The Sanhedrin, the Council, the 'them' of the story.  All fine and dandy, allowing us to vilify that which is 'other' but many of us are, or have been members of a Council at some point in our lives - The PCC, The Kirk Session, The Diaconate, The Eldership, The Church Council, The Property Team, The Mission Strategy Group, The [insert name]...? Ever notice they all take the definite article and many capitalise it; interesting.  Anyway, today's character is a fictional, unnamed member of the Council.  Again no exegetical basis and no real idea of how the Council worked.

To be part of it - the Council - wow!  Me?  I had long wondered what went on in those meetings, had revered the men with their long beards and measured tones.  Now I was part of it.  It was exciting and nerve-wracking.  A privilege for sure, a responsibility undoubtedly, but an opportunity.  I was, relatively speaking, young.  And I noticed how when I spoke people would smile knowingly and shake their heads in a slightly dismissive way that said, 'we were once young too; you'll learn.'  There was so much the Council could influence, could make better, more vibrant, more Godly... but meetings seemed dry and turgid as often as not.  The biggest concern seemed to be keeping the peace with Rome, every now and then some upstart looked like causing trouble and he would be quietly - or not so quietly - dealt with.

They are good people on the Council, men who have helped me to settle in, to learn how things work.  They are not all the same, opinions vary and a few speak out against the status quo.  I have found two good friends here - in a Council of 70 (71) it takes time to get to know people.  Nic[odemus] is a worrier, often doesn't sleep at nights, so he tells me.  He worries and wonders about getting right, turns over ideas in his mind.  He's been known to go out under cover of darkness to talk with northern rabbis about philosophical ideas.  He's a good man, a thinking man, and a friend to me.  And Joe [Joseph of Arimathea]: never says much, just seems to listen intently and weigh up what is said.  A kindly man with deep, gentle eyes and a soft voice.  A friend who looks out for me, a mentor if you like, someone who stands with me as I learn the ropes of this responsible, confusing, powerful role.

Discussion recently has centred on one of the northern rabbis, one who is gathering an enormous following, and who is attracting too much attention with his talk of a Kingdom.  What should be done?  Various reports were brought by members who'd been out to see what he was up to - healing on Shabbat, declaring sins forgiven, consorting with women, meeting Roman centurions, touching lepers... the list was endless.  Discussion flew back and forth; a decision must be made.  It came to a vote - to exterminate him or not, 'better one man die than a nation perish'.  So how should I vote?  Nic was clear in his mind - no way was he voting for this.  Joe quietly joined the 'no' vote. 

What should I do?  I had waited a long time to be part of this council, I wanted to make a difference, yet I wanted to be accepted.  I trusted the judgement of my new found friends but there were more and more people voting 'yes'...

I wonder how it is for us?  How much does acceptance and/or recognition outweigh our desire for justice or truth?  How easily are we 'processed' by organisations, simply becoming one more proponent of the status quo?  How readily do we suppress contradictory opinions or seek to shape others in our image: 'this is the way we do things around here'?

If we are honest, truly honest, would we follow Nic and Joe through the 'no' lobby, or would we, like sheep, trail through the 'yes' door, condemning Jesus to death?

News this morning announces the death of Elisabeth Sladen, better known to my generation as Sarah Jane Smith, probably the finest assistant Dr Who ever had; certainly the one who travelled with him during my younger childhood when Jon Pertwee steered the TARDIS and K9 was the epitome of robotic companions - 'affirmative, master'.

I knew she had to be in her sixties, but somehow Sarah Jane was timeless - a fitting attritube for a time lord's companion - so it was a shock to hear she had died, and to know that cancer had claimed another victim.

Yesterday's BUS Ministry Matters included in its prayer list several ministers and/or their spouses and immediate families affected by cancer, commenting on the high number.  That's the way of statistics and randomness of course: you wait ages for one then three come at once.  Given there are around 200 ministers, mostly with spouses, it shouldn't be a surprise to discover that there are currently eight 'pulpits' so affected, to say nothing of the dozens of unnamed and unknown 'pew people'.

So, goodbye Sarah Jane, and God bless with tenacity and hope all who live daily with the reality of knowing what cancer really means.

