“an angel of the Lord descended from the sky”

“Now after the Sabbath, as it began to dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary came to see the tomb. Behold, there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from the sky and came and rolled away the stone from the door and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow.”
Matthew 28:1-3

Alleluia, Christ is risen

 and with that rising, everything changes.

 Early in the morning, some women walk to a tomb – sealed with unusual levels of security. They come in sorrow, expecting stillness, instead they find violent movement and bright light.

“Do not be afraid. He is not here; he has risen.”

It’s the moment the whole story bursts open. The stone is rolled away. The tomb is empty. And something even deeper is happening. Just as on Good Friday, when the curtain in the temple was torn in two - the veil that had once marked the barrier between God and humanity is now ripped wide open.

In rising from the dead, Jesus hasn’t just come back to life. He has opened the way—between life and death, between heaven and earth, between God and us. There is no more division. There is no more distance.  Jesus can now move freely between; he bears the power of heaven and earth.

Jesus has brought the heart of God straight to humanity. Not the perfect or powerful, but the grieving, the searching, the ordinary. He meets the women on the road. He meets us too.  This is creation as it was always meant to be.

This is not a resurrection of triumphalism or conquest. It is a quiet, unshakable victory of love over fear. Not fire and fury, but the absence of separation. The glorious victory of presence.

And now Jesus calls us to live as people of the open way. Not to pressure or persuade with fear, but to live with such light and grace that others begin to ask where the warmth is coming from.

The tomb is empty. The curtain is torn. The way is open.

So do not be afraid. Let the light in. And let it shine through you.

Christ is risen. He is risen indeed. Alleluia.

Art Journaling Exercise: Shaking the world.

“There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven...”
“He is not here; he has risen.” – Matthew 28:2-6

On Easter morning, the earth shakes. The stone rolls back. Light breaks in.
And out of that shaking moment—something beautiful begins.
New life.
Hope.
An open way.

This activity invites you to start with the shake—and let beauty grow from it

Step 1: The Earthquake
Take a tray and in it place a flat sheet of paper

Roll some marbles in paint.  Choose bold colours—dark tones, metallics, reds, blacks, purples—to represent the disruption and drama of the earthquake.

Take the marbles out of the paint and place them carefully on the edges of the paper.

Now shake the page—gently or boldly.
Let the marbles leave trails, lines, and chaotic energy across the surface.
This is the moment of change.

Let it dry.

Step 2: The Flowers Bloom
Once the paint is dry, return to your page.
Look at the marble trails and lines—the cracks, the crossings, the open spaces.

From those earthquake lines, begin to draw or paint flowers growing.

• Bloom from the cracks

• Wrap petals around the scars

• Let vines twist along the chaos

• Add light colours, signs of joy, gold leaf, or scripture verses

You might add words like:
“Do not be afraid”, “He is risen”, “From shaking comes life”, “The way is open”

Reflection Questions

• What has been shaken in me this Easter?

• What might God be planting in the cracks?

• Where is new life trying to bloom?

• How might I carry this gentle hope into the world?

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Study Questions:

• What do you notice about how the resurrection is described in Matthew’s Gospel?
  How does the earthquake shape the story?

• The angel tells the women, “Do not be afraid.” Why do you think that phrase is repeated twice in this passage (verses 5 and 10)?
  What does it mean to hear those words in a moment of fear, awe, or deep change?

• Jesus rises with great power (earthquake, angel, lightning), but also meets the women on the road.
  How do you see both power and ordinariness in this story?
  Where do you recognise God’s presence—in shaking moments, or quiet ones, or both?

• The first people to witness the resurrection are women —Mary Magdalene and the other Mary.
  Women at this time were not trusted as witnesses or leaders. Yet God chose them to be the first to see the risen Jesus and to carry the message of hope.

• What does this tell us about who God trusts, honours, and includes in the most important moments of the Gospel?

• Who are the voices in today’s world that are often overlooked, doubted, or pushed aside?

• How might we listen more carefully, believe more readily, and lift up those voices in our communities?

• Where have we, knowingly or unknowingly, continued the silence that Jesus came to break?

