Easter at last, after a long, over-busy, and very cold Lent. 

The morning Festal Eucharist was a fitting celebration. The music was superb; thanks especially to Francesca for her lovely solo, David on the organ, and Julian as Director. It was a particular joy to have two-year-old Henry up in the chancel with us, listening keenly to the music and occasionally joining in very softly. (However, the words to the Agnus Dei are not normally 'Miaow, miaow'!) The Easter Anthems was particularly moving, and several people subsequently commented on the setting and the way it was sung. Psalm 150 sung as a recessional was also greatly appreciated. Chocolate eggs and champagne, tea and biscuits, coffee and lovely cake followed the service and it was good that some of our visitors stayed on for this. What a shame that so many of our regulars, including most of the students, were not in town to worship and celebrate with us.

Festal Evensong was another memorable occasion (despite my attempts to lead the wrong set of versicles and responses). Sheppard's setting of 'Ye choirs of new Jerusalem' was tackled with appropriate verve and confidence, and the finale was Britten's setting of the Te Deum. Thanks to Eleanor W for another lovely solo, to Sean on the organ, and again to Julian. Easter Day closed with a real organ showpiece - presaging what's in store tomorrow in Sean's organ recital, perhaps.

Thanks to everyone who has worked so hard over the past term and the past week - not only the musicians, but also the servers, flower arrangers, those who keep the church clean and tidy, Annabel in the office, the bell-ringers, my ordained colleagues, those involved behind the scenes in administration, financial and practical tasks - and of course Emily and helpers in the coffee shop. Our resources both financial and in terms of people are very slender compared to the size of the building and the expectations of those who come, and it's a great credit to the church (in the sense of 'the people of God' in this place) that so much is achieved, and to such a standard.

After tomorrow's organ recital, we take things quietly. Little will be done in the next few days as we enjoy the festive period and rest for a while from church duties. Next Sunday will be much quieter; the choir has a break, and members of Holy Trinity Church will join us for the main morning service. Then the focus will move to the preparations for the Annual Meeting towards the end of the month.

At Evensong I read these  verses by George Herbert; they're worth a closer look:

RIse heart; thy Lord is risen.  Sing his praise
Without delayes, 
Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise                          
With him mayst rise: 
That, as his death calcined thee to dust, 
His life may make thee gold, and much more, just. 


Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
With all thy art. 
The crosse taught all wood to resound his name,                          
Who bore the same. 
His stretched sinews taught all strings what key 
Is best to celebrate this most high day. 


Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song                          
Pleasant and long: 
Or, since all musick is but three parts vied                          
And multiplied, 
O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part, 
And make up our defects with his sweet art.

Reflections are fascinating. I took this photo at the Cathedral on Thursday, from the porch or portico which links the ruined Cathedral to the new one. The ruins represent the desolation and destruction of Good Friday whilst the new Cathedral represents Easter - but the porch in between represents today, Holy Saturday, or Easter Eve.

Today we stand, as it were, in that porch. We're facing Easter but we haven't quite arrived there yet. We catch slightly incoherent glimpses of what its life may be - the community of faith, the glory, the beauty, the saints and angels - but we're not yet inside; we're still in the cold. And we also see that the place of Easter reflects the ruins of Good Friday and the life of the world of every day.

Today the body of Jesus lies in the tomb. But it isn't just any tomb. The Gospel writers are unanimous in noting that the tomb was a new one, never used before. That small detail speaks volumes. 

Look through the Old Testament, and you'll see how important the place of burial was for the people of Israel. For example, Abraham bought the cave of Machpelah to serve as a burial place (Genesis 23) for his wife Sarah. Others buried there included  Abraham, Isaac, Rebekah, Leah and Jacob. The kings - including Rehoboam, Jehoshaphat, Joash, Jehoash, Amaziah, Azariah, and Jotham - were buried with their ancestors, whilst others 'slept with their fathers', which probably means the same. The young widow Ruth (1.17) vowed to die and be buried in the same place as her mother-in-law Naomi, in the context of pledging loyalty to her. Joseph asked for his bones to be taken back from Egypt for burial in the land of Israel (Genesis 50.25). Indeed, Egypt was a place of 'no graves' - ironically, given that the Israelites may have been involved in building the Pyramids - signifying no permanent belonging: “Is it because there are no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness? … It would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness.” (Exodus 14:11f) Meanwhile, except in the case of Elijah who was taken up into heaven, non-burial was considered to be a very serious fate; see for example Isaiah 14.18-20.

