This Easter I’ve been acting in the St Tim’s Passion Play. For those of you not familiar with the concept, it’s a reenactment of the biblical account of Jesus living, dying and resurrecting.

I was cast as Judas. This, of course, was treated with a great deal of humour from, well, everyone who knows me. There were cries of “type-casting!”, and I rather enjoyed pointing out that last time I was in a passion play, my role was “Second Demon”, so this was a promotion, of sorts.

And so the preparation began: there were lines to be learnt and countless rehearsals to attend. My wife bought a costume for me (by ransaking the bottom shelves of the least appealing charity shop in our high street). Jokes were made during practices – my favourite being Jesus getting everyone to flamboyantly clap, hands above head, during the buildup to the crucifixion.

Slowly, piece by piece, a sincere production was put together. Yet in the midst of it all, I rather failed to consider if there might be any deeper meaning to my role.

Soon enough, Good Friday was on us, our first performance begun, and, to a packed church, the birth and life of Jesus unfolding. I turned up, changed into my authentic 2,000 year old clothes, then waited behind the stage for my part. My only concern was the recollection of my lines, no deeper thought running through my head.

Then, my first scene came “Disciples chatting about Jesus”. Improvisation of some bible verses aside, this went well, and I moved onto “The Last Supper”, which played out without a hitch.

My final scene was an easy one – no speaking part; simply walk on with some soldiers, hug, kiss (and ultimately, betray) Jesus, then off again on stage left.

Our cue came, and on we marched. I hesitantly walked up to Jesus; crying, loving Jesus, who embraced me wholeheartedly. Then I kissed his cheek, his tears on my lips, and it hit me:

I am Judas.

Suddenly everything moved so fast. I stumbled back, and the soldiers swooped in. I walked off stage hesitantly, and stood behind the curtain, watching on as my Lord was thrown around, beaten, whipped and murdered. I weeped for a few moments, because it became very clear:

I am Judas.

Sure, my name is Chris, and I’ve never been near Nazareth, but the point remains: for me alone, Jesus would gladly have suffered the cross.

But he was wounded for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his stripes we are healed.

Isaiah 53:5 (ESV)

So, remember: don’t resent Judas, he is a reflection of all of us. We are Judas. Over the next two days, try to reflect on that, because it really is at the heart of Good Friday. And it will make Easter all the sweeter!

I don’t pretend to have all the answers to Christianity, but I often find church a distraction, Christians a frustration, and – more importantly – antithetical to many of Jesus’ statements. This video makes that point fairly admirably.

Also, from a purely aesthetic perspective, there is some beautiful flow and rhyme in this, with great visuals, and a subtle but supportive typographical underlay. If that’s your sort of thing…

Let worship be the fuel for mission’s flame
We’re going with a passion for Your name
We’re going for we care about Your praise
Send us out

Matt Redman

In the last 8 years, I have visited Harrismith, a small rural town, one of millions of tiny dots on the world map, six times. I’ve spent 24 weeks – nearly 6 months – of my adulthood in this place. Each time I return, I feel like I’ve been away for a few days: friendships pick up where we left off, as if no time has passed at all.

Back in England, I pounce on every accented black person I meet, eager to practice my Sotho, or my Zulu. It’s rare that a week passes where I don’t look up the weather in Harrismith, or hover ethereally over the town in Google Maps.

There’s a little something of Africa in my blood – hopefully not TB, bilharzia or malaria – its a passion. A passion to see the beautiful people of this beautiful country filled with joy, to learn from them the lessons of glory that they have learnt, and passing on to them the glimpses of the Kingdom we see in the west.

On this trip, we have worshipped in many ways: as a family in prayer; saying grace over meals with friends; playing guitar with the worship team; filling in charity paperwork; clapping and dancing in the township; buying Christmas presents for orphans; and sitting on the bonnet of my car, looking at the sky.

