The Wronging Of Otters

Holy Week has gone, but all the best reflections on Holy Week happen in its wake.

And the big question I've asked myself is, when Jesus was washing his disciples' feet (literally by the dozen), where in the line was Judas Iscariot?

Not Judas but Peter.

You see, Judas knew what he was about to do in betraying Jesus.  And Jesus knew what Judas was about to do in betraying him.  And Jesus, secure in his identity as beloved of God, gets on down and washes some feet.  You can't be demeaned if you're secure in who you are.

And while Peter is either refusing any water at all or insisting on a top-to-toe scrub down, what is Judas doing?  Is he (a) squirming at letting Jesus wash his feet in the light or shadow of his intended betrayal; (b) hard-faced so that he doesn't give a clue of his underhanded plan; or (d) actually entirely clueless that he should be feeling anything at all?

(I know, there's no © because i can't type it without Apple copywriting it)

I wouldn't rule out (d): being entirely ignorant that he's doing anything wrong and that there's so much irony and grace and being poured onto him like water that he should run screaming or cave in and confess.  The disciples I've known who've performed acts of betrayal have all been blissfully and probably quite self-righteously assured of the utter rightness of their actions.

But frankly, I don't much care.  What fascinates me - as someone who's been wronged on occasion and who's wronged others* - is that it is implied that Jesus made no differentiation in washing the feet of Judas Iscariot.  There would have been no increase in rough handling.  No skimping.  No corners cut or ankles twisted.  Had it been me, I wonder whether I'd've somehow splashed his face a bit more, accidentally dropped the sponge in his lap, or more probably said, "Looking a bit stressed there, Judas, something on your mind?" before giving his ankle a savage wrench and knocking him to the floor.  "Whoops, sorry mate…"

Jesus was human as well as God, and the temptation was there, the temptation to narrow his eyes and to hate Judas while the washing went ahead ("If anyone's feet want nailing to a cross it's these!").  And the gritting of teeth may well have been there, as a way of acknowledging the toughness of the temptation and the effort it takes to love your enemies.  Especially your frenemies.  

The likelihood is that the only way you could tell that Jesus was washing his betrayer's feet might have been that a little salt water might have mixed with the fresh as Jesus grieved.  And even then you can blame it on splashes from the basin.  "Jesus has something in his eye… must be some grit from between Judas's toes…"

If indeed Jesus looked.  He may have needed to keep his eyes down and intentionally not spot whose feet he was immersing and immersed in at any given moment.  But I suspect not.  Breaking eye contact isn't an especially Christ-like thing, and far be it, I imagine, from Jesus to let feet be anonymous, especially to one who knows us by name and the hairs on our head.  And of course Judas would have had shifty, guilty feet that had no rhythm (sorry).

So when Judas came along, second to get it over with, twelfth because he was trying to put the moment off, or seventh because that's the most inconspicuous place in the queue, there's no way of telling that Jesus knows.  No tugging, no twisting no too-vigorous towelling.  The moment passes.  A lifeline has been offered, and a lifeline has been refused.

But this is a massive lesson in loving your enemy.  Would I pass it?  Would you?  With people who've wronged me, I'm of the school that prefers fleeing the temptation to push them into the Manchester Ship Canal (figurative, not a real threat) and means I'll give them a wide berth: the best I can do.  How about you?  If your Judas came your way, could you wash those feet?

It's an unfair question, I know.  Some Judases are so ignorant that that they need telling before washing.  Your Judas may well have beaten you, assailed you, violated you.  I don't believe Jesus ushers us back into reliving terrible things.  Jesus was remarkable.

And yes, some days it's a success simply not to mumble and grumble in memory of the ills done to us.  Well done!  But when things are unavoidable, Jesus shows that grace is possible… that grace is available… and that grace doesn't always win over your enemy, but is worth pouring out for them nonetheless.

Keep yourselves safe out there, won't you?




*also… when I was typing that I was someone who has wronged others, I managed a near-fatal mistype and was almost on the point of publication when I realised I'd typed that I had "wronged otters."

I have never wronged an otter (yet) but if I did, I imagine those wronged otters would look something like this:

And there you have it.

Lost In The Good Book

It's me.  I live in Wythensawe now.  Wythenshawe is cool, as the eleventh Doctor might have said.

Bow ties and Wythenshawe are cool.

What's not cool about Wythenshawe is BT Openreach being neither Open nor Reachable, and delaying my broadband connection by weeks.  It's a long and convoluted story, so there now follows a short gap in which to boo and hiss BT Openreach.

