A story from Twitter

Dylan was a USA soldier in Iraq. During his tour there he befriended a young Iraqi Brahim, who became an interpreter with Dylan’s patrol, saving their lives many times because of his understanding of the local situation and people. When Dylan finished his tour he said goodbye to his young friend, in the expectation that like most intepreters he would be killed.

Five years later Dylan was flying into Arizona suddenly because his beother had been murdered there. He got off the plane and took a taxi, whose driver told him that he was from Kirkuk, Iraq, where Dylan had been stationed. When the driver then became silent and tense, Dylan imagined that maybe he was related to someone he’d killed; and when the taxi went off route and pulled over, his hand was on the door handle, ready to jump. 

Instead the driver leant over and said, “ Don’t you recognise me Dylan, it’s Brahim!”

Dylan could only reply, “What the fuck are you doing in Arizona, buddy?”

Brahim explained that he’d completed his contracted 4 years as an interpreter, still alive, and taken advantage of a USA offer to be settled in the States. When he was asked what part of the States, he said any part where the weather was like Iraq. So they gave him Arizona.

Dylan dragged Brahim out of the car and the two men hugged and cried in the rain.

”I came there for the loss of a brother,” Dylan says, “and I found one.”

A story from the Bible

Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles^[f] from Jerusalem, ¹⁴ and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. ¹⁵ While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, ¹⁶ but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. ¹⁷ And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’ They stood still, looking sad.^{[g] 18} Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, ‘Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?’ ¹⁹ He asked them, ‘What things?’ They replied, ‘The things about Jesus of Nazareth,^[h] who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, ²⁰ and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. ²¹ But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.^[i] Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. ²² Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, ²³ and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. ²⁴ Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.’ ²⁵ Then he said to them, ‘Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! ²⁶ Was it not necessary that the Messiah^[j]should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?’ ²⁷ Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

²⁸ As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. ²⁹ But they urged him strongly, saying, ‘Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.’ So he went in to stay with them. ³⁰ When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. ³¹ Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. ³² They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us^[k] while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’ ³³ That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. ³⁴ They were saying, ‘The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!’ ³⁵ Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread. ( Luke   Chapter 24)

When I heard the first story on the radio, I immediately thought of the second, which also features a stranger who reveals himself as a brother. The Emmaus story will be well-known to readers of this blog, as it is to me. The first story illuminates the second for me, in profound ways that would be trivialised if I were to describe them. I can only invite readers to read them together, and to let their own imaginations make the connections.

 

I’ve just been listening to a very moving programme on BBC Radio 4, in which a man who had blamelessly killed another man in a car accident, recounted his own trauma and his journey towards some degree of healing. I hadn’t fully considered the terrible shock, grief and shame that a decent person would feel in such a case. The programme’s revelatory moment for me came when an American woman who had killed a young boy when he ran out into the path of her car, said that she had always been reluctant to accept that no meaning could be given to such an event; that “accident” means something that nobody willed or caused. She said that most of the time we cannot bear this knowledge, pretending that we and other human or divine beings are in control. The idea that ultimately nobody is in control is too frightening to contemplate.

Much of our contemporary culture is based on the illusion of control: life ought to be predictable. But science, surely, discovers the regularities of the universe, and successfully predicts events in it? Of course that’s true, but regularities are not controlled; like accidents they happen. And scientists now tell us that their capacity to predict is always partial, and that the more accurate their prediction of some aspect of a event, the more other aspects escape their grasp.

The desirability of control is part of the ethics of capitalism. Business people want stable markets, taxes, technologies and labour so that they can plan for steady profits, but in truth such conditions are rarely available in full and sometimes not available at all. The stock markets reflect this distressing freedom in the rise and fall of share prices. Because good capitalists recognise how little they can control the world, they are all the more insistent on rigid forms of control within their corporations.

Small wonder then that in this culture the prevailing image of God, if there is one, is as a fat controller of the universe, whose purposes may not be understood by human beings, but who controls the universal process as surely as the Chinese Communist Party controls its nation. Even when someting awful occurrs, people take comfort to themselves in imagining that the fat controller had a hand in it. “God needed another angel so he took our wee Jimmy.” If that sounds a pretty arbitrary act of God, we should realise that it is put forward to reject the more appalling possibility, that wee Jimmy’s death was an accident, having no meaning in a universe where nobody and nothing is in control.