Burial signifies belonging; belonging to a place, but more important, belonging to a family. Just as Abraham purchased a new tomb, signifying a break with the past and the founding of a new family, so too with Jesus Christ. And St Paul reminds us that in our baptism, we're buried with Christ: in sharing his new tomb, we also become members of his new family for eternity.

Tomorrow we shall proclaim that Christ is risen, and because he is risen, so too are we. Our own resurrection is both now and not yet; now in that we glimpse the Kingdom and taste the first-fruits of God's love and forgiveness for us, his children; not yet, in that our redemption and that of the world, whilst fully assured, remain to be fulfilled. 

So whilst it's right for us to be identified as Easter people, we also remain people of Holy Saturday; people with one foot in the grave - the grave of Jesus; looking forward to our fuller entry into the life of Easter.

Lord Jesus Christ,
who on this day lay in the tomb
and so hallowed the grave to be a bed of hope for all who trust in you:
give us such sorrow for our sins, which were the cause of your Passion,
that when our bodies lie in the dust our souls may live with you
where you are alive and reign with the Father and the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever.
Amen

Julian Parkin directed over one hundred singers in the Bring & Sing rehearsal of Faure's Requiem at All Saints' Church this afternoon, for performance later in the evening. It was a poignant, but enjoyable way to spend Good Friday. Fuelled by hot cross buns, the singers will perform this popular masterpiece at 7pm tonight - tickets are available on the door for £5 each, all welcome! More details at http://www.allsaintschurchleamington.org.uk/bring--sing-concert---29th-march-2013.html

 'We preach Christ crucified' is inscribed on many Victorian pulpits. All Saints is no exception. The most prominent carving on the stone pulpit is of Jesus on the cross, with Mary his Mother, John, another woman, and a Roman soldier standing by and looking on. Meanwhile Mary Magdalene kneels, and weeps with her head in her hands.

It's Good Friday: the most sombre day of the Christian year, and yet one on which our Christian hope is founded. I reflected on this in the Cathedral yesterday, looking at the figure of Christ in Glory which sits above the distorted, suffering figure of the crucified Christ. We cannot have the glory without the suffering. It's worth observing that in this tapestry, the crucified Christ is at human eye-level; we need to raise our eyes to see the bigger picture of Christ the King.

Each year, we set aside the three hours during which Jesus was on the cross - noon until 3pm - as an especially holy time. The Three Hours' Service takes us through the events as recounted in St John's Gospel (18.1-19.42), set alongside hymns, readings from other sources, collects, and a great deal of silence for meditation and prayer. Not everyone is able to manage the whole of the service, so we invite people to come for as long as possible. Come and join us if you are able!

One of the readings we'll use is this poem I wrote a few years ago. It follows the story of the Passion through our various senses.

Sensing the Passion
Poignant the fragrance of love’s home:
Not putrid Lazarus, death-entombed,
Nor stove-aroma rich from one who served,
But Mary’s precious pungent perfume poured.
Feet washed, death death consumed.

Bitter the savour: memory’s feast,
Sour traitor’s morsel, couching sin;
Spurious loyalty in pride-chewed vow;
Wilderness death by freedom-tasting slave;
Bread, flesh; wine, blood; slave, king.

Strident the clamour: boot-black night,
Jeer-jangling mob: ‘Our will!’ Fear chill
Trampling through spirit-willing sleep, flesh weak;
Sword-whistle wound heard hard upon the ear;
Still, hear: ‘I Am. I will.’

Vivid the image: furnace fire
As cock-crow sears on stricken sight
Threefold, tear-tainted snap of stark remorse.
Exposed, abandoned flame-companion’s gaze.
Bright morning star; black night.

Flinching to feel, sawn splintered strut,
Spined circlet, steely-slivered nail;
Betrayal; gaol; flail; rich-robe arrayal;
‘Hail, King of Jews!’ Wine, stale. Life, frail, fail;
Last breath exhale; torn veil.

