I’ve known many wise ones in my time,
yet even some of them have found themselves
inadvertently
in the halls of power,
pursuing a detour that seemed harmless enough
at first sight,
reeled in by false piety and fake concern:
‘Come back and let me know
so I may also go’.
It takes an arresting dream to divert us to another route,
to send us home another, more fruitful way.
In our life and our believing
The love of God
As mentioned at the beginning of chapter 2 of Luke’s gospel, and performed last night in Huddersfield
They blame me, I know they do. The Jews, the Romans, the Christians, my ex- wife: they all blame me. Yet I was no better or worse than the entire imperial family and the legions of Roman administrators who bigged them up. I’d had my moments, strutted my stuff if you like, got a tribute for my military efforts, kept the Pax Romana as best I could. And then it was Syria, keeping the borders, being a diplomat. Me, a diplomat? Orders from Rome to count them, take a census, find out how many there were. Easier said than done. Chaos of course. And in the middle of it one insignificant Jewish couple, her pregnant, him too old for her by far, getting caught up on the route between Galillee and Bethlehem, and I’m done for. My reputation shot to pieces. I was Governor of Syria and it was all down to me. No word about the rest of them, the petty functionaries in every town, taking bribes, cutting corners. The endless Queues, the inadequate planning, the overbooked accommodation and the inevitable communal violence in hot spots like Bethlehem, it was my fault. Ah, Bethlehem, it’s got a lot to answer for. Never been there myself. Avoid all that if I can. Quiet retirement in Rome. A good supply of wine and enough slaves to keep me comfortable.
After all that other trouble in Bethlehem anyone with any sense would give it a wide birth. What happened to them? Heaven knows. She had the baby I think. But born in obscurity, died in obscurity most likely I reckon. Won’t be hearing from them again. But me, different matter, one little census and they never leave you alone. Governor of Syria, well you do better then.
And finally, two thousand years later…..
We pray for Syria,
Squeezed land, fought over, burnt and damaged.
Cities destroyed, people scattered.
We pray for the people of Syria,
And particularly for the children,
Those still there and those who moved,
Voluntarily or under duress, refugees,
Stranded, identity gone, no security,
What future?
We pray for Syria,
Not the first place in the news,
Not the place nearest to our hearts,
Not glamorous or celebrated,
We pray for the people of Syria of all ages
Looking for hope,
Looking for an end to suffering,
Looking for peace.
In our coming and our going, the peace of God.
Wrapped round by darkness
that increases and recedes
seasonally;
Embraced by night,
aware of the westward sinking
and the eastward rising;
Conscious of the ebbing
of energy and animation;
Framed by darkness,
waiting for the breaking,
and yielding;
I curl up here,
in the velvety dark,
breathing slowly,
hugging myself,
hoping to connect
with God’s promised sameness.
In our life and our believing
The love of God
Psalm 139:12, the light and dark are both the same to God
Like the proverbial curate’s egg Twitter has good and not so good parts. I want to celebrate some of the good bits I’ve found personally
1: it connects me more readily with my best friend who lives in a different country and who I see maybe a couple of times a year. She tweets a lot, and was really responsible for getting me started in this. She connects me to her global concerns and also translates stuff for me to join in.
2: as a result I’m connected to more people. This was important at the time, a couple of years ago, when I felt much less connected particularly to the small part of the church to which I had belonged. The silence and isolation I received there was in stark contrast to the voices of those who I connected with on Twitter, many of whom were women working in different ministries and communities and concerns.
3: being more connected meant I heard about stuff I didn’t know about, projects I got involved in, some I still am. Some have reached their goals others are still struggling. Justice and peace are common themes. There is connection. We don’t give up
4: I also connected with other pray-ers and that helped me to feel reconnected to the true concerns of the church, even if I no longer attended and still got angry or cried a lot about what had happened.
5: it also helped me to connect with a world of other things. A boy at school tweets about Rhinos, others choose anti bullying, homelessness or community development. This way I can stay connected to their concerns even when we don’t meet.
6: I met other people through Twitter, some made cakes, were artists, writers, gardeners, foragers, mental health campaigners and much more. I was not alone or isolated
7: of course it didn’t always go well. A troll thought I should stick to the Church of England instead of getting involved in politics. This was when we were ringing for Aleppo. It was amusing because my forbears left the Church of England in 1662. Faith is not apolitical (even in the Church of England).
I know Twitter had an unkind side and that bothers me a lot but it also communicates kindness, concern and connection, and I really appreciate that.