  Journal Notes:

• In Matthew 28, the first people to witness the resurrection are two women—Mary Magdalene and “the other Mary.” This is a profound and deliberate choice that goes against the expectations of their culture.

  In first-century Jewish and Roman society, women were often not considered reliable witnesses in court. Their testimony was legally discounted simply because of their sex.

  This belief is reflected in the writings of the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, who lived during the first century. In his historical work Antiquities of the Jews (a non-biblical text written around 93–94 CE), he wrote:

  “But let not the testimony of women be admitted, on account of the levity and boldness of their sex.”
  —Antiquities, Book 4, Section 8, Paragraph 15

  This quote gives us cultural context: women were not trusted in public legal settings. And yet, in all four Gospels, women are the first witnesses of the resurrection. Their testimony is not only included—it becomes central to the Christian story.
  

• Earthquake, Angel, and Apocalyptic Imagery

  Matthew’s distinct style: Matthew alone includes the earthquake (v.2) and the angel like lightning. These are common markers of apocalyptic literature, signalling that God is breaking into human history in a new, transformative way (cf. Daniel 10:6; Revelation 1:14).

  Symbolism: The earthquake is not just physical—it represents spiritual upheaval. The world as it was known is shaken. The power of Rome and death has been overturned.

• The Tearing of the Temple Curtain (Matthew 27:51)

  The temple veil separated the Holy of Holies—the most sacred space where God’s presence was believed to dwell—from the rest of the temple. Only the high priest could enter, once a year, on the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur).

  The tearing of the curtain at Jesus' death symbolises that access to God is no longer restricted. This pairs with the resurrection as a sign that the barrier between God and humanity has been removed permanently—a major theme in the New Covenant (cf. Hebrews 10:19–22).

  Paired with the stone rolled away, this shows that Jesus doesn’t just escape death—he opens the way for all who follow.

• "Do Not Be Afraid"

  “Do not be afraid” is a common divine message in Scripture, especially when people encounter angels or God’s presence (Genesis 15:1, Luke 1:30, Revelation 1:17). It signals both divine reassurance and calling.

  Fear in this context is not simply about being startled—it represents the trembling awe that comes when humans encounter God’s glory. But Jesus’ presence turns fear into joy and purpose.

The presence in the waiting

“He rolled a big stone in front of the entrance and went away”
Matthew 27:60

Holy Saturday is a day of absence. Of waiting. Of breath held.

Jesus has died. The body has been taken down, wrapped in cloth, and laid in the tomb. The stone is rolled into place. Guards are posted. Everything is still.

This is not the joy of Easter or the sorrow of Good Friday. It is something in between — unresolved. A space of not knowing. The story isn’t over, but no one knows that yet.

I’ve spent many happy hours exploring the churches and museums of Italy. Italian faith is often loud — full of gold, movement, and song. In the Uffizi, room after room of Mary and Jesus shimmered with undeniable beauty and reverent faith, but much of it felt distant to me — decorative, overwhelming, almost hollow. I didn’t sense the Spirit there.
Perhaps it’s because faith, when removed from its context and gathered behind glass, becomes something else. Categorised, labelled, and hung in rows, it risks becoming an exhibit rather than a living presence — something to be looked at, not entered into.

But then came the Pietà. After the conveyor belt of the Vatican Museum and the strange soundtrack of shhhh in the Sistine Chapel, I saw her — still, alone, silent and distant behind her protective glass — Mary, cradling her lifeless son. Her arms open in quiet acceptance.
And somehow, through the distance and the barrier, through centuries, she reached out.
She touched my soul with her human experience — her resigned despair caught in my throat and held my breath still.

Some find presence in the grandeur.
I often find it in the starkness.
In the waiting.
In the parts of the story where nothing can be fixed, but hope clings on anyway - a small crack in the dark.

Holy Saturday is one of those places.
The pain.
The cry.
Then — darkness.
Silence.

Trusting.

Waiting.

Art Journaling Prompt: The Tear

Take a blank page.  Draw a single circle.

Sit with it.  Let your thoughts wander.

You don’t need to be perfectly still - just present.

Let silence become your prayer.

Wait.

Then wait a little longer.

