Who do people say that I am?

They had just seen all kinds of crazy things being done: a few loaves of bread feeding several thousand people (not once but twice), blind men enabled to see...But they seemed to be the blind ones. They looked at him every day of their lives, walked everywhere that he walked, heard everything he said, saw everything he did. But they still didn't understand.

Others did, though. Demons called out his name. Gentiles who knew nothing of the Jewish beliefs he fulfilled, recognised him for who he was. Blind men, bizarrely, managed to "see" the reality of his identity...

Then one day, they got it. Well, one of them did - the one called Peter. (Was that irony? "Peter" meant "rock", and he was the least dependable of any of them...) Peter got it. He said, "You are the Christ, the son of God."

And Jesus said something that Peter had never expected. He said: yes I am, but don't think that means what you've got in your head. Don't think it means victory and glory right here, right now. Don't think it means that you'll be glorified along with me, here and now, and given a seat in my new revolutionary government. Don't picture sword-and-sandle epics here, Peter. Picture the worst form of torture/tyranny/despotism you can. Got it? Good. Then picture me, there, subjected to that torture. Picture yourself, condemned to much the same sort of death. Picture that, then you'll have it. Then you'll know what it means for me to be the Messiah.

And Peter heard, and rebuked him.

------

Is how I think of Jesus just a matter of "opinion"? Is it reasonable for people who disagree to say that they have "a different opinion"?

The truth is, people all throughout history have been very good at having opinions about Jesus: good man, revolutionary, tyrant, prophet, liar, messiah, God, madman...Phillip Pullman's curiously titled book, "The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ" suggests something of the tension in how we look at the man. But, in truth, it isn't about opinions. It isn't a question of what we think about him, but of who he is, whether or not we recognise that truth. But it's also a question of finding the truth of who he is, and letting it transform us.

------

Years later, Peter was shown the very same torture, tyranny and despotism that had killed his master. Jesus had said to him, when he had walked on earth, that "when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and another will dress you and take you where you do not want to go". Now it was true. Origen wrote that "Peter was crucified at Rome with his head downwards, as he himself had desired to suffer". He knew now. He no longer had an opinion about Jesus. His life had been transformed by who he now knew Jesus to be.

Open letter to the Moreland City Council...

...on seeing my street being cleared this morning of autumn leaves:

To our most esteemed Mayor and those

Who guard our city from our foes:

I bring you greetings, but I must

Admit that you have lost my trust.

Today I saw a truck which loudly came

And took away our leaves. What shame!

I fear that you have missed the reason

Why Autumn comes each year. This season

Is designed to bring us many joys

In the form of golden leafy toys

Which fall from trees into our laps

(And make us pillows for our naps

If we should choose to siesta in

The street. It surely is no sin

To do so!) And, furthermore,

The leaves are there to keep our cars

Warm when the night grows far too cold

For our cars’ wheels (young or old).

It also strikes me, councillors, that

The leaves make quite a lovely hat

When they land upon our wand’ring heads,

And moreover they allow cars to play

As they drive down the street. Why, they

Could fly, should they choose. Up, up in

The autumnal air! (I won't mention the din

That your truck made this morning when

I stepped outside, filled with leafy yen.

The roaring beast was torture to

My cosy, autumnal senses.)

You,

I trust, will soon fix this mistake

Or the street will yell and quake

In anger.

In trust you will see all this clearly,

Mayorship, I am yours, sincerely…

A concerned Morelandian

(The street south of Albion).

All kinds of weather

The torrential downpour of last night and this morning has made everything feel very wintry, even though its only April. The sun is coming out now, so the evergreens outside are sparkling freshly and the sky has glimpses of blue poking out from grey. It's a wondrous sight. To celebrate the arrival of winter, I decided today to listen to all my favourite wintry songs. I made a playlist of many of them on YouTube, and here is one of them, complete with magnificent footage from David Attenborough's "Planet Earth" series - Sigur Ros' "Staralflur":

But why, I can imagine you all asking me, why would you celebrate the arrival of winter? Isn't winter something to be saddened by? Shouldn't we celebrate the arrival of spring, or summer?

Well, first let me say that I love winter in Melbourne. It was rough for me to return to a particularly cold one last year after six months in the tropics, but, once I'd adjusted to shivering much of the time and wearing multiple layers to cover all extremities, I found I quite liked it again. But I also have to say that, of all the things that I most missed about my home (aside, of course, from friends and family) was the quirkiness of Melbourne's seasonal variation. You see, you just don't get seasons in Borneo, except for wet and...wetter. I wrote many poems about the rain, because that was just about the only distinctive feature of the weather, apart from the heat. But here, well, there's so much weather to talk about, and to marvel at. I'm reminded of one of my favourite C.S. Lewis moments, from the start of "That Hideous Strength":

"That's why Camilla and I got married, " said Denniston as they drove off. "We both like Weather. Not this or that kind of weather, but just Weather. It's a useful taste if one lives in England."

"How ever did you learn to do that, Mr. Denniston?" said Jane. "I don't think I should ever learn to like rain and snow."

