Why Did They Hate Him So Much?

Lydia has written an interesting piece on the treatment of Jesus by the Roman soldiers, shortly before his crucifixion. Whether you believe Jesus is God and the saviour of men - or not, it's still a good glimpse at such a pivotal event in history.

James Caviezel in The Passion of the Christ

Suddenly, there is a hushed silence, heads turn around to look behind them, the crowd parts hesitatingly. A man strides through their midst. The muscles on his golden arms ripple as he swings them, his crisp, bleached hair lies in waves on his fine head. He is undisputedly their leader - everything about his confident air and flung back shoulders proclaims it. His eyes flash, almond shaped, brown - he moves down the aisle of perspiring men with a careless grace. He carries on one arm a large piece of egyptian linen, died a deep purple, like the curved insides of seashells, the colour reserved for kings and emperors only. In the other hand he is holding, very carefully, a wreath of thorns. A scratch runs down the back of one perfect hand, wet with crimson.

Men push against each other, damp tunics to damp tunics, sandals shuffling in the dusty sand, to make way for their leader, and to see what will happen. As they move we see a figure standing alone in this arena of men. He stands a little to one side, his head bowed, his arms hanging by his side. Despite his despondent attitude, there is an aura of peace about him that singles him out from the tense, watching crowd. The crowd catches a glimpse of the man's mutilated back and shoulders - cruel Roman whips have turned his back into ribbons of flesh, skin and blood. Silence grows, throbs like a living organism in its breathless persistency. The leader stands in the ring now, the chiseled head held high, arms crossed, feet apart, a magnificent specimen of manhood, taunting, defiant.

Check out Matthew's account of this event in Matthew 27:27-31.

A Double-Helping of Motivation

Hah, Lyd's written a good (short) article on apathy, change, motivation and Bob the Builder.  Here's an excerpt...

"Somewhere along the line we humans bought into the idea that everyone should have their own private lives - with a big scoop of "rights" and a super - sized dish of selfishness. Upstanding citizens in our country throw a bit of money at the cancer society every year or sponsor a child in Africa and that stops the guilt. Instead of waking up to what's really wrong with the world, people appease their guilt about it by throwing their excess cash around. They don't want to know what's happening but they do want to feel better about it." - Most Tranquil

Night Light

Lyd and I headed down to the park again today.  We left it a bit late, so it was pretty dark by the time we got there.  Used a nice little tripod for the camera, but unfortunately the battery wasn't too good, so we only got a few photos.  I put some more photos on my Flickr account.

I'm hoping we can get down to Hagley park and get some decent photos in the daffodils - before you know, "the grass withers, the flower fades..." - Isaiah 40:8.

Hey, here's a poem I wrote just on a year ago, it's about Spring!

Most Tranquil

Let me draw your attention to my sister Lydia's website.  She has some really nice drawings which she'll be updating fairly frequently, thanks to the uber-cool third-party Flickr-gallery creator that we found.  There's also her blog which she writes in occasionally.  Here's a couple of her pictures that I particularly like.

Air Time - alternate ending

by my sister Lydia, over at most-tranquil.blogspot.com

Read my original story here

He saw the door opening, but by that time there was nothing he could do to slow himself down. The other bikes raced ahead and he knew the race was over for him. His life was about to end as well. A huge, middle aged lady stuck her head out of the door. Her face slowly registered suprise and then anxiety. In the split second his tyre hit the door, he thought about all the stories he'd heard of people dying. The stories always read: 'His life flashed before his eyes, and he knew that this was the end.' The puzzling thing was, the man thought as he collided with the door, that his life wasn't flashing before his eyes. All that he could think of was, 'I'm gonna die.' This phrase repeated itself over and over in his brain like a broken record. Just before the bike smashed into the door, the man pulled up the front wheel with an expert twist. Maybe it was just as well he wasn't looking at his life's story or he wouldn't have had the presence of mind to do that. His whole body jerked convulsively back as the bike came in contact with the door. The front tyre skidded up the door, the back tyre in the air, and the man leaned over the handlebars. This was some jump, the man thought. He'd done a lot of different types of jumps, but never one like this. The woman was sitting in her seat in the car, watching him do the jump like it was some kind of show. She wore the expression you have when you're watching someone do something dangerous, the anxious but entertained look. The back tyre just touched the top of the door, then the whole bike hurtled through the air. Nice, thought the man, crouching over the handle bars. That was a well executed jump.

The bike made an arc and then landed, crunching into the tarsealed road. The man braked. The speed with which he'd been traveling was so great that the bike didn't respond immediatley to the brake, but skidded for several meters. Great, the man thought. Now the brakes were probably wrecked.

Learning Poetry

a well-written poem from most-tranquil.blogspot.com - by my big sister Lydia.

Learning poetry grinds me down,
It pulls my face into a frown,
'Part of an object that stands for a whole,' -
I'm clinging to my self-control.

'All hands on deck,' the captain cries,
But with the test my memory dies,
The answer is out of my mental grasp,
It flops like a fish and breathes it's last.

'Three out of ten,' the words ring cold,
And like a vice on me take hold,
But I scrunch up the score with great disdain,
And pick up my pencil to try again.

Most Tranquil

Meandering ahead, the bright sunny street,
The tarcealed footpath warm under my feet.

Fresh cut grass glistening with the morning dew,
Smells just like last spring, yet refreshing and new.

A cluster of daffodils springs from the grass,
The carefully trimmed verge is just perfect, first class.

Cherry blossom trees line the long winding street,
The well-kept gardens looking charming and neat.

"Tranquil. Most tranquil" - the thought crosses my mind.
Drive past in the car; it's as if you were blind.

A good pair of jandals and cut-off jeans shorts,
Open-neck tartan shirt, my head-full of thoughts.

"First Spring", this is the first spring that I have known,
And I am walking down the street on my own.

Everything's like no-one has seen it before,
and I know what I've waited all winter for.