Kindle with Passion-sense dull flesh.
Roll free capped stone, trapped inward sight.
Unbind to scent, taste, sing the Passion-song,
To feel and long, with throng, alive and strong
Dark-journeying to light.

© Christopher Wilson 2008

Three very important things happened in our Cathedral this morning.

One of them was the renewal of commitment to Christian ministry, articulated by lay people, deacons, priests, and bishops. Ministry is the calling of the whole Church, of course - every baptised person is called to contribute their gifts for the common good. But whoever we are, whatever we do, we're reminded that it's 'by the help of God.'

Secondly, the ancient ceremony of the Blessing of the Oils took place. Oil for the sick (and dying) is a sign and a means of the power of God to heal and save. Oil of catechumens (those preparing for baptism) is used for the signing of the cross before baptism. Oil of Chrism is used for those who have been baptised, those who are to be confirmed, ordained or consecrated, and for the dedication of altars and church buildings. At Coventry, the oil of the sick is brought 'from a place of brokenness' - the ruins of the old Cathedral. Oil of catechumens is brought from the Font. Oil of Chrism is brought from the Chapel of Unity, a place of unity and reconciliation.

Thirdly, the Eucharist was celebrated, in consciousness that tonight is the night when we celebrate its inauguration. Bread and wine were taken, blessed, broken, shared, as a commemoration of the Last Supper, a sharing in the life of Christ, a proclamation of his death until he comes. The wall tablet above is a reminder of the vocation to love given to us by Jesus on this night: a vocation to continue and extend his work, expressed by but not limited to those present who are authorised for various forms of ministry, and the oils used in the service of the Church.

Then take the towel, and break the bread,
And humble us, and call us friends.
Suffer and serve 'til all are fed,
And show how grandly love intends
To work 'til all creation sings,
To fill all worlds, to crown all things.


(Brian Wren) 

'To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms 
And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, 
Repast them with my blood.' 

'What, wouldst thou have me turn pelican, and feed thee out of my own vitals?'

Words from Shakespeare's Hamlet (Act IV Scene V), and William Congreve's Love for Love (Act II Scene I) respectively.

Yesterday, walking through a snowy woodland, I spent five or ten chilly minutes watching a treecreeper ascend a tree-trunk, hopping jerkily upwards as it searched for insects in the bark. 

It occurred to me that Christian symbolism finds a place for many birds (although the treecreeper is not among them). The most obvious is the dove, symbol of the Holy Spirit. There's the eagle, soaring upwards, symbolising the Resurrection and Ascension and also the new life given to the faithful in Baptism. The turtle dove, which is said to mate for life, symbolises fidelity. The peacock, a bird whose flesh was believed not to decay after death, symbolises immortality. The robin with its red breast symbolises the Passion.

And then there's the pelican. A pre-Christian legend recounts the story of a pelican feeding its young in time of famine with its own blood, plucked from its breast. The story was probably based on a misunderstanding of the way a pelican presses her large beak back against her breast to release the food stored there, but the idea gained currency and was adopted as a symbol of Christ at a very early date. During mediaeval times it became a particularly popular image. Frequently the pelican's beak is sharp and pointed, quite unlike the genuine article.

At  All Saints', a gold pelican with chicks (known as a 'pelican in her piety') is carved centrally above the Last Supper and below the gold cross on the High Altar reredos. Another is depicted in stained glass in the South Porch. They represent the Eucharist, as the blood of Christ is given to give spiritual life to the faithful - particularly appropriate to recall, as we'll come to commemorate the Last Supper tomorrow. They also represent the self-giving of Jesus on Good Friday, as Jesus poured out his life for the redemption of the world.

The giving of his blood by Jesus for us is a graphic image, and one which has repulsed people over the centuries. A clearer understanding of the Old Testament background may be helpful in understanding its meaning. In the books of 2 Samuel (23.13f) and 1 Chronicles (11.14f), an incident is recounted in which three courageous chiefs joined David at the Cave of Adullam, a wilderness stronghold. Philistines were camping not far away, and had a garrison at Bethlehem, David's home city. David expressed a longing for a drink of water from the well by the gate of Bethlehem. The three chiefs, having heard his words, broke through enemy ranks and returned with the water. David refused to drink it but instead offered it to God, saying 'Can I drink the blood of these men who went at risk of their lives?' The offer by Jesus of the Water of Life is at the price of his own life; 'drinking his blood' in those graphic words of David.

