When people get together everything is possible in the room. Church life may have a stereotype that says only a few predictable things are going on. Everybody’s holy all the time, or people are constantly at prayer. Butter wouldn’t melt in anyone’s mouth, and the real world is left at the door, except for the chronically needy who hog the agenda.

    Who would want a place in a life like that? That has never been my experience of church life. Oh, you get some crazies now and then, but rarely people who would want to do you real harm. Most folk put their best foot forward, want to make a difference, and enjoy their life in the community. They really get something of value from it for facing the challenges of a lifetime.

     They are so interesting too. They have careers and families, holiday destinations, accomplishments and honours from the wider society. They also have hobbies, idiosyncrasies, pet peeves, single drum-beating passions and issues, with opinions they are most willing to share. I like that.

     Most are veterans of the changing scenes. They pack hard-earned wisdom. They drive miles to come to worship, are unruffled by bad weather, dig deep to keep the finances strong in times of need, chip in favourite recipes for pot luck, and open their hearts to those hurting around them.

     To have the privilege of working among such people, of opening our sacred texts with them, of standing with them in times of crisis, of engaging the mystery of our destiny, these things are pearls beyond price.

     When these people get together anything can happen in the room. We laugh and cry, and roar and sit in silence as the needs dictate. This style is older than any stereotype of us.

      Indeed it may well be the kind of first freedom know in the earliest Christian gatherings. God, in the story of the Christ, has thrown us the ultimate mystery, the most intricate of all puzzles, the grand-daddy of all squeeze toys. It takes the child, the sage, the gamer, the dreamer, the realist, and every other character-type in the gene-pool to pick at this most delightful central gift, the quest for the meaning of life, and life beyond life.

   “On Sunday morning some of us went to the grave. What a mess, the head stone gone, dirt scattered everywhere. Some workman was standing there talking on his Blue Tooth. “What’s going on?” he finally asked. “We came looking for Jesus.” “Nobody’s here.”

So we checked it out. No Jesus.

    Thank God, Mary had her cell phone and videoed this guy. He told us again how he’d just got there, figured out there was trouble, and was calling it in.

    Mary sent the video to Peter. He copied the group. Soon emails were flying; speculation, accusation, calls for justice and pleas for calm. We were raging. Jesus was set up and now they were throwing him away.

     James went into Facebook. “They’ve got Jesus.” Friends everywhere posted for details. Peter put Mary’s video on You Tube under the title “So Wrong”. It showed the wrecked grave, the stranger with the Blue Tooth, and all of us in tears. It went viral. All over the world thousands zeroed in on our pain.

    Getting together later, we took some comfort in fact that people realized that a great wrong was done. It will take time to get over the violence we’ve seen. But through it all Jesus is still our leader. He was amazing. We saw magic in him, too good a life to be lost in our silence. So we try and speak and live like him in the face of the fear.”

      Now that the big hockey game is over, and we can breathe again, I find myself fascinated by the power displayed in those moments. A world audience went wild. I can still see the final goal every time I close my eyes. That is power. That is us, the human animal, in full flight. You could win wars with such energy. Move mountains. Indeed you could fix the world.

      Returning to type, I now ask myself where Jesus would be in that scene. The church might make him the referee. After all, we set him up as peace-keeper, law-giver, and final authority. How does that feel, dressing Jesus in a striped shirt and sending him out with a whistle?

      Perhaps he is just a face in the crowd, high up in the cheap seats. Historically he was poor and had no friends in high places. Maybe he is working the concession stands giving people what they need to get them through the tension. His healing ministry and general air of approachability would fit that bill.

      Perhaps Jesus made the team. It is a gifted group, but it was said of him that he expressed an uncommon understanding of the big game and was a favourite with the fans. If so, which position would he occupy?

       Is he a center man making plays for his wingers to complete? He leads, we follow. He opens the door, we pick up the pass. He blocks an opponent, we slip through the gap. He takes the hit, we seize the chance.

       Is he a winger, putting his body at risk in the corners, taking the bruising that comes from intense contact in a hard-fought conflict? Good Friday seems to be from a playbook for wingers. The Sacred passes us a pivotal moment, and the winger chases into a dangerous corner.

        Is Jesus on defense? These days the churches would make him seem so. He is our muscular guardian to check all incoming threats. As long as Jesus holds the blue line, our ownership of the franchise is safe.

        Is he the goalie? No matter what happens, how poorly we play, or how the game goes against us, we have one more player between us and loss. Do we secretly take it out on him back in the dressing room when the other teams play better and win the day?

         For me Jesus is just a kid who loves the game. Who plays it with a tennis ball on the street, or heads to the outdoor rink on really cold days for a few spirited turns around the ice. He never played in the system and never saw much of the big leagues, but he was such fun to watch, and so enthusiastic about the enterprise, that others remember him as a consummate example of us at our best. His legend grew from there.          

At dawn every morning I look at the clocks.

The sandman departs, and I search for my socks,

The kittens meow and the black dog still talks.

O isn’t it time to live outside the box?

I put on the coffee and scrape off the toast,

And push away scraps from the Sunday night roast,

And chat through the headlines to one I love most,

O say that its time to be more than a ghost?

The lot at the office is packed to the brim

With people out shopping or braving the gym,

Routine rattles on to the sound of a hymn,

I’m craving a time to go out on a limb?

Our Sunday convention is holding its own.

Our budget, though plenty, is trimmed to the bone.

Our Gospel takes on a conundrummer’s tone.

O please say it’s now we’ll get out of the zone?

The Bible’s a treasure of wonderful tales,

With Romans in numbers, and prophets in whales,

And lives there all weighed on high, heavenly scales,

O hunger with me for such winds in our sails?

I’d hate to find out that our truth was a lie,

That all we end up with is what we could buy,

And the box that we lived in won’t fit in the sky.

Is it time to decry, and deny, and to fly?