Somewhere in the quiet, a word will begin to rise. It might repeat softly, it might come unexpectedly.  But it will be clear.  Trust that it will happen.

When it comes, write that one word in the centre of your circle.

Then stop.
Let the page be what it is.
Let the silence be the prayer.
Let the space be enough.

Reflect on your word - what is God saying to you today, in the silence and waiting?

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Study Questions:

1. What does waiting feel like hope is hard to see?

2. Can I trust God even in the silence?

3. Where in my life am I sitting in Holy Saturday — in the gap between what has broken and what will be restored?

4. Do I rush to Easter, or can I remain in the stillness for a while?

Journal Notes:

• Matthew 27:57–66 narrates the burial of Jesus. Joseph of Arimathea, takes courage and requests the body.  The tomb is sealed and guarded, fulfilling both Roman legal procedure and Jewish concerns about potential disturbance. The disciples are scattered. The women wait.

• Crucifixion was not just execution; it was humiliation. Burial was a mercy not always granted. Roman sealing of a tomb carried weight — it meant "no access, by order of empire.

• In Jewish tradition, the Sabbath was a time of rest and stillness, work was not permitted - the women would have to wait to return to the tomb to tend to the body after the Sabbath had passed (Luke 23:56). Holy Saturday takes on that stillness, but with a sharp edge: grief is fresh, and hope feels far.

• The church holds space for Holy Saturday, often with a stark, undecorated church. In many Anglican traditions, the altars are stripped on Maundy Thursday and remain bare — a visual echo of absence, of waiting. Anglican theology acknowledges mystery and allows for silence as part of the rhythm of faith. This day honours the in-between — the grief that has not yet turned to joy.

"the veil of the temple was torn in two"

“Jesus cried again with a loud voice, and yielded up his spirit.
Behold, the veil of the temple was torn in two from the top to the bottom.
The earth quaked and the rocks were split.”
Matthew 27:50–51

The temple in Jerusalem was designed with increasing levels of holiness, restricting access the further in you went. Outer areas, like the Court of the Gentiles and the Court of Women, were open to many, but access became increasingly limited the further inside you went. The innermost area—the Holy of Holies—was the most sacred space, believed to house the presence of God. It was separated from the rest of the temple by a thick, heavy curtain, symbolising the barrier between God and humanity. Only the high priest could enter this space, and only once a year, on the Day of Atonement, to offer a sacrifice for the sins of the people.

The curtain is torn. Not in anger. Not to destroy what is sacred, but to open it—to let the presence of God out into the world.

This isn’t just a tear in fabric. It’s a tear in the world. A rupture in what we thought was sealed. A crack that reaches further than we expected.

All week, Jesus has been breaking down what divides. He rode into the city on a donkey, not a war horse. He overturned tables. He told stories that levelled the playing field. He washed feet. He shared bread with the one who would betray him.

Again and again, he made space where others closed doors.

And now, the last boundary is torn. The barrier is gone—but the power remains.

God is no longer held behind a veil, but that doesn’t make the divine less sacred. It makes the sacred more present—more immediate, more woven into the world around us.

The space set apart still matters. Sacredness still speaks. But now, no one is shut out. The way is open. The cry has gone up. The tear has been made.

The torn curtain speaks of closeness. Of a God no longer kept at arm’s length. Of the possibility of a personal relationship—real, raw, and present.

Bible journalling can become one expression of that nearness: a way to sit with Scripture, respond honestly, and enter into the story without needing permission.

But personal doesn’t mean isolated. The wisdom of teachers still matters. The prayers of others still hold weight. Sacred spaces, intercessions, and tradition continue to shape us. The tearing of the curtain isn’t a rejection of these things—it’s an invitation to approach them with openness, not fear.

We don’t lose the holy in the tearing. We find it everywhere.

Art Journaling Exercise: The tear.

This prompt isn’t about decorating. It’s about rupture. Change. Access.

Take a page.

Hold it. Feel its weight in your hands.
Then—tear it.
Not carefully. Not symbolically.
Tear it, suddenly. Decisively. As if something real has broken open.

This is your curtain.

Now, use what remains. Place the torn halves on a journal page, or stick them down slightly apart—leave space between them.