O loving Pelican! O Jesu, Lord! 
Unclean am I, but cleanse me in Thy Blood 
Of which a single drop, for sinners spilt,
Can purge the entire world from all its guilt.

(Thomas Aquinas)

It's not the sort of thing that happens to me very often. This morning, two immaculately presented young ladies in a smart grey Range Rover pulled up alongside me as I walked up an icy lane. I'd never seen them before. We had a brief chat, the passenger gave me her phone number and the driver gave me half a biscuit, and then we went our separate ways.

What was it all about? The incident is open to various interpretations. If we saw it on TV, we'd have some idea from the context whether it was supposed to be amusing, chilling, romantic, surreal, or just an everyday down-to-earth part of life in a particular place. It's the lack of detail, context and meaning which makes the encounter somewhat intriguing and raises our curiosity as to what it was about. Who were the people? Why did they stop? What was the meaning of the half-biscuit? Why was the phone number given? The questions mount up in our minds.

The Gospels are full of intriguing incidents too. Our distance from them in terms of time and culture means we don't always appreciate the questions they raise, but those questions are certainly there. Let's take this familiar passage from St Mark's Gospel as an example:

On the first day of Unleavened Bread, when the Passover lamb is sacrificed, his disciples said to Jesus, ‘Where do you want us to go and make the preparations for you to eat the Passover?’ So he sent two of his disciples, saying to them, ‘Go into the city, and a man carrying a jar of water will meet you; follow him, and wherever he enters, say to the owner of the house, “The Teacher asks, Where is my guest room where I may eat the Passover with my disciples?” He will show you a large room upstairs, furnished and ready. Make preparations for us there.’ So the disciples set out and went to the city, and found everything as he had told them; and they prepared the Passover meal. (14.12-16)

Who was the man? Why was he carrying water, which was the work of women? Had Jesus already made arrangements for this man to meet his disciples, and for the owner of the house to provide and prepare the room for the feast? Had the owner invited Jesus? If not, was it all the work of faith, with the disciples sent to enter someone's house without any prior arrangement having been made? Or was there some other explanation altogether?

We don't know the answers to these questions. We do know that Jesus was familiar with Jerusalem. There's the account of him visiting with his parents when he was twelve years old, and accidentally getting left behind when they returned - spending the time debating with the Temple staff. Tradition suggests that his grandparents, Mary's parents, lived in the city. There are hints in the Gospels that his normal practice was to celebrate certain feasts there. And certainly Jesus had a confidence teaching in and around the Temple which may not have been acquired easily by someone who did not already feel at home there.

There's more, too. Why were the religious authorities from Jerusalem so concerned to travel out to the countryside, listen to his teaching, debate with him, and try to trap him? Was it because Jesus was a protege of the Temple, well-known and respected there, a rising young star - only to be taken in another and less conventional direction by the teaching of John the Baptist and the time spent in the wilderness crystallising his vocation?

If all that is true - and of course it's speculation - then the chances are that Jesus had already arranged the use of the room for the Passover. Even so, we don't know why a man was carrying water - and more importantly, whether the disciples did as Jesus asked entirely out of faith, or whether they knew they were expected. 

When we read the Bible, we shouldn't just let it wash over us. We need to learn to raise the questions, to be intrigued by the unusual details, to read with our imagination freed to wonder and explore at a deeper level. Of course we'll jump to the wrong conclusions at times - but this will be outweighed by the enrichment and insight we'll gain.

And that incident this morning? I'm sure you'll have worked it out. It was to ask me to look out for a lost dog. The half-biscuit was a dog biscuit, and the phone number was to report any sighting - which sadly never came.

The lecture continued. How, I don't recall: my attention was focused on something else. Something unexpected. Something irrelevant, or so I thought. 

A ladder was propped against the high window behind the lecturer. A face appeared, covered in face paint (or is my memory playing tricks?). A placard was waved - what it said, I don't recall. Was it held by a second person sharing the ladder? It might have been. Even as this was sinking in - or not - a bell was rung. I think. Plainsong chanting commenced, and a small group of robed and hooded figures processed into the lecture hall and out again. How many? Four? Five? Six? Were they holding candles? Books? No. Yes. No. I can't be sure. What colour were the robes? I don't know.