My readers include royalists and republicans and everything in between, people who will avidly watch events on 29th April and those who will be seeking secluded islands to hide.  Whatever your view about the whole thing as public spectacle, these two are great fun:

The Other Guys, St Andrews a capella group here

Look out for the 'Rockin' Rowan' in the T-mobile advert here

HT various bloggers

Two stories come to mind today... from Luke's gospel the story of the elderly widow who put 'all she had' into the Temple treasury and from John's the anointing of Jesus by Mary at Bethany. What about the average woman though, the housewife and mother, the homemaker?

For the purposes of my reflection only, since it's impossible so to do by exegesis, my protagonist is at both events.

So, that was it, I had bought all the special food needed for the festival.  it was a busy time, as well as my own husband and three children, there would his parents and mine, my widowed sister and her two, his unmarried brother, a couple of cousins, oh yes, and my maiden aunt.  A house full!  It has been no small feat saving up for the extras that would have to be bought, carefully balancing my budget, setting aside a few shekels when I could for the extras, whilst paying the Roman taxes and the Temple taxes.  I was proud of my achievements - we owed nothing, we had borrowed nothing, we had paid our dues and had a little left over to make the festival a celebration.

I went to the Temple to make my financial offering, having carefully calculated what could be afforded once everything essential had been paid.  I met an elderly neighbour on her way, too, and we chatted.  I looked away as she slipped her two tiny coins into the treasury. I didn't want her to be embarrassed; and, to be honest, I didn't want to be embarrassed by her either.  Quietly I dropped in my own offering - exactly what I could afford, well after setting aside a few coins for emergencies of course.

That evening we had been invited out to a meal in Bethany where the rabbi Jesus was being honoured.  Carefully I chose which scarf to wear, which trinkets to adorn my wrists.  A tiny dab of perfume, a gift from a time when money was more plentiful.  We set off, hungry for conversation, eager to taste the food!  It was a great evening, wonderful food, flowing wine, lively conversation... and then...  Mary, it was Mary, sister of Martha and Lazarus, breaking open a jar of perfumed oil and pouring the whole lot over Jesus' feet.  What a waste, I thought, just a few drops were all that was needed to tend to his dusty, travelled feet.  'What a waste' a man's voice spoke aloud, 'it could have been sold and the money given to the poor.'  A murmur of agreement spread until Jesus spoke.

In one day then, two women had behaved recklessly and been commended for it.  My elderly neighbour had given her last mite to the Temple, making herself dependent on the generosity of others (note to self: invite her for the festival dinner).  And Mary, had simply poured out a whole bottle of perfume in a rash act of devotion.  I don't understand it, I've always been sensible, never spent more than I had, never borrowed.  I don't understand it, I've always given what was expected of me at the Temple; I've always paid my taxes on time.  I don't understand how foolishness earns approval and wisdom is overlooked.

I wonder how we are like Ms Average, thrifty without being mean, cautious and correct, busy making sure our obligations are met, concerned with balancing the books and not being a burden to anyone.  How do we react to elderly widows who give every penny to charity and then depend on us for help?  How do we feel about rash acts of devotion?  What might we have to learn from the widow and from Mary? 

Dare we imagine ourselves in either scene?  And dare we be honest about our reactions to what we see?

Holy Week always feels like a time when we ought to slow a little and 'live' with the narrative.  Sometimes I find myself wondering what the story might have looked like from the perspective of people who are not mentioned - who may not have existed. This year I offer a few, off the top of my head, starters for your imagination.

Palm Sunday and the Clearing of the Temple are messy stories - clothes thrown into the street, branches torn from trees (or possibly taken from heaps that had been pruned), animals running amok having been liberated from the Temple precints.  I wonder what it would have been like to have been street sweeper in Jerusalem at what was already a busy time - thousands of pilgrims (tourists?) filling the city, traders selling their wares, disposable pottery cups abandoned, dropped food, lost property and so on.  Maybe they picked up a fair few coins that had fallen, unnoticed by passers by, but they really could have done without all the extra work Jesus and his crew created!

Imagine yourself standing in the city, a broom in your hands or with a cart to collect rubbish.  How do you feel?  What do you see?  What does the coming festival mean for you?  What do you think about what Jesus is doing?