Then sit with that space.

You might want to write into or around the tear. Use colour if it helps. But keep your response raw and honest. No need to tidy it.

• Here are some invitations to guide your writing:

• What once felt distant that now feels closer?

• Where have you found the sacred outside the expected spaces?

• What have you been afraid to approach—or have longed to draw near to?

• What tradition, teaching, or prayer has helped you find your footing in faith?

• What does “the holy” mean to you today?

• What is still held behind a veil, waiting to be revealed?

Let your marks be unfinished, layered, uncertain if they need to be.
The torn page doesn’t need to be mended.

This is not about resolution. It’s about presence.
You don’t need to explain what you’ve made.

Let the tear speak.

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Study Questions:

You don’t need to answer all of these. Choose one or two that stir something in you.

1. What strikes you most about this moment in the story—the loud cry, the torn curtain, the earthquake, the centurion's declaration?

2. Why do you think Matthew includes the tearing of the temple curtain? What does it symbolise in the narrative—and what might it mean for us today?

3. What boundaries (personal, spiritual, social) does this passage bring to mind? Which ones do you feel have been “torn” open in your own experience of faith or doubt?

4. The centurion and others declare, “Surely he was the Son of God.” Why might this recognition come after Jesus’ death? What does that say about how we perceive truth and power?

5. How does this part of the story challenge the idea of what is holy, powerful, or worthy of reverence?

   Journal Notes:

• The temple in Jerusalem had multiple courts and layers of access. The innermost area—the Holy of Holies—was separated by a heavy curtain, and only the high priest could enter it, once a year, on the Day of Atonement.

• In Second Temple Judaism, the temple was the centre of atonement—through ritual and sacrifice.  Jesus’ death reframes atonement as something that no longer needs to happen through temple ritual. His self-giving love becomes the new way of reconciliation, once and for all.

• Earthquakes in Scripture often signify God’s presence and decisive action (see Exodus 19:18, 1 Kings 19:11–12).  The natural world responds to the spiritual rupture. This isn’t just a political execution—it’s a cosmic event.

• The centurion—one of the very soldiers overseeing the crucifixion—is the first person in Matthew’s Gospel to proclaim Jesus as the Son of God at the moment of his death. This moment of recognition is startling. It comes not from a disciple, a priest, or a follower, but from someone within the imperial system that carried out the execution.

  Historically, many Roman soldiers in Judea were not from Rome itself.
  The Roman army in the provinces included both:

  Legionaries (citizens, often from Italy or Romanised provinces), and

  Auxiliaries (non-citizens, frequently recruited from local or neighbouring populations).

  In Judea, auxiliaries were commonly drawn from surrounding Gentile regions, such as Syria or Samaria. While it’s unlikely that observant Jews would serve (due to religious restrictions), many soldiers were “local” in origin, even if serving the empire’s interests.

  This makes the centurion’s declaration even more layered: he may be ethnically or culturally closer to the region than we assume, and yet as a gentile stands symbolically as an outsider to the faith—and still, he sees.

  This moment reflects the universality of Christ’s self-offering and the tearing down of spiritual and social boundaries. The centurion becomes a surprising witness to truth, as the story moves outward from the temple to the world.

“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow”

If I returned here, barefoot and silent,
would the ground still carry the prayer,
“Not my will, but yours”?

We’ve been walking through Holy Week with Matthew’s Gospel, listening to his telling of the story. Matthew doesn’t include the moment where Jesus washes his disciples’ feet—that comes from John.

But before Jesus prays in the garden, before the betrayal begins, John tells us something else happened around that table. Jesus knelt, took water, and washed the dust from the feet of his friends. The same feet that would later flee.

Matthew leads us into Gethsemane. But John reminds us what came just before: a quiet act of service and love. The two accounts sit side by side—not in contradiction, but in depth. Together, they show us Jesus: the one who serves, the one who prays, the one who stays.

The garden is quiet, but heavy. The ground is cool. Olive trees rise like watchful witnesses. Moonlight sharpens the edges of the night. Jesus falls to the ground and prays.

He asks for another way.

Still, he chooses to stay.