After the commotion, the lecture stopped. We were asked what had just happened. We agreed on key elements of the disruption - but not on the details. There were as many variations in the accounts as there were people in the room. And that, of course, was precisely the point being made.

Take another example. I'm not the most observant of people. Walking home through the shops on Friday afternoon, I noticed a mannequin in a particular shop window wearing a green hoodie with the word EEK emblazoned on it in large white letters (it actually said GEEK but the G was angled away from me). The next morning, for the blog post sparked off by the mousetrap experience, I went back with my camera. Eventually I found what I was looking for. It was in a different shop and the garment was blue, not green, and not a hoodie. The details were not as I remembered them. But the salient aspects were recalled accurately: there was a mannequin in a shop window wearing the word EEK in large white letters. 

It felt unseasonal this morning to be looking at the ending of St Mark's Gospel (16.1-8). The Lent group has finished, so we're back to our normal discipline of spending time with the Gospel reading set for the Sunday after next. The Gospels give us varying accounts of the Resurrection, and indeed of other events too. Trying to work out what actually happened, and in what order, and who was involved, when, and how, is not straightforward. As we journey through Holy Week towards Easter, the questions invariably recur: who's telling the truth? Can we rely on the Gospels? Don't the stories contradict one another?

The stories seem contradictory or at least different because they come from genuine eye-witness accounts. They aren't the carefully manufactured matching descriptions we might initially hope for, and if they were, we would suspect collusion in their writing. The differences and contradictions between them support rather than undermine the raw truth of what is being recounted by different people. We witness things from different perspectives using different presuppositions and perhaps experiencing different emotions. Small wonder then that our perceptions also differ. But just as those present in the lecture were all agreed that a commotion had taken place, just as I knew there was a mannequin wearing the word EEK, so the Gospel writers agree on the matters of fundamental importance. 

As St Paul wrote in a very early form of the Creed: 'For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures,and that he was buried, and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures, and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve...' (1 Corinthians 15.3-5)

Let's return to the Stations of the Cross. On Friday my attention was caught by the gold-painted cross, running like a leitmotif through every plaque. The Cross is a key aspect of the Easter story, and one about which all the Gospel writers agree. But there's another leitmotif, and it's even more important. It's the figure of Jesus, the central figure of course; and attention is drawn to him on every plaque by the halo around his head, painted not only in gold but also in red. The details around him may be remembered in different ways, and have certainly been interpreted in many more through forms such as art and preaching. But the focus is on Jesus, through Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, Easter Day and beyond - and it's that focus which is of fundamental importance, which unites the Gospel writers and all Christian people.

This morning, we sang that beautiful hymn by Samuel Crossman, 'My song is love unknown.' The author; a Cambridge graduate, was expelled from the Church of England for his Puritan sympathies in 1662. The hymn was published in 1664, and the following year, he embraced Anglicanism again and was ordained. He became Dean of Bristol in 1683, but died early in February the same year.

Some years ago, I was asked to visit an elderly widow who was distressed by the onset of blindness and frailty. I saw her regularly for perhaps a year, and eventually took her funeral. When as a young single woman she'd moved to Leamington to start work, her father had told her not to go to the pub, where she wouldn't be missed if she didn't turn up, but to go to the church where she'd find friendship and care. One of her regrets was that over the years, she'd got out of the habit of going - and thereby failed to reciprocate the friendship and care needed by others in their loneliness and need. But the hymn speaks of the love of God for us all, indiscriminately: the lonely and the self-satisfied; the religious, the agnostic and the atheist; those who respond to love and those who don't; those who are reasonable, well-adjusted and trusting, and those who are hurt and rejected. 'Love to the loveless shown, that they might lovely be.'

In his moving book 'The Sorrowful Way' (SPCK 1998), Michael Perham takes this hymn as the title and theme of a chapter. He writes 'If Christ's song is a love song for the world, then the bread that he breaks and gives is for a broad community of 'jagged' people, each with his or her disfigurement, or hurt, or eccentricity or inadequacy...We should be suspicious of any Christian community that seems to be a company of the healthy, the whole, the rounded, the pleasing and self-pleasing, the paten of unbroken rounded hosts. For the kingdom is a company of sinners, misfits and ragged, jagged, aching souls. The Church is the company of the broken, and it is the body that is broken - in the upper room, on the cross, at the altar, of the Church - that redeems.'

