I woke today, Good Friday, to the tragedy and triumph of the cross.

The local bike club have their compound at the end of Deb's street. They were preparing for a 'run' this weekend. Harley after Harley roared past our morning cuppa, straddled by a heavily tattooed male, greying, balding and overweight. I thought of Jesus and his disciples and reflected how much more they were like these outlaws than those who were gathering in churches all around Maitland this morning.

Jerusalem must have been insulted by the triumphal entry, the Galileans must have looked so 'working-class', so rag tag Hicksville, so undesirable.

I thought of the politics of Herod, the Power of Pilate, the piety of Annas and all the promises and prophecies that must have moved through the Galileans as they camped on the Mount of Olives desperately praying that Jesus and his twelve rednecks would mount an insurrection against all the graft and corruption of Jerusalem.

Thank God for the bikies. I saw God in leather this morning, astride a Harley, the townsfolk turning their heads in disgust, shielding their young sons and daughters from the disease.

The cross is prepared. He is crucified today as he was yesterday and will be tomorrow as politics, power and piety demand God to submit.

Thank God for his stubborn refusal to be anything else but unconditional.