Here, his feet remain still as swords approach.
Peter’s feet rush forward—rebuked.
Judas steps close.
Soldiers break the silence.

And we bring our own feet—uncertain, tired, longing to do the right thing but not always sure how.

What will we carry into this ground?
And what will we choose to leave behind?

Art Journaling Exercise: Feet on sacred ground.

On the night he was betrayed, Jesus knelt and washed the feet of his disciples.  He touched their weariness, their wandering, their betrayal.  He levelled himself and commanded them to do the same.

This is a simple act of service and care - no speaking needed.  Just presence, gentleness, and the quiet work of love.

What you will need:

A bowl of warm water, a soft cloth or towel, a piece of paper and a pen or pencil and an envelope.

1. Wash the feet of a loved one.  Ask someone you love - family, friend, partner, child - if you may wash their feet.

   Do it slowly, with care, in silence.

2. Place one of their feet on the paper and carefully trace around it.

3. Take your outline somewhere quiet and recite the lords prayer.

4. Draw a garden in the foot, you can colour it, collage, add prayer, words of love, wishes for that persons journey, hopes for them, words of forgiveness, requests for grace…

5. Fold it carefully into the envelope and tuck it into your bible at John 13 - stick it in if you wish.

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Study Questions:

1. Why does the Gospel of Matthew not include the washing of the feet? (see John 13:1-17)

2. Jesus invites the disciples to “watch and pray”, but they fall asleep.  Why do you think staying awake was so hard for them?   What things are we sleeping through today?

3. Jesus chooses not to resist arrest, what kind of strength does that take?  Have you ever seen someone show that kind of quiet strength?

   Journal Notes:

• “Gethsemane” means “oil press.” It was likely an olive grove on the Mount of Olives, just east of Jerusalem. The name itself carries a sense of crushing—fitting for Jesus’ inner agony.

• It was common to pray aloud, often physically prostrate. Jesus’ repeated prayers reflect traditional Jewish lament and pleading (see the Psalms), not weakness, but reverent desperation.

• In Jewish culture, a kiss between a disciple and rabbi was a respectful greeting. For Judas to use this gesture to identify Jesus to his captors added a layer of bitter irony.

• “A great multitude with swords and clubs”: This likely included Temple guards rather than Roman soldiers, using force that implied they expected armed resistance.

“She has done a beautiful thing”

“She has done a beautiful thing to me.” – Matthew 26:10

This was the hardest day to write about this week.  The most difficult moment to understand.  I sit with these two acts — the pouring and the betrayal — and try to untangle them.  It feels like this is a pivot point, a hinge - something incredibly important, startling - and yet almost indecipherable.

One act is wordless.  One is calculated.  Both are costly.

The woman (and who she is shifts between each gospel), enters a space not meant for her.  This soft, reverent act is nestled between the sharp violent, schemes of men.

She pours out the perfume. She touches death.  This is an act of prophecy — she hears what Jesus has told them, she knows that he will die — and instead of resisting it, she prepares for it. She accepts it. She honours it.

Judas on the other hand seeks out his earthly reward, his prize for betrayal.

She anoints the one who is about to be broken.  Judas breaks the one who was just anointed.

This is the threshold - the story turns, right here.  On a jar and a handful of coins, we enter the Passion.

“Wherever the gospel is preached…
what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.”
(Matthew 26:13)

Art Journaling Exercise: Folded reflections.

What are you treasuring that reflects the world we live in?  What are the treasures you have that reflect God?  What might generosity look like, folded into your life?

1. Fold a piece of paper in half, make the crease firm.  Allow the crease to be more than a line - let it be a hinge, a crossroads, a place of choice.

2. Where the fold meets, write a single line or stream of words - whatever flows.  A prayer, a list, a cry, a question, a manifesto.  Let it name the tension.  “what is valuable?” “Where do I give without expectation of return?”  “Where does worth lie?” “What am I willing to give to God?”

3. On the left side, draw riches, material wealth, treasured items, transactional objects.  Coins, silver, gold, gems, banknotes, luxury, achievement, ostentation.  Let it shimmer, shine - use metallic ink, foil, collage - make it beautiful, even seductive.

