By Dwight Swanson

Maundy Thursday

It is only a fifteen-twenty minute walk to the Mount of Olives, across the Kidron Valley, from old Jerusalem. That is not so far as to wear one out. But, Pesach is a busy time. The week in advance is full of activity and crowds, and preparing for the meal. By the time the Passover meal itself is over, the fresh air and a walk would be sure to bring on sleep.

I know. That is what happened to me on pilgrimage. I had been to all the Maundy Thursday services available, with both Eastern and Western churches. The Greek Patriarch sat on a high platform with twelve fellow important priests, and washed their feet, though one could not see what was going on behind the railings. The Anglican bishop, on the other hand, washed the feet of ordinary people who volunteered.

After that service, my fellow pilgrims went on to the Garden of Gethsemane ahead of me; I came later, walking through quiet Old City streets until approaching Stephen’s Gate—the sound of breaking glass and raised voices came from some boisterous lads between me and the gate. It was the first, and only, sense of danger I had ever had in the Old City. And it came to nothing.

Crossing the Kidron, I entered the Church of All Nations, joining the crowds in silent prayer and meditation of the night of Jesus’ betrayal. And I could not keep my eyes from closing; I was so tired. I wanted to pray, but my mind was numb from the busyness of the day. I wanted to sleep.

I know how the disciples felt. I know how hard it is to watch and pray. I cannot fault them.

This year, again and far from Jerusalem, I have heard the story of that night read out. The meal; the washing of feet; the trek to Gethsemane. The slumber of the disciples. And I feel the guilty shame of not being able to stay awake when the Beloved Teacher was facing the fight of his life, when all the world was about to turn upside down. When Darkness reigned.

It is still difficult to pray on this evening, knowing my own failure.

Good Friday

It fell on me this year, for the first time, to carry a rough hewn wooden cross. It is not a fixed part of my church’s practice; I have been part of services in other years where someone carried a cross over their shoulders. For the first time in my very middle-aged life I have done so.

I did not think much about it before time, and I did not expect any particular emotions. My part was simply to carry the cross into the church and to the altar. But, as I placed it over my shoulder I became aware of two different kinds of feeling. One, the weight and roughness of the wood (and that, not full-sized); two, a sense of being a fraud; of embarrassment. I have no right to mimic Christ in such a manner.

Again, I am much aware of my own short-coming in the midst of worship.

Easter Morning

It is not about me, of course. It is about the resurrection of Jesus, which transforms life, including my own failings.

Today was glorious celebration of life and transformation. If we believe the British media, churches in England will all have been virtually empty on this day. But, ours was packed to over-flowing. It was literally standing-room only. There was great anticipation, evident in the joyous singing.

In keeping with Christian tradition going back as far as any record tells, this service included a baptism; a dunking of an adult wholly under water, splashing in and splashing out of the portable pool brought in for the purpose. The whole congregation gathered around outside, at the entrance to the church, and sang and watched as a new Christian bore witness to transformation, and all pledged to walk alongside her on the pilgrimage of her life from this moment on.
I wish I could tell you her whole story—but this is not the place to relate it. But, a year ago this person was in prison, serving a sentence for a serious crime; coming out, this group of Christians has become her family and support. Few would recognise her from the person who was arrested some years ago. Her transformation is visible on her face, and in her life.

Easter is about resurrection from the dead. All of us standing around that small body of water witnessed a resurrection. This is what Easter means. Not my own failings, but the transforming grace of the resurrected Christ.

By Dwight Swanson

The Gazelle celebrates three years on-line today.

It has been an ordinary Saturday. For the most part.

A proper, normal, Saturday begins with a trip to the newsagent for the weekend edition of a major paper, to be savoured over a cooked breakfast. Today was not quite normal, because my spouse is away; I had to serve as chef myself. I am capable of cooking for myself—let that be known—and I did. But my cooking is not the same as hers.

The choice of papers is not always the same. I have been a Guardian reader, but a generational change in writers leaves this once grand paper with a stable of columnists who think they have the world in their hands, but they have yet to grow up. That cannot be said of Terry Eagleton, of the University of Manchester, whose article deserves attention.

For Americans, the distinction between ‘liberals’ and ‘socialists’ may be difficult to process; the point to be contemplated is the critique of the liberal assumption of ‘superiority’ which can easily lead to ‘supremacist’ results—a danger not restricted to liberals.

I have avoided the Times, as all thing owned by Rupert Murdoch. But today it surprised me with two editorials which nail the current economic problem on the head. Giles Coren testifies to being a Labour man all his life, but almost ready to become Conservative now that he is in the highest income tax bracket. Colleague Janice Turner, on the other hand, has no sympathy for the rich who complain about the new higher tax demand from the government.

An American student of mine was contemptuous of the 50% tax placed on income above £150,00 in this week’s budget, as though it was clearly an example of socialism gone wild. This bemuses me, coming from a Christian. As Turner notes, the 350,000 people out of the 60 million Britons who will be taxed at this level earn six time the national average income. Average, not norm. Pity those who make just £150,000; they will most likely not be able to find the tax loop-holes of the million and billionares who find ways to avoid paying their share to support the society in which they live. You would think a Christian would be more sympathetic with those below the average rather than those so far above.

So much for breakfast.

The rest of the day was devoted to the garden. Gardening is a distinctively English pleasure that I have come to enjoy. Even living in the midst of a major city it is possible to dig the soil, get dirt under the fingernails, and watch the miracle of growing things.

God is a gardener—he made a garden specifically for the first humans. To be a gardener is to take part in creation.

When we moved into our house nine years ago, the back ‘garden’ was an overgrown jungle. It had been used for many years to grow soft-fruits: all kinds of berries. But they had overrun the plot. My first task was to clear the garden, and that took three years. Only then was it possible to start over again. That task has been a satisfying one, planting what I want in the places I want. My garden is my own creation, the result of my own ideas, labour, and sweat. And, it is not yet complete.

It never will be, I am sure. With the help of my resourceful and energetic son-in-law, the garden has been re-arranged. New flower beds have been dug; shrubs have been moved to new situations. Today, new plants have been brought in to be placed in new arrangements. I have broad ideas of what I want—the details will follow as I see how things turn out.

I imagine that God is a better planner than I am. It strikes me that he planned his garden rather more efficiently than I have. But, it also strikes me that he was also fascinated to watch how it grew; and, that he has never stopped re-arranging it.

The ethos—spirit—of the Daily Gazelle is a celebration of the creativity of life; and, reflection on life from the view of the garden.

Will it carry on another year? That is up to you.