The parable of the seeds

Sometimes we flit about like birds –

a fretful, fluttering existence –

snatching at seeds, then darting off –

distraction driving off persistence. 

Or else – epitome of pure persistence –

so seeming sure – solid – a rock –

bulwark against change, desire –

foundation stone or stumbling block?

Or else – thrill-seeker, addict, strutting

the labyrinthine, thorny track –

eyes seduced by every gleam –

more, more, more – what do I lack?

Seeds of grace – scattered wide –

dead for days in dark rich loam –

mercy within mercy within mercy –

green shoots, deep roots in human home. 

Golgotha

The Cross will be my place of beauty.

You relish its ragged, ruthless horror,

revel in its hideous cruelty.

You think to crush me with its awful weight.

No! I won’t allow it. I will break

your vicious power with my submission.

I choose to make this Cross my own

by shunning anger, outrage, bitterness,

and offering instead my free forgiveness.

Even you, I will forgive, and promise paradise

to all who glimpse the truth amidst the thorns,

who catch the strains of love among the cries.

I’ll wrap my mother and my friend within

a seamless woven robe of love and care.

I look, and I find beauty even here:

beauty in the hacked and splintering wood,

the dead set nails and spiteful thorns,

and my life’s blood poured out to feed the earth.

And you will see your bullying brutality

somehow flickering, faltering, failing.

I choose beauty.

Need

Even the Son of God needs help. 

The crowds press in, and he withdraws 

to a boat, to a mountain, to silence

if it can be found. 

The crowds in need (and who does not

need something?) press on, desperate

to draw from this apparently 

bottomless well of hope. 

The Son of Man needs friends to help 

procure a boat, to preach and heal,

and help him rest, but most of all 

to stand with him. 

Mad, bad or Son of God

Cf Mark 3:20-35

The man and his followers entered a house,

but before they could even feed or rest

a jostling crowd began to form,

like storm clouds gathering from the west;

a hungry crowd, starved of truth,

eager, clamouring to be fed. 

His mother and brothers were told of this:

‘He’s out of his mind,’ they said. 

The teachers from the City came

to spy on the irksome one who stood

in the midst of the gathering storm –

they would burn him if they could. 

‘Wherever he goes, chaos follows –

mobs, and Sabbath laws denied –

when demons rave he speaks to them:

he’s demon-possessed,’ they cried. 

From the eye of the storm the Son of Woman

spoke. ‘If none speak truth to power,

then power corrupts and demons thrive. 

I cast them out. This is my hour. 

My mind’s my own, my will is God’s, and those

who cede their will to God I here acclaim

as mine, as my true sister, brother, mother,

belovèd, treasured, living in my name. 

The death of John the Baptist

Even from prison, John,

your fierce spirit outfaces Herod. 

Irked, but intrigued, 

he hears the words which vex,

unwelcome guests which lodge

in his unquiet mind. 

Even in death, John,

at his garish party,

from a gory platter,

you outface him again,

disrupt the squalid schemes

of the bitter wife,

the naive dancing girl. 

And still you are not done. 

The Greater One

whose path you heralded,

takes your fierce call

and makes it more,

and Herod, hearing, fears

that you’ve returned 

to plague him once again. 

We hear your words, John,

urgent, clear and stark. 

You faced our treacherous world

and said, ‘Enough.

Turn round. Dare to dissent.’

When we are tempted by

the broader path,

to dally in deceit and compromise,

you stand unmoved and call us back

to make our desert pilgrimage. 

Consent

a presence    a compulsion

fingertips lose their grip

on a receding, fading future

the boundaries that enclose

a village girl

already narrow

shrink further      fate looms

brutal remorseless

she is not sure

what this tightening within

means   her body

that has barely learnt to bleed

is unprepared

command or gift?

snatched from her imagined home

as craftsman’s wife

mother of who knows who

village matron

bundled into a careening

jolting journey

not of her choosing

a light    

brutal      blinding

she cannot see

yet    

the opening     burgeoning

possibilities

the open plains

the pondering      the joy

the sword piercing her heart

does she glimpse

the dilating      brightening

tomorrow   

The land of dreams

The land where parables come true,

where stragglers get a full day’s wage,

and winos, weirdos, wastrels too

can take their place upon the stage

and sing their hearts out at the feast, 

while Jesus helps the guests get drunk. 