4. Leave the right side blank for now.  This is the side for quiet offerings.  Begin a list - a gentle, growing record of times you give something without return, when you offer up to God, for acts of generosity that you do without expectation of reward.  Time offered in love, apology with no guarantee, creativity without credit, listening with no answer, forgiveness that costs something, faithfulness that nobody sees.

Then reflect:

• What shines in the worlds eyes, but leaves me empty?

• What do I give without being seen - and how might God be holding it?

• Do I always expect a reward for Godly behaviour?

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Study Questions:

1. Read this episode in all four gospels, what do you notice in each version?  Why do you think it was recorded in all four books?  Matthew 26:6-13, Mark 14:3-9, Luke 7:36-50, John 12:1-8

2. When do acts of worship that can appear wasteful actually reflect the holiness of God?

3. Jesus calls the act “beautiful” - what does this mean?

Journal Notes:

• This story is placed carefully between two violent acts:  the plot to kill Jesus (vv. 3–5)  and Judas’s decision to betray him (vv.14–16).

  The woman enters the scene in between — uninvited, unnamed, and unspoken.
  She anoints Jesus not as a political saviour, not as a public king, but as one who is about to die.
  And she does it before anyone else will admit what’s coming.

• In Jesus’ time, perfumed oils were incredibly valuable.  The jar described in Matthew was likely made of alabaster, a soft stone used to contain only the finest ointments — often imported, sealed, and used in burial rites or as dowries.

  In a deeply honour–shame culture, where purity laws governed religious and social behaviour, this woman walks into a room full of men, touches a rabbi, and breaks open something irreversible.

  Her actions challenge:

  • Gender norms — women were not typically permitted to teach, speak, or act publicly in male religious spaces.

  • Economic logic — she destroys something of immense financial worth, and for no clear reason.

  • Ritual expectation — anointing was usually done to kings or the dead, not dinner guests.

  Jesus says, “She has prepared me for burial” — a shocking moment, as he had just predicted his death, but no one else wanted to hear it. She, silently, acts on it. Her gesture is both prophetic and priestly.

• Judas’s offer to the chief priests — “What will you give me?” — initiates one of the most infamous acts in Scripture.  

  The sum he receives — 30 silver coins — is no random number. According to Exodus 21:32, it was the compensation for a slave who had been killed. A chilling devaluation of Jesus' life.

  Judas engages in a transaction, where the woman engages in an offering.

• Jesus had just taught in Matthew 25 about feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, visiting the imprisoned — very public, very visible acts of service. And now, in Matthew 26, this woman does something that doesn’t feed anyone. She doesn't help “the least of these” — she anoints a dying man.

  And yet — Jesus calls it beautiful.

“by what authority?”

“By what authority are you doing these things?”

Matthew 21:23

It’s not a question of curiosity.
It’s a challenge. A line drawn in the sand.
A demand to justify your presence in a space someone else thinks they own.
And the unspoken words beneath it:
Who let you in?
Who gave you the right to change things?

The temple leaders weren’t simply trying to understand Jesus — they were defending their grip. On tradition. On control. On the way things had always been.  They were the architects of the system, the protectors of its patterns.  But they were also defending something bigger than rules or rituals:

They were defending a way of seeing the world that kept them at the centre,
kept the scales tipped in their favour —  where they were the ones who got to speak, decide, lead, benefit, and belong.

And here comes Jesus —
whose authority to teach came not from title, but from truth;
whose power to heal came not from permission, but from God;
overturning not just tables,
but the assumptions that propped the whole system up.

But he doesn’t give them the control they’re asking for.  He doesn’t answer their question.  Instead, he tells a story — about rejected messengers, about tenants who mistook stewardship for ownership, about a stone the builders cast aside — too misshapen, too unorthodox — that became the one holding everything together.

It’s a warning.
And it’s a hope.

Because sometimes we are the builders.
Sometimes we confuse faithfulness with familiarity.
Sometimes we say no to the new thing God is doing —  not out of malice, but out of fear, or habit, or love for something that once worked so well.