"It's the other way around," said Denniston. "Everyone begins as a child by liking Weather. You learn the art of disliking it is you grown up. Noticed it on a snowy day? The grown-ups are all going about with long faces, but look at the children - and the dogs? They know what snow's made for."

I love that quote, because, apart from the discomfort extreme weather can cause, it can so often be a wonderful example of the glories of God's creation - which makes me suspect that, when our world is renewed, it won't be a world without seasons. It may in fact just be a world where the seasons cause no discomfort, so we can wonder at all their changes and all their particular beauties without pain and suffering.

I may be wrong, of course. But for now I intend thoroughly to admire this winter and all the beauties that it brings. I hope my fellow Melburnians can bring themselves to admire it with me.

By Merri Creek

It was a cosy kind of day in East Brunswick. The streets were lush with leaves and the sky purple with unrequited rain. I crossed over the Merri Creek, journal in hand, half-composed poems and - strangely - lyrics from "Good King Wenceslas" stuck in my head:

Therefore, Christian men be sure,

Wealth or rank possessing:

You who now will bless the poor

Shall yourselves find ble-essing.

I came to the northern side of the Normanby Road underpass, where, walking this way before, I had passed a girl curled up against the sign which says, "Making history along Merri Creek". I had noticed her then, and wondered if she was okay, wondering also what reason anyone would have for sleeping beside Merri Creek. This time, the girl was not sleeping. She was walking the opposite way along the path, eyes to the ground. She had a plastic bag in hand. Her clothes were presentable enough but bedraggled. She stumbled once as she walked, but not in a way that suggested danger or incapacity. Our eyes met at one point and she gave an evasive smile. I looked back once or twice as I walked on, to see that she was okay. I wondered if there was anything else I could do. It seemed all I had the power to do was to pray, to commit her to the God who sees her every step, knows exactly why she is there, and exactly what to do to help.

I know that I am reluctant to help those I see in need; I know I will grab any excuse I can find to do nothing. It wouldn't be appropriate. She's a young girl walking alone. What would she think of a young man stopping and asking her if she was okay? It wouldn't be wise. It wouldn't be safe. Excuses, yes, but also all true. Yet so, I am sure, would have seemed the excuses of the Levite and the Pharisee as they kept walking on the Jericho road: It isn't safe to stop here, alone. The road is filled with murderers and thieves.

Thank God, He sees my weakness and heard my prayers. I do not know what will happen to that girl. I pray that she will be okay.

About Face

These days, my ears and eyes are readily tuned to take in all things Malaysian. Recently, a man at my church, who I presume must be Malaysian from the things he said, responded to a sermon about Jesus' death by commenting that, in a Muslim society, the idea of a suffering saviour is offensive. He was asking how we could present the Gospel in such a society. I don't remember the answer our pastor gave, but we did consider the question in our Bible study the following Tuesday night. What we agreed as a group was this: there's no escaping the fact that the Cross is offensive. It should be. We speculated if the fact of the matter is that we, as Christians, have simply lost sight of that offence, meaning that, in a sense, we have lost sight of what it really means. We shouldn't be avoiding offending people (I suggested as much, I think, a few months ago in a post I wrote at Christmas). Instead, we should recognise that the Gospel is offensive to those who are closed to its truth - a suffering saviour is the only one who is any good for us, but He's also the last thing many of us are looking for.

It did make me reflect on the "face saving" aspect of Malaysian culture, and the fear this demonstrates of being shamed. I remembered the principal of my school over there speaking about "taking off her face" in a conversation with a parent, in which she was required to be significantly humble. This phrase stood out for me, and it struck me that this is exactly what Paul tells us in Philippians 2:5-11 that Jesus did for us. In other words, if we try to hold onto our own sense of honour and moral dignity, we will be offended by what Jesus has done for us, and we will remain gloriously immune to His sacrifice. If, however, we accept our shame just as He bore it for us, then - biggest paradox of all - our shame will be taken away.

I wrote a poem about this while in Malaysia that seems relevant here. It isn't meant to be a direct allegory as such - bits of it won't make sense if you read it that way. But I more or less wrote it asking the question, "What if there were those who followed Jesus only for His status, and not for His sacrificial love?" This is what I produced. The name, "Giving Face", comes from a Chinese phrase which I had directly translated for me - it means, "Showing respect to", but often in a superficial kind of way. I wondered, and then wrote this poem to wonder, what true, deep "face-giving" would look like. Here is the result:

Giving Face

Tired of superficial looks,

bowed heads and insincere hearts,

he looked for a way beyond all this –

a way of speech deeper than the surface,

a way of looking much more penetrating than glances.

“I am sick,” he said,

“of respect that goes no further

than the start of my name.”

So he climbed the deepest of deep-deep wells,

far beyond mortal status-seeking and glory-clambering;

he went beyond the face-saving multitude

to a place where there lay the truest of faces.

Where did he go? the shy pilgrims ask.

Why, he jettisoned all he knew,

left this island behind.

He crossed over the sea, and out of his skin.

He shed all clothes and fine embroidery.

He went – do you know where it was?

He went,

(truest of true faces in store for him who overcame),

he went, pride discarded,

humility in hand,

to the hill of Calvary.

(Tawau, March 2010)