The poor have most, the rich have least,

and treasure’s found in fields of junk,

the angels throw a party for

a coin retrieved, a lost sheep found,

so drop your baggage on the floor

and dance your feet into the ground. 

The Parable of the Seeds

I found my birds and rocks and thorns
Not in the wide world’s fields and ways
But in the Church’s hallowed space
Where cares assault the one who prays.

The seeds of helpfulness I brought
Were quickly pecked and gobbled whole.
Committees, visits, groups and clubs:
Where was the time to grow my soul?

The seeds of change I hoped to sow,
For brighter worship, deepened prayer
Met rocky looks and shaking heads:
‘He’ll learn.’ My plans took no root there.

And gently germinating shoots
Of wisdom that could feed the flock,
Were crowded out by age old spats
And voices raised in rage or shock.

And yet the whispered voice of God,
The warm suffusing light of Christ,
The living water from the font
Of life, remained amidst the rest.

In side aisles, chapels, quiet talks,
In friendships forming strong and slow,
In fellowship and service shared
My faith found ground in which to grow.

Principles Day 24 – Motes and Beams

Day Twenty Four — The First Note, Humility (continued) 

The faults that we see in others are the subject of prayer rather than of criticism. We take care to cast out the beam from our own eye before offering to remove the speck from another’s. We are ready to accept the lowest place when asked, and to volunteer to take it. Nevertheless, when asked to undertake work of which we feel unworthy or incapable, we do not shrink from it on the grounds of humility, but confidently attempt it through the power that is made perfect in weakness. 

  A fusillade of key-strokes, and the screen

is filled. Some stranger’s words have triggered ire;

a grim, smug satisfaction starts to appear –

one more deluded idiot put down.

A zeal for godly righteousness is seen

as reason enough to judge, to claim the higher

ground: to ban, to keep the boundaries clear,

no-platform, drive dissenters out of town.

  How easily these words flow from my pen.

Then Jesus’ gaze arrests me, and I pause –

his words are meant for me; are not a tool

with which to gouge the motes from others’ eyes.

The troll, the zealot and this liberal fool

are all alike loved by the Son of Man.

Letting go

‘Don’t cling to me,’ he said – hard words! – ‘for I

have not ascended to my Father yet.’

Was this a censure from her Rabboni

that took the edge of joy from her bruised heart?

Or was it said affectionately: did

he smile, and gently show her how to face

the aching sorrows of the days ahead,

to journey onward without his embrace?

It can be hard to let go of the now,

to trust that, like the lilies of the field

our naked spirits will be clothed anew;

that like the birds, we will be fed, and filled

with fire and spirit from the Holy Dove,

today’s safe comforts dwarfed by future love.

Together and apart

We were together till

the whole thing fell apart.

Together on the mountain, called

to be his chosen twelve -

the special ones, new Israel

chock full of hope;

sent out, no money in our belts,

but fire in our hearts.

Let demons quake, let lost ones flock

to see the kingdom lived, to enter in.

We dared to dream

of tyrants overthrown, of wine skins burst,

until the nightmare came

and we all fled.

We were together 

through good times and ill.

Crunching on grain

plucked from the Sabbath fields –

that set the high and mighty teeth on edge!

Seeing the thousands fed, and hundreds healed,

and even several come back from the dead.

But there were times we feared

the leaders’ wrath, stones thrown,

or Roman power suborned;

and times of puzzlement and doubt:

‘We do not know your endpoint, Lord, so how

can we know where we go?’

And then Golgotha came,

and we all fled.