But the Kingdom of God is not a fortress.
It lives in fruitfulness. In movement.
It does not cling to the phrase: “We’ve always done it this way.”
It is not unchangeable stone.  We find it in our willingness to be reshaped.

And yet — Jesus was not careless with tradition.
He observed the festivals. He prayed in the temple.
He drew from the deep wells of scripture and law.

Ritual, when rightly held, roots us in something larger than ourselves. It connects us across generations, and gives us a structure on which to build a living relationship with God.

“Every teacher of the law who has become a disciple in the kingdom of heaven
is like the owner of a house who brings out of his storeroom new treasures as well as old.”   Matthew 13:52

We are not called to throw everything out.  We are called to discern.  To carry what still gives life — and let go of what only guards power that is not given by God.

We are always journeying home to God — again and again.  The Church must remain open to transformation, continually reshaped to reflect the Spirit alive in the world.

Art Journaling Exercise: Letting go of control.

What needs to be surrendered to find grace?

1. Choose an everyday object (a mug, a plant - something ordinary)

2. On an empty sheet of paper with a pencil draw it without looking at your page - just let your hand move with your eyes fixed on the object.  Don’t look, or go back to try to fix anything.

3. When you are done, look at what you created.  Accept it, let it be strange.

   Then reflect:

• What was it like to create something without control?

• How did you find not being able to interrupt, correct or make it “right”?

• Where in your spiritual life are you still trying to keep everything neat, controlled or perfect?  Where are you resisting grace by clinging to control?

Study Questions:

1. What assumptions about power and authority are being challenged in this passage?

2. How does Jesus redefine what makes someone “legitimate” in a faith community?

3. How do we discern when a tradition is serving a holy purpose, when is it ordained by God — and when is it just serving our comfort?

4. What does it mean to be the “cornerstone” of something new?

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Journal Notes:

• The challenge of authority:
  In Matthew 21:23, Jesus is confronted by the chief priests and elders. Their question, “By what authority are you doing these things?”, reveals a defensive stance — Jesus has disrupted the temple’s economy, healed the marginalised, and claimed space. The leaders want proof, credentials, permission. But Jesus is the authority — his truthfulness, his prophetic actions, and the fruit of his ministry.

• The Parable of the Tenants (v. 33–46):
  Jesus tells a story of tenants who reject the landowner’s servants and eventually kill his son. This is a clear allusion to the long tradition of rejected prophets — and a foreshadowing of Jesus’ own death. But it's also a critique of the assumption of ownership. The leaders act as if the vineyard is theirs to control. Jesus challenges this. The kingdom belongs to those who bear fruit.

• The rejected cornerstone:
  Quoting Psalm 118, Jesus identifies himself as the stone the builders rejected. What is thrown out, overlooked, unrecognised becomes foundational. Theologically, this turns human judgement on its head. Those rejected by human standards (Jesus included) may be central to God’s purposes.

This is the gate of God;    the righteous will enter into it.
I will give thanks to you, for you have answered me,
    and have become my salvation.
The stone which the builders rejected
    has become the cornerstone. (Psalm 118)

“a house of prayer”

“My house will be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a den of robbers.” – Matthew 21:13

When Jesus entered the temple and overturned the tables, it wasn’t chaos for chaos’ sake. This was purposeful rage. It was clarity. He saw what worship had become — crowded, noisy, transactional. The place meant to welcome the world had become a market — where the privileged moved with ease, as though they owned it, while the poor paid in ill-afforded coin just to rent a place at the edges.

His protest was not just against exploitation — it was for something better.

He cleared space so the blind and the lame could come in. So prayer could rise to the heavens without cost. So the outsiders had a place to stand.

Sometimes, our own inner temple gets just as cluttered. Full of noise. Full of demands. Full of things we didn’t even mean to carry.

Art Journaling Exercise: Clearing space

What needs to be cleared out to make room for prayer?

1. On an empty sheet of paper, lightly sketch a chaotic, cluttered space — tables, jars, money, baskets, scribbled words of injustice or clutter.

2. Use a white pencil, rubber, or eraser to "clear" a space in the centre. Inside that space, draw one simple symbol of peace (a dove, a bowl, an open hand).