I believe in a God who has abdicated control of creation. That’s an odd expression suggesting that this God did control the universe once upon a time and subesequently renounced control. That’s not my meaning. I believe that renunciation of control defines the nature of God. God is the opposite of control, namely persuasion. Having given total freedom to the creation right down to its fundamental particles, God wants to persuade it towards perfection. So when I say that the universe is out of control, I mean that God has given it the freedom to evolve according to its own laws. The result is the process of universal evolution which we partially know and of which we are a product. I can imagine how God’s persuasion works on humanity but am utterly ignorant of how it works on the rest of creation. Dante wrote of the “love that moves the sun and the other stars,” and I am happy in my ignorance to adopt that expression.

The story of the crucifixion of God’s Son is the perfect image of a universe out of control yet subject to the profound persuasion of God’s love.

So, the “ incidence of accident” does not destroy but rather constitutes my faith that the fat controller of the universe is a myth, and God, on the other hand, is real.

I have always recognised that all the Resurrection stories in the Bible are not presenting a blow by blow account of historical events. I do not think an angel rolled the stone away or that Jesus’ corpse was magicked from his tomb. The bones of Jesus are in Palestine. Whatever skills are used to persuade me that these stories are evidence of a physical or metaphysical miracle, I remain stubbornly unconvinced, and not only out of respect for historical probability. I also think that if God had to suspend the usual laws of the universe in order to raise Jesus, then the game’s a bogey, as we say in Scots. If salvation only comes through a suspension of historical reality, then either salvation or historical reality is irrelevant. Why should I labour for personal holiness or divine justice, if in the end of the day God will sort it all out by miracle? And why would God bother putting his son into the restraints and pains of worldly life, if he is prepared to intervene by force majeure to reverse the outcome of worldly events?

So do I think that the resurrection stories are a lie? That’s a serious question, for if, from whatever motive, they are saying “the thing that is not” then we can rightly accuse their authors of perverting the faith of millions, and of dishonouring the historical Jesus. The usual defense of the stories, that they were written and treasured by people who were prepared to die for them, is not convincing, once we have seen the readiness of Daesh warriors to die (and kill) for a story about virgins in the sky.

I do not think the stories are lies, nor do I think that, as many liberal Christians do, that they are symbolic narratives, which represent the continuing influence of Jesus on the lives of his disciples. We have to ask such believers if they are talking about the influence of a dead Jesus, and if they answer “yes” we have to commend their honesty, while wondering why they don’t say more simply, that the stories are lies.

I think the stories are, like much of the Bible, narrative doctrine. Of course that means they are theology also, but I use the word doctrine, because I think they insist on specific truths about what happened to Jesus:

1. Jesus was really dead and now he is really alive. He has not been absorbed into divinity or the Holy Spirit, but is distinctively Jesus.

2. He is not disembodied. God has given him a new body, which, as St. Paul insists, is not subject to decay, nor is it exclusive, as human bodies seem to be: it includes all who want to continue his ministry. ( Paul’s “body of messiah”) He shares, that is, in the divine love which includes all who respond to it.

3. His suffering and death are not left behind, as if they were now irrelevant, but are incorporated (as visible wounds) into his new life.

4. He reveals nothing about a supernatural world, but rather new facts about this world: that earthly powers are only apparently in charge, whereas God’s rule, exercised in his ministry continued through his disciples, is in fact victorious. As the book of the Revelation puts it; the Lamb is on the throne.

5. In his resurrection as in his ministry Jesus shows the “intelligence of the victim” the tough love of one who has suffered, yet forgives all sinners for the sake of what they will become.

6. All this is possible through the goodness of the One Jesus calls his Abba, his dear father, whose persuasive love is active in the world, for those who trust in it.

None of this compels faith or disrupts the laws of nature, although is may be relevant to the believer’s understanding of them. Those who trust the import of the stories will have no visible proof of their truth, because they are “evidence of things unseen.” They are left to live and act according to their trust, but God is not “ashamed to be called their God since he/she has prepared a city for them.”