Through it all, so far, no bushes have burst into flame, no clouds have cracked open with a deep bass voice proclaiming how I must lead my family. Yet, when we tell people here that this might be our last trip, that we are waiting to hear from God on whether we should come to stay, not one person has given the faintest credence to the possibility that we might not return.

When we left England, there was a great deal of fear inside me, fear that I would not find out the answer to the question: what is His plan for us? That question remains, but the fear is gone. Just as 3 weeks ago, there was only a sliver of a moon in the night sky, tonight the moon is full, and so is the hope for our future.

Lord, send us out.

Katherine, Joen and myself have been on the ground in Harrismith for just over a week now, and things are starting to get busy. We have more than 2 weeks left here, and we are involved with:

• Volunteering at Hope House children’s home.
• Organising a party for those with no family to stay with over Christmas.
• An end of year event at the bible school in Makgolokoeng township.
• Running a men’s and women’s social for Freedom Church
• Volunteering at the local hospital and clinics.
• New charity and church websites with videos.
• New computers for the charity and children.

God is giving us a real opportunity to celebrate and build relationships here, with 3 parties at Hope House over the next 2 weeks, bonding socials at Freedom Church, an end of year celebration at the Makgolokoeng Bible School, and a week long art fair at Rheola’s (our generous host who runs income generating craft projects in the township).

Today we visited Hope House, where the children immediately took my phone and started taking photos: tw0 of which you can see on the right. The level of love the children need is very intense: they run into your arms at the first opportunity, and both of us found our eyes moistening throughout the afternoon. Joen, on the other hand, was fairly shocked, having never been borderline attacked by 27 black kids. They loved him, although we did have to stop them putting him in the sit on car that they raced at breakneck speed aroudn the concrete. Over the next few weeks, we are going to take them out in groups for ice cream, or round to our house for DVDs, for cooking: general family time they miss out on.

I am finding the work in the local hospital very rewarding: my smattering of Sesotho is already coming in useful, and I love the air of friendly faith in the hospital. Last night around 2am I was dancing around the kettle with the senior sister, singing “Ke a bina hobane Modimo o motle” – “I am singing because God is good“.

We currently do not feel any closer to knowing if this is our long term home: for now, we are focusing on thanks and praise, and trusting that He will reveal his will to us.

Love you all,
Chris, Katherine and Joen.

So, tonight we fly to South Africa for a month serving with our friends in Harrismith. We have a colossal amount of baggage, more than enough to live indefinitely in international waters.

I write this from Heathrow airport, with a grumpy Joen perched on my lap. He and Katherine are participating in a frequently repeated battle over our desire to provide him with nourishment. His opinion is that if he wanted something unpleasant in his mouth, he would put it there himself: a point underlined by his frequent oral intake of fistfuls of dog hair.

The latest tactic, in his attempt to be the first chubby, anorexic, one year old, is squealing whilst throwing his spoon on the floor. Then, when Katherine stoops to pick up the spoon, he grasps my neck with surprisingly sharp fingernails. When Kat brings the spoon back into play he then starts again from the top. We suspect his eventual aim is to exasperate us to the point of agreeing never to feed him again: tonight those terms sound increasingly appealing.

Our request from you all, is prayer for peace as we embark on a 12 hour flight to South Africa.

More from us soon!
x Chris, Katherine & Joen

Thought I’d share something Christian, this being Lent. Both myself and Katherine are trying to spend some set time daily in prayer over the next few weeks, something organised by Phil, the pastor at our church.

So, check out the video below.

Try to look past the irritating commercialism of the first and last minute, and fair enough, the presentation style might not be quite to your taste; but still, wouldn’t it be great to go up to thy neighbour and say “F YOU!”

This is Joen.

Full name: Joen James Lowry (or JJ).
“Joen” is Hebrew, and means “a gift from God“. It is not pronounced “Joan”.

He was born at 3:56am on 30th January 2011. He weighs 8 pounds 12 ounces.

His hobbies include attempting to suckle on his father’s nipple hair, and screaming with heart breaking intensity for unknown reasons. We don’t know much else about him.