3. Label that space “room for God”

Then reflect:

• What clutter do you have in your life that is stopping you hearing God?

• How can you make more room for prayer each day?

• What would you expect to see, hear, feel in a house of prayer?

• What tables in my life might Jesus overturn?

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Study Questions:

1. What does Jesus’ anger teach us about sacred spaces and justice?

2. Who is left out when worship is controlled by money or power?

3. Jesus made space for the blind and lame to come into the temple after the protest. Protest is not only about disruption — it’s about creating space for healing. What do you need to clear in yourself or your community to let restoration in?

Journal Notes:

• Jesus ’actions are not a random outburst but a prophetic protest. He’s quoting Jeremiah – a judgment against corrupt worship. He challenges how religion can be twisted to benefit the powerful. Notice who comes in after the cleansing: the excluded. Jesus clears space for healing and restoration.

• At this time, pilgrims came to the temple in Jerusalem from all over the Roman Empire for major festivals like Passover. They needed to pay the temple tax, but the temple wouldn’t accept coins that had images of emperors or pagan gods on them — these were considered unclean. So, money-changers had set up stalls in the outer courts to exchange Roman coins for Tyrian shekels, which were the only coins accepted in the temple. This service became exploitative. Fees were disproportionately high, people had no choice but to use these money-changers, and the system had become more about profit than worship.

• The Law of Moses allowed doves or pigeons as sacrificial offerings, especially for the poor who couldn’t afford a lamb (Leviticus 5:7, 12:8). So the dove sellers were providing a service for pilgrims who wanted to make the required sacrifice.

  But again — this had become a profit-driven system, often taking place within the Court of the Gentiles (the only space non-Jews could worship). Some scholars believe these commercial activities were actually pushing out the marginalised, both financially and physically.

• Jesus was confronting exploitation in a sacred space and barriers to access for the poor and outsiders.  It was a radical act of protest rooted in love and justice.

Palm Sunday

“Look, your king is coming to you, humble and mounted on a donkey.” — Matthew 21:5

This week begins with a king on a donkey. Not exactly what we expect when we think of power, is it?

I once saw a story shared online about a visiting artist who came into a school. He placed an image on their desks and told them they would be making copy sketches of it.  Then he did something unexpected. Instead of copying the image directly, the children were instructed to turn it upside down, cover most of it with a piece of paper, and draw it one small area at a time.

He told them, “Sometimes when you know what you’re looking at, your brain thinks it’s helping — it fills in the gaps for you. But that can actually stop you from seeing what’s really there. Turning it upside down, slowing down, scrutinising, making the familiar unrecognisable, helps you see what is really there.”

And I thought: isn’t that exactly what Palm Sunday is about?

Jesus enters Jerusalem like a king — but not in the way anyone expected. No war horse. No golden chariot. Just a borrowed donkey and people waving branches. This is power turned upside down. The kind we don’t recognise unless we slow down and really look.

So many of us have learned to associate power with dominance, control, force. But here, Jesus redefines it. His power is humble, healing, peace-seeking. It’s not weakness — but it’s not the power we’ve been taught to see.

Art Journaling Exercise: The Upside-Down Grid

Today, I invite you to try the artist’s method:

1. Find a picture of something you associate with power — maybe a crown?

2. Turn it upside down.

3. Cover it with a piece of paper or several small post it notes.

4. Draw one area of the image at a time, slowly, mindfully.

5. When you’ve finished, turn your drawing right-side-up again — and notice what surprises you.

Then reflect:

• What did you think you were drawing?

• What did you discover by looking differently?

• What “power” do you need to see differently?

Study Questions:

1. What does it say about power that Jesus chose a donkey, not a war horse?

2. How do I respond when power looks like humility, not control?

Journal Notes:

• The donkey is a deliberate echo of Zechariah’s prophecy (Zechariah 9:9). What is Jesus’ intention when he uses these words?

• “Hosanna” is both a celebration and a plea for salvation — the crowds wanted liberation, but their expectations were nationalistic. What Jesus brings is bigger but harder: the transformation of the heart and the world through love, not force.

• The city's stirring shows how true power unsettles. Jesus’ entry challenges what people expect from leaders — and from God.