No longer special,

afraid to preach and heal;

apart, unnoticed in the lonely crowd. 

In time we drifted back together to 

the lonely upper room,

huddling together in our grief, 

but torn apart by fear.

So what of me, so broken and so hurt

when told the nightmare’s at an end,

the stone rolled back,

the tide of death reversed?

I cannot trust this light they say

has dawned anew, held as I am

in melancholy’s grip. 

I will not grasp 

false hope and risk 

the crushing blow 

of yet more misery.

Yet there’s another twist before 

my tale is through. 

‘Peace be with you, doubting friend,

my peace, that will transcend your fear.

Now see me and believe. 

These wounds endured for you 

are yours to touch

and comprehend.’

The scales fall from my eyes.

I do not need to touch the scars

to grasp the truth and hail

my Lord and my God.

Toward the setting sun

We journeyed westward from Jerusalem,
towards the setting sun. Our sun had set –
our blinding and enlightening sun, so warm
and rich, with soothing, gentle rays, and yet
doomed to observe his cruel, fated course
and sink beneath death’s merciless horizon.
We walked and talked as we approached Emmaus,
struggling to make out any rhyme or reason
in what had passed. And then, as if a breeze
brought poignant music drifting from afar,
a strange, familiar voice beguiled our ears
with truths that soothed our misery and fear.
Our vanished sun had risen from the dead:
we knew him in the breaking of the bread.

in your presence – principles day 14

In case anyone wonders, I’ve been reading e e cummings, and this is in part a tribute. The unorthodox typography is based on his – see, for instance, “i carry your heart with me(i carry it in”. This is also inspired by the Third Order booklet of reflections on the Principles, which points out how for Francis the Lord’s Prayer was the starting point and model for our prayer. I’m aware that I have left out ‘Forgive us our sins …’ but hey, fourteen lines is not much to fit in the Our Father and the Prodigal Son.

Principles Day Fourteen – The First Way of Service: Prayer

Tertiaries seek to live in an atmosphere of praise and prayer. We aim to be constantly aware of God’s presence, so that we may indeed pray without ceasing. Our ever-deepening devotion to the indwelling Christ is a source of strength and joy. It is Christ’s love that inspires us to service, and strengthens us for sacrifice.

our father(/mother,gazing down the road)

in(and running out from)heaven,hallowed

be your(blessed and cursed and trampled)name

your kingdom(of foot-washing,robe/ring-giving)come

your will(to bring us prodigal home)be done

on earth( ’s far fields,feeding with the swine)

as in(our angry brother ’s fields,your)heaven 

give us(not pods,not slaughtered calves)today

our daily bread(of life,hand-made,earth-given)

and lead(oh lead)us,(lead us not astray)

not into(sick,grasping)temptation

but deliver us(mother,birth us into light)

from evil( ’s twisted,tangling desecration)

(oh mother/father,kiss us into sight)

Wretched bigotry – Principles Day 8

Day Eight — The Second Aim (continued)

Members of The Third Order fight against all injustice in the name of Christ, in whom there can be neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female; for in him all are one. Our chief object is to reflect that openness to all which was characteristic of Jesus. This can only be achieved in a spirit of chastity, which sees others as belonging to God and not as a means of self-fulfilment.



The pitiful excuses that we make
for all our wretched, squalid prejudice:
‘They’re scroungers. Probably terrorists. They’ll take
our jobs, destroy our precious heritage.’
‘They’re deviants. The Bible says they’ll burn.’
‘The Bible says you women should submit,
and men should lead.’ O God, when will we learn –
belittling others cannot make us great.

To Jesus on the mount, the Tempter said,
‘All power is yours, if you just bow to me,’
but Jesus turned away and bowed his head
to God. Not clinging to authority,
the servant king poured out himself to seek
the lost: man, woman, slave, free, Jew or Greek.

Masters

The Magi study the lore of the sky. Why?
For what far-off famine gather these stores,
for what great battle sharpen these swords?