Oh no it isn't.

Thank you.  My favourite part of the whole process was being told by BT that they couldn't correct BT Openreach, whose downright mistake was holding up the broadband forever.  Kafka was ahead of his time.  I reported Openreach to Ofcom, whose website declares that they actually have no power to do anything directly, but would add my complaint to the weight of discontent and maybe do something a few stations down the line.

But Wythenshawe isn't responsible for BT, and Wythenshawe is cool.  One of my favourite bits so far is getting lost in a new parish.  This is something I'm spectacularly good at, because my sense of direction and spatial awareness and (let's face it) all-round co-ordination would make The Big Bang look like the Harlem Globetrotters.  So I go out on my bike, get very lost, and find my way home in the end.  And in doing so I find more places.  Places that I might overlook otherwise.

Today, for instance, I found HMP Styal, a women's and young offenders' institute.  Better still, I discovered The Clink, the restaurant next door.  It's a brilliant converted church that employs inmates and teaches catering skills, and reduces the rate of recidivism dramatically.  So I stopped for a cup of tea.

On the outside...

And loved it.  There's art in there, there's light and spaciousness, and I had two magnificent conversations.  One was with a family celebrating an advanced birthday with afternoon tea (they gave me a lemon meringue and I discovered that their uncle had been verger at my friend's church).  And one was a young woman turning her life round after disaster had struck and events had led her to some time in HMP Styal.  No names, but she'd been to Sunday School, been re-inspired by the chaplaincy at Styal and had plans to keep the faith on her release.  She said it'd be fine for me to bring all the South Manchester clergy to the restaurant for tea and told me what the Message were up to on Wythenshawe.

Yay.  And all because I set out to find the Manchester Orbital Cycleway and got lost instead.  Good exchange.

In the Clink.

And from there I found Wilmslow, and some fine charity shops and a riverside cycle and brilliant wedding presents for my friends who are to tie the nuptial knot this summer.

And then I came home, via all sorts of places I didn't know existed but do now and hope to revisit at length and leisure soon.  Ideally involving tea.

I've always likened the Bible - and getting your bearings in it - to this process of finding your way in a new town.  The Bible is entirely daunting, and if you open it at the wrong (discuss) page you will find a list of names, sexual assault or some curious pre-Jesus rules that God has now dispensed with. When what you really wanted was a word of encouragement.

Me, often, finding it hard going but well worth the effort.

Well.  You're never far away.  You're close.

So far, Wythenshawe-wise, I've found two Asdas, the best charity shops, the swimming pool (voyeurism is forbidden, and here it's deemed necessary to remind people of that), the library (for wifi while BT Openreach sit on their thumbs and twiddle them), the pub with two meals for £8.49, and the bakery that made my welcome cake.  There's more to come: principally a doctor and a dentist and schools and funeral directors.  And there is stuff to be done behind the doors of Manchester College (after Easter) and Village 135 (once it's built), both of which I know the locations of.

In the Bible, you find the big stuff first too.  The Gospels, hidden away near the end.  Psalm 23 and then other Sunday School favourites: Noah's ark and Daniel in the doghouse and the Ten (now defunct) Commandments and the Road to Damascus and the woman on the beast.  

But give me six months in Wythenshawe and I'll winkle out much much more: favourite little cafes and places to watch aeroplanes and the best pub and all sorts.

And if you give yourself six months in the Bible, reading a bit more regularly, you too will find yourself getting your bearings and discovering hidden gems and little treasures, places to go when you need a leg up or a heartwarming.  You'll discover the armour of God and the God who sings over you and the Jesus who weeps and the breaking down of barriers of race and class.  You'll discover beautiful psalms that seem to be written especially for you.  You'll find help and challenge and wisdom and comfort.

I'm going to persevere in Wythenshawe.  I'm going to keep getting lost and getting found and I'm going to be amazed and surprised and blessed all the time on the way.  Get into your Bible the same way, and you'll be bemused on occasion, but you'll find the stuff that warms the cockles of your heart too, and you'll be especially pleased because you found it yourself by getting lost.

Don't worry if you don't understand what you read all the time.  I don't.  I still get flashes of epiphanic intensity (that is, I learn new stuff) but sometimes I sit and wonder, "what the heck was that and why was Paul so wordy?" 

Let's take a hint from Chet Baker, and Let's Get Lost...