How true that is, and how challenging. It's so easy to join in the 'sweet praises' of God when we feel safe and at home among people like ourselves, people who are harmonious and reasonable and caring, people who don't intrude upon our sensitivities or disturb us by their characteristics. We like the body of Jesus, the Church, to be a body which is perfect - for us. When it isn't - which means most of the time - and its inadequacies grate, we're more likely to cry 'Crucify!' than 'Hosanna!' 

But those inadequacies are within us too. Each of us is to some measure a sinner, a misfit, broken. We might conceal it very well indeed, but it's there. And the fact is, we can't be redeemed unless we recognise our brokenness. That may cut across our pride, our self-reliance, our carefully constructed defences, but the acknowledgement of our human nature with its shadow side as well as its positive side sets us on the path to forgiveness, acceptance and maturity. And it grows compassion and love within us for other ordinary, flawed people who have joined us on the road to Jerusalem.

As we kneel together at the altar rail and stretch our hands out for the Bread of Life, we experience the presence of a love far greater than our own; a love which encompasses and binds us to God, not only with those whom we love, but also with those whom we find it hard to love; a love which reaches out to those whom we have hurt and to those who have hurt us; a love which transcends both our petty preferences and our most deep-rooted fears and divisions. Try as we may, those preferences, fears and divisions may seem unshakeable, sometimes with good cause. But we put our faith in the God who shares our brokenness and redeems us by his grace.

My song is love unknown,
My Saviour’s love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I, that for my sake
My Lord should take frail flesh and die?

I'm not sentimental when it comes to vermin. Unlike one of my churchwardens, who repeatedly used a humane mousetrap a couple of years ago. Each time, she set the mouse free in Christchurch Gardens - from where found its way back into her kitchen. Then one day, in a rush, she let it out outside church, and it soon found its way in.

No. On seeing evidence of a mouse in the pantry, I bought a new mousetrap at the first opportunity. At first I was dubious about the high-tech plastic look: too clever by far. Nevertheless I baited it using my in-depth knowledge of mouse psychology. Surely it would feeling be short of its five-a-day at this time of year. A sweetened dried cranberry would do the trick. And it did. Nature red in tooth and claw played its part, and I was unquestionably the victor. And the world should be beating a path to the door of the mousetrap inventor - it's a brilliant device.

Disposing of vermin is something which many of us do without hesitation. Yes, it's life, and we do our best to ensure there's no suffering - but if we don't kill it, sooner or later it'll  make our life intolerable. So the trap is baited and set, and we wait for it to carry out its deadly work. Which is to say, our deadly work.

The problem comes when we come to think of other people as vermin: a nuisance, and an expendable nuisance at that. In fact, such a nuisance that they cannot be allowed to live. 

Searching the BBC News website for 'death in custody' reveals reports during the last month alone from Israel, Pakistan, South Africa, England, Nigeria, India, Bahrain, and Central African Republic. Whilst the reasons in these particular cases may not yet be known, all too often in similar cases the life of the prisoner concerned is perceived to be worthless or worse by those responsible for his death. We saw something similar in Iraq, with the maltreatment and in some cases death of prisoners in Abu Graib and elsewhere. And on a much larger scale, there are the 'disappeared' of places as diverse as North Korea and Peru; the genocide in Cambodia, Rwanda, Guatemala, Srebrenica; the Holocaust; the victims of Stalinist and Maoist purges - the list could go on. Usually it concerns people perceived to be trouble-makers, people who threaten the status quo: opposition leaders, members of minority ethnic groups, and so on.

And for Jesus this Holy Week, the trap has been set. He's perceived as too much of a danger to be allowed to live. A danger to the religious establishment, as crowds flock to hear his teaching and applaud his cleansing of the Temple. A danger to the Jewish puppet dynasty as this true son of David is proclaimed King. A danger to the occupying Romans whose priority is to keep the peace at any cost. Now it's a case of waiting;sooner or later, the trap will spring and the deadly work of darkness will then be carried out.