disagree with their conclusions, because they forced me to examine other perspectives.  It is amazing how often it is useful to engage with views we disagree with, allowing ourselves to be open to what they say rtaher than dismissing them out of hand.  So, in case you would find them useful, here are the four books...

A Time to Live: The Case Against Euthanasia and Assisted Suicide, George Pitcher, Oxford, Monarch Books 2010 (against, obviously)

Dying with Dignity: A Personal Plea for Responsibility, Hans Kung and Walter Jens, New York Continuum, 1998 (A bit out of date now; in favour)

Is there a Christian Case for Assisted Dying, Paul Badham, London, SPCK, 2009 (in favour)

Euthanasia: A Christian Perspective, Church of Scotland Board of Social Responsibility, Edinburgh, St Andrew Press, 1997 (against)

Sometimes at lunch time I take my sandwiches to the Botanic Gardens and watch the world go by.  It is a great place for people watching and all of life is there - children squealing with delight, the laboured footsteps of old age, students planning parties and occasionally canoodling couples (from which of course the ministerial gaze is averted).  There are also birds and animals.

Today I watched a little grey squirrel doing what squirrels do at this time of year.  It was searching for nuts to bury and scampering around the grass in the sunshine.  Then it ran up a tree before coming back to see if I had anything interesting for it to eat - my crisps were evidently not appealing and off it scuttled.  The significant thing was that little squirrel had lost most of its tail.  Whether by accident or mutation or disease I have no idea, but rather than a bushy balance aid it had a little stubby runt of a tail.  The way it had adapted - still able to run up the trees apace - was clearly evident.

I wondered how many people noticed the squirrel, and of those how many that it was different.  This part of Glasgow is teeming with 'different' in every sense of the word.  Sometimes it's good to be reminded of that.