If we do not articulate some such interpretation of the resurrection stories we leave people with magic ….. or lies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is a mailing which is good news:

Juliana shared an update on Paul Dacre: Living Wage for cleaners at the Daily Mail Check it out and leave a comment:

PETITION UPDATE

VICTORY for cleaners at the Daily Mail! Living Wage to be paid! Strike cancelled!
We have some amazing news. We have now been informed that our demands have been met and we will be paid the London Living Wage of £10.20 per hour. Thank you all for your amazing support. We couldn’t have done it without you! We really hope that our victory inspires other workers in our position to join a union and fight for a living wage. Our union is United Voices of the World.

Yes, this is marvellous success to which I only contributed my name and a few bob through change.com

1. It will mean an increase of up to £6000 per annum for the people who clean the offices at the Daily Mail.

2. It defeats the opposition of their employer who refused their claim and threatened them with loss of jobs.

3.It is  a success for a fairly new union which represents mainly workers in London who are from minority ethnic groups.

4.It is a splendid riposte to Paul Dacre the editor of the Daily Mail who is opposed to immigrants because they bring down the wages of working people! In this case it is clear that wealthy employers try very hard to keep wages down.

5. It’s a victory for public support – a public petition gained 100,000 signatures.

I am gladdened by this victory, and I’m convinced that Jesus is too. The boldness and humour of the cleaners will have made him chuckle; he will have admired the inspiration by the Holy Spirit of this common enterprise for justice, and he will report admiringly to the Father another success in his perfecting of his creation.

Some readers may feel this language is over the top and beyond anything that I can rightly claim to know. But surely the whole aim of the gospel is to make us sure that human beings are pleasing to God, whenever they turn towards his justice. The real reason we don’t often depict Jesus as delighted with an industrial action, is because our usual media tell us that these are political matters, which are not in good taste and certainly not for inclusion in worship or prayer. As if our silence were not support for the status quo which is often unjust and offensive to Jesus our saviour, who came to save us from unjust employment amongst other evils.

The church likes to think it can remain relevant in a changing society: the national churches of England and Scotland are going to provide terminals in their buildings for card and electronic payments, spawning newspaper headlines such as “Let us pay.” This news comes ironically at the very time of year when we remember Jesus hoofing the traders out of the Temple. I reckon this plan indicates institutions in terminal decline….

I am sure that committed involvement in the struggles of citizens for economic justice and personal dignity is more “relevant” than computerising our tithes, and more likely to enjoy the blessing of Jesus.

 

 

“Native throughout much of Europe”

In the Czech Republic you are lindushka luchni

Reti Pityer in Hungary

Estonians greet you as Sookiur

Venetians as Fista

In Lithuania they say Pievenis Kalviukas

but you are Niittikirvinen to the Finns

Swedes call you Ängspiplärke

varied to Heipiplerke in Norway

Thufuttitlingur is Iceland’s name

Skootfink the Frisians’

As Pispola you are there in Italy

Pipit Farlouse in France

The Spanish are formal, Bisbita Pratensis

the more homely Portugese, Petinha Dos Pratos

Negu- Txirta is your Basque name

You are Graspieper in Holland

but Wiesenpieper nextdoor in Germany

In soft Welsh they say Corhedydd y Waun

The English limit you with Meadow Pipit

but in Scotland, where you and I are the only

obvious creatures on the bare moor

you dance ahead of me on foot

then flutter off when I come near

sounding your name like a small bell

Titlin, Titlin, Titlin.

 

 

 

During the 2nd World War, citizens were convinced that the Russians were coming to our aid, indeed they’d seen Rusiian troops arrive on London. They could tell they were Russians by the snow on their boots….

Theresa May’s evidence that the Russians have carried out an attempted murder by nerve chemical in Salisbury, is about as good as the foregoing. The chemical is known to have been produced by Soviet Russia, the victim had been a Russian spy turned double agent for the UK, and everyone knows the Russians are evil, so it must have been them. Indeed she has already decreed their punishment: a  diplomatic rap on the knuckles, which will doubtless be reciprocated; and all this in an atmosphere of hysterical patriotism in Parliament,  where Jeremy Corbyn foolishly tried to talk sense.