No miserly hoards of treasure here,
no galleries to show the mind's fine art;
old masters of science, but servants of truth –

the stars compel, they leave their fields.
Their science is guide, not goal. They yield,
submit to the Master and follow the star.

Herod, that dangerous madman, fears for his realm.
Master of men, but slave to his mastery,
what can he do? The throne-thrall rages,

but his futile, blind savagery misses its mark,
and dozens of infants scream in stark
unknowing terror. Dozens of voices die.

Lives of learning complete, the Magi come
to the frightened mother, the tiny child. What mastery his?
Thirty years' reprieve brief time to save humanity.

Where will he go? What do? His fresh-formed fist,
clenched and raised from the tiny threshing body, is
the hand of God poised to rewrite the world.

Unnoticed

A farmer snores, and his tired wife,
brushes the day's last dust from her door,
glances up at the bright new star, and
shuts it out, her mind on tomorrow.

Two lovers steal to a secret bank, where
locked in each other's limbs and eyes,
they miss the nearby birth of Love
as they rush for the flesh's release.

Harassed innkeepers unwittingly
send the star guest empty away, thus
wasting their shot at eternal fame,
and a blue plaque on history's wall.

Yet the signs are there, and some take note:
the new star lightens the Gentiles' way
and a scholarly scramble in Jerusalem
wakens King Herod's sly rage.

No palace walls or fretful cares
block the shepherds' view this night:
flawed, but blessed with pure, open hearts;
the first pilgrims to gaze on God.

The sign is there; all may take note -
the new-risen star shines on in the dark,
guiding pilgrims intent on God
through death to the tree of Life.

The First Christian

Je Suis Barabbas

What if Barabbas, smouldering in his cell,
should hear, perhaps from a guard on a good day,
of a wandering rabbi, of cures and crowds?

Or on a bad day, between beatings, he's taunted
with tales of a harmless preacher roaming free,
while he, the wild one, wastes in a stinking cage?

What if one day Pilate's smirking guards
wrench him to his blistered feet,
drag him through the dingy passageways

out to the blinding brilliance of a balcony
whose Roman colonnades lord it over the crowds.
What if he stands beside that wandering fool,

also bound and beaten, and a flash
of sympathy sparks between them, and
Barabbas nods as if to say, 'It's you or me, mate.'

And the other nods, as if to say, 'Then – me.
Let me die in your place. Never mind your crimes.
Go free. Be blessed. Live passionately.'

And Pilate's craven choice confirms the deal,
and the unlovely, unlikely rogue becomes
the first of us. I stand with him: unworthily set free.

Transfiguration

Not a light show, or a fashion parade,
Not an ad for the latest washing powder,
Not a psychic experience of ghostly presences,
But a sign that our world, with its foolish folk,
Its mountains of garbage and rivers of blood
Can take on the colour of god.

Light of the World

By you I see the perfect tonal balance
of the ladybird's black and red shell.
By you I see the rightness of a mother
angrily protecting her son.
By you I see the beauty of symmetry
and the greater beauty of creative chaos.

By you I see that I cannot see you:
I am within you
and cannot see you from without.

By you I see.

Washing their feet

He'd have had his feet washed sometime,
not with rich perfume or gushing tears,
but with water, by a hard-pressed servant,
slave even, eyes cast down, and
shoulders sagging from a lifetime's toil.

And he'd have noticed. The slave
would have mattered, have counted to him.
And he'd have stored up in his heart
how our comfort comes at others' cost,
our humanity drains as we deny the human.

That night of all nights, in the upper room,
stripped of all finery he washed our feet,
became the untermensch, beneath notice.
Peter noticed, and couldn't bear it – a kingdom
without kings, a commonwealth of servants.

Have we kept the kingdom free of slaves,
learned the hard lesson he taught to Peter,
been servants of all, and sought the lowest place?
Remember the dusty feet that stumbled and fell
carrying the heavy cross to Golgotha.