My own guess is that it probably was a Russian crime against a man who had betrayed his country, and probably caused the deaths of some of his country’s spies. Doubtless his daughter, who has also been struck down, is blameless, but Mr Skripal  himself is not. Whoever carried out this attempted killing is a savage criminal and those who commanded it are worse, especially if they are officials of the Russian state. But contrast the British response to this dubious murder, with our response to the Russian murder of thousands of innocent Syrian citizens, about which we have made almost no noise at all.

Well, after all they were Syrians, which means it is their own fault that they are ruled by a vicious tyrant, their fault that people rebelled against him, their fault that IS got involved, and well, basically their fault that a great power whose land is distant from Syria decided to support their tyrant in killing a fair slice of the population. So it would be childish for any nation to denounce what the Russians have done in Syria. After all, it’s what we did in Libya.

On the other hand, if the same power dares to eliminate a British citizen, we can make hysterical shrieks of horror and stamp our wee feet and tell those big bullies they better not do it again or …. or….. terrible things will happen (we’ll burst into tears).

”Why do the nations so furiously rage against the Lord and his anointed?” asks the old psalm, imagining that the Lord and his anointed stand for wisdom and justice. The answer is that in playing the game of power politics a nation has to roar like a lion even if it’s a mouse, because otherwise it might have to admit its weakness. The Lord and his anointed on the other hand, refuse to play this game but take shelter in the truth that all killings are evil, and that we should start by admitting our own complicity in thousands of them.

Jesus reckoned with the power of lying tyrants. When told that King Heod was seeking his arrest, he referred to him as an old fox and indicated that he would be available for his arrest in his own good time. Jesus was peaceful but not respectful of the posturing of a powerful politician. The churches of the UK should show their patriotism of God’s kingdom, by mocking the pretensions of the government, while criticising all acts of murder. This persistent, unpopular duty unites present day believers with their Lord, while separating them from the folly of their politicians.

 

 

 

 

I heard a contributor on Thought for the Day (BBC Radio 4) this morning compare the recent severe weather to the experience of being  subject to the majesty of God.  This kind of rhetoric seems to me to fall into the error which Dietrich Bonhoeffer defined as “The God of the Gaps” by which we locate experience of God at the margins of human ability, in weakness, ignorance and sin, risking the discovery that God is irrelevant when humanity succeeds in dealing with these problems by its own means. God, said Bonhoeffer, has come to dwell with us in the midst of life we don’t need to go looking for him/her at its edges

Severe weather that disrupts our normal existence is not an experience of our weakness before God but of our personal and societal weakness before nature. Our common attitude towards nature is that while it may provide glimpses of beauty, grandeur or solitude, it is basically there to be controlled for our use and benefit. When therefore it steps out of line to cause difficulties for us, we are aggrieved, expressing our feelings by names like, “The Beast from the East.”

In fact we are part of the system we call nature, obliged, as the poet Ezra Pound once wrote, to “learn of the green world how take our place in scaled invention and true artistry.” We cannot rule nature but can learn how to cooperate with it in ways that are beneficial to us and life on this planet. But we must allow nature to teach us: a snow storm reminds us that our road system is congested, dangerous and unloved; and that we could develop an integrated travel system that respects ecological norms as well as economic convenience. Such an approach involves treating nature as neither slave nor God, but as our partner in fostering life, if indeed we want, as a species, to foster life, rather than to dream of domination. We are after all the “beast” which has unleashed the global warming whereby this week the Arctic was unsustainably warm, while we shivered in the snow.

Another effect of the severe weather has been to remind people that their lives are frail and shared with other people, other creatures. Decent citizens have invaded the inhuman space of gridlocked motorways bringing food, drink and other comforts to stranded drivers. Concerned people have made efforts to persuade rough sleepers into shelters. In Shakespeare’s King Lear, a terrible storm forces the King to see himself as a “poor, bare, forked creature”, and to feel compassion for the homeless people also caught in the storm. “I have ta’en too little care of this,” he admits.

Ecological intelligence allows us to see ourselves as part of an evolving creation working with, rather than against, nature; while recognising that we need to protect ourselves, as all creatures try to do, against nature’s indifference to our welfare.  If  we are people of goodwill we will want to  extend this protection to our neighbour, so that this indifference, already balanced by the instinctive protection by animals of their own kind, is countered also by us.

When we act to help others we call it kindness, which means choosing to extend to anyone in need the care we naturally give to our own family/ children (German kind = child). This is a truly human contribution to nature because it is a decision of free will rather than a natural instinct; and is the best way of asserting our humanity in the face of nature’s indifference. There are natural processes, events and creatures which have no apparent relation to our concerns. The book of Job instances the lives of Ostriches, Wild Asses, and Hippopotami as aspects of God’s creation which are nothing to do with human welfare, revealing that human happiness is not God’s only responsibility; and that therefore there will always be events that resist human understanding. In such a universe, kindness is our legitimate human protest against the apparent indifference of the universal ecosystem. I say apparent, because we too are the product of that ecosystem, and our kindness may be a crucial contribution to its life. 

This week as all weeks the City Mission in Glasgow opened its doors and its caring programmes to more that a hundred homeless people every day. It is devoted to the  gospel of God’s love and expresses it by its practical, skilled, kindness to people in desperate need. Human knowledge of kindness led to us attributing that kindness to God. This was not revealed to us from on high  but rather in human interactions such as the distribution of food to stranded drivers. Jesus characterised God’s kindness in the words, “Not one sparrow falls to the ground without the Father.”

In the light of Jesus, Christians have come to believe that the astonishing process of unversal evolution, even including its winds and  snowstorms, is an expression of the kindness of God.

Wren

This winter dawn lifts from the firth a huge red ball;
I’m small
So how come the old myth equates me with the sun,
The old one
That must be hunted down and killed and raised aloft,
My soft
Feathers shared as trophies? And how can I with this short wing
Span be King
Of All Birds, as the song says? In contests of power, size
Matters, wise
People say, but the last is often, said somebody wiser,
A quick riser.
Of course you know that, if you’ve watched me hunting-
The one thing
I have is speed; flitting from branch to trunk to root
Puts my foot
On an unsuspecting spider or tasty woodlouse.
“Like a mouse”
Some books describe me, but it’s inexcusably lazy
To place me
Alongside such an earthbound creature. More like an eagle
Regal
When I take my stand on a top twig and let my song bubble
With double
Volume over wood or garden to the shy potential mates
I’ll impregnate
To lay our eggs in the several nests I have already fashioned.
Nothing’s rationed
In my domain. Big head, you think? Big heart, I
Would reply,
As I take on feeding responsibilities for the lot,
Not
Asking if any of my wives has cheated. I’m still royal
If they’re not loyal
And treat the chicks with equal lavish, mine or no.

But here’s the sto-
-ry Aesop knew about me, attested by Aristotle
“Bottle
Over Breeding” is its theme. Once upon a set
Time the birds met
To choose a king, agreeing unanimously
Thusly:
The bird that flew the highest would be their Chosen
One, a notion
Pleasing to the eagle, who soared beyond the lark and swallow
To wallow
In the blue beyond the hawk and vulture, and floated
While they voted
“Eagle is our rightful….” When from its coverts where I was hiding
I came sliding
And fluttered yards above the eagle who could get no
Higher. “Oho,”
I shouted, “Birdies, small is beautiful,
I’ll be dutiful
As your king, ready to tell in every dangerous hour
The truth to power.”
“Yes rule” they said, “Troglodytes, from your quiet den
Rule us, King Wren!”

 

 

The Starling

 

 

Hardly anyone has ever said,  Oh look, darling

at that stunningly beautful starling!” –

not because you aren’t beautful, especially when your irridescent feathers catch

the sun, but rather because anyone who has seen you snatch

nuts from the beaks of smaller birds at a feeding station

buffeting them with your wings as you fly off with screeches of elation;

or tried in vain to think clearly while you and your gang insult each other

from neighbouring roofs, finds that your hooligan character  smothers

your bodily charm; so not many say of you “My word!

Would you eyeball that elegant bird!”

 

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, on the other hand, supposed

you were intelligent, because a theme that he’d composed

three weeks before, you whistled back to him in perfect pitch.

He kept you as a pet and often listened to see if you would snitch

more of his best tunes. He was grieved when you died

and gave you an elaborate funeral. I’ve occasionally tried

to whistle to you, but you prefer to imitate the ring

of the neighbour’s mobile. Maybe I should sing?

Like Amadeus I consider you smart

in body and mind, in life and art.

 

But once, when I was a boy, I inched

up to your treehole nest to find what could be pinched

while you and your partner scolded from a branch

alternately leaving it to launch

yourselves at my face, as I pulled aside the screening

leaves to look into your woven nest, leaning

over the five eggs of palest blue you’d laid upon it.

Blue amidst the brown grass where you’d spun it

as if they’d blown here through some gap in spacetime

from some perfect world, some gracetime.

 

Yet these alien bits of beauty were filled with earthly beings

born featherless and blind whose shrill demanding squeakings

kept you on the wing for weeks, so that each might eat and drink

and grow into smart hooligans like you. Or me: a sly wink

from beyond that says we’re always close to causing bother

but not so far from something other.

 

A monk arrived at the monastery.

Zhaozhou asked if he had been there before, and the monk said he had.

Zhaozhou said, “Have a cup of tea.”

Another monk arrived and Zhaozhou asked the same question but this monk said he had not been before.

Zhaozhou said, “Have a cup of tea.”

The monastery director asked Zhaozhou, “Never mind the monk who has been here before, why did you tell the second monk to have a cup of tea?”

Zhaozhou said, “Director!”

”Yes, master?” the director anwered.

Zhaozhou said, “Have a cup of tea.”

This Zen story of the great master Zhaozhou is what practioners call a Koan, that is, a public case, through which disciples can learn the meaning of Buddhism. They are often brief and a bit mysterious, like this one.

The story is set in the context of Buddhist monasticism, in which disciples might be greeted with monastic rules and books of doctrine designed to help them  move from the world into the sacred sphere of the monastery.

The greeting offered by Zhaozhou dramatises his conviction that true enlightenment is an experience rather than words. No amount of doctrine however profound is a substitute for the life-changing experience of enlightenment. So these new disciples are immediately plunged into the shared life of the monks.

But there is more to it than that. Buddhism emphasises that the separate people and things that make up our world are wonderful but ultimately without independent existence, and only arise in partnership with each other. When these things and people are experienced as “empty and marvellous” there are no longer any holy things or people, nor any worldly things or people, so drinking tea can be as holy as any religious ceremony. The director who wants a doctrinal explanation is reminded of the experience of shared life with Zhaozhou ( he hears his call and answers it, without thinking) and with a cup of tea shared with his brothers. 

The great contemporary Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh of Plum Village Community in France calls this “interbeing”: enlightened people cease to regard themselves as individual existences, and find fullfilment in a communal life which includes the natural world and its creatures as well as other human beings. He has suggested links between this enlightement and the teaching of Jesus. Certainly the teaching contained in chapters 14 and 15 of John’s gospel, which emphasises the mutual indwelling of Father, Son, Spirit and believers, sets out a Christian version of interbeing, which can only be real when it is experience rather than words.

But Zhaozhou’s command to have tea reminds me also of Jesus’ prayer for daily bread and his practice of eating not only with his disciples, but also with wrongdoers and outcasts. The interbeing advocated by Jesus does not rest on the illusory nature of independent existence, but rather on the transformative nature of life shared with God and one’s neighbour, the interbeing that is characterised by Jesus’ blessings of the poor, the gentle, the grieved, the hungry for justice, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, the persecuted for the cause of justice. Broken bread and poured out wine are made by Jesus to stand as a repeated acted parable of the truth of his interbeing with his followers. 

Zhaozhou would have expected his disciples to find that when their illusory separate selves were broken down in the experience of shared identity with everyone and everything in the  universe, they would experience the “great compassion” which flows from knowing that others are parts of us, and we of them. He was tireless in finding ever new ways of cutting through the religious cackle of Buddhism to insist on the experience of enlightenment, just as Jesus cut through the careful requirements of Pharisaism, to insist on the immediate presence of God’s kingdom. The difficult riddling nature of Zen stories and practice prompts me to recognise similar elements in the life and teaching of Jesus.

But of course this blog is all words, perhaps too many. I can already hear old Zhaozhou saying, “Michael!”

”Yes master,” I reply.

”Have a cup of tea,” he says.