In our life and our believing
The love of God
Jesus is coming back. Pass it on.
A children’s game perhaps?
What about this one? At the Christmas Fair a child of 6 came to the stall of Palestinian handicrafts and looked at a set of beads made from Olive Wood. This item was a beautiful rosary. He took it out of the box and examined it carefully, enjoying the look and the feel of it. He wanted to buy it. So the stall holder promised to look after it for him until he came back. Just as the Fair was coming to an end the child returned with his father and showed him the set of beads that he’d like to buy. The father bought the rosary for his son. He told me, ‘When I was his age I had one, possibly still have somewhere. I know his grandmother will have one.’
The father’s experience of moving away from the faith of his parents and taking just a residual sense of it with him is not uncommon. I meet many people who tell me ‘I used to…’ something or another to do with faith. Sometimes it is their children who bring them back. Quite a few children bought olive wood items from the stall exclaiming in happiness when they discovered where they came from and saying it was for a parent or family member.
Jesus is coming back, and meets us as we meet our children coming towards us with faith to share.
In our coming and our going
The peace of God.
The thirst for faith may take you far away
Or call you to serve the sick, the poor each day,
To make your mark and seeing all this say
You were born in the Elsie Inglis
Your heart of hope may open every door,
Open to every stranger and clothe more,
Ready to aid all others at you core:
You were born in the Elsie Inglis.
The way of love be ever in your sight,
As hand in hand we work in great delight
Ready to build the kindom of the light
We were born in the Elsie Inglis
JAL 25.11.2017
In memory of Elsie Inglis (1864-1917), doctor of medicine, Served in WW1, her 100th anniversary is this week. A maternity hospital is named after her in Edinburgh. Her memorial in St Giles cathedral includes the figures of Faith, Hope and Love.
As you must have realised the word Advent has only one letter different from Advert. Here’s a little seasonal ditty for those who’s Advent is all about those long awaited seasonal Adverts.
Hark the Christmas advert brings
Quite a lot of Christmas things:
Queues in shops and lots of post,
How to be a heavenly host.
Don’t forget your Christmas pud!
It must be especially good,
Served with turkey and with sprouts,
There’s no room for shopping doubts.
Hark the Christmas advert’s here,
Sing along and give a cheer.
(note the last line could end ‘have a beer’, for those sponsored by the brewing industry)
JAL 24.11.2017
Tune is Mendelssohn
Nothing is unmentionable.
Silence can hide as well as reveal.
Anger can last a long, long time:
More than a table-turning moment.
It comes like a wave far out at sea
And by the time it arrives
It can swallow a city;
Like a whale emerging from the deep,
To engulf a thousand herrings.
It can begin like a quiet fart
In the heart of a sleeping volcano,
A rumble, a crack, a hiss
Which breaks the crust
Allowing a river to emerge and run
Red Hot and raging down the side,
Black at the edges sweeping away
Everything.
Maybe anger can build a house
For someone who is homeless:
Bright flower of justice emerging
From a flattened landscape.
Maybe anger can lead to safety:
New ideas and policies to keep safe
Creatures of all kinds teetering
On the edge, calling them back.
Maybe anger can forge a peace
From the devastation of war,
Provide the energy to bring together
The hopeless, maimed and fearful ones.
Maybe anger can be a new route to faith,
When the old worn way has become too broad
And the self interest of insiders too indifferent,
Maybe anger can rip the door off its hinges.
I am angry
Kylie eleison
You’ve heard of Burnham Beeches,
Or the plain of Salisbury Plain
With heaps of giant stones,
Of the rugged Cumbria lakeland
Complete with Wrynose Bottom
And fells covered in sheep;
But have you ever ever been
To the wild wilderness of Dungeness.
There more shingle here than ever
Arnold counted on Dover Beach,
There’s tiny clapped out houses
Who’s sides and doors are bleached,
There’s a chain link fence for miles
Not fencing but lying down
There’s bottle tops and bottoms,
And a lost boot no one found,
A tiny railway station for tiny railway trains,
And flowers bloom in miniature of course;
Scabious, pink, campion and gorse,
There are tracks that criss cross the shingle
And as we rattle past
We wondered at those folks lost
Who wandered from the path
Into the windswept wilderness of wild Dungeness.
There’s cabbage of the sea sort
And hidden artists sheds
Along decorated paths,
An horizon marked by ferries
Going somewhere else.
A flag that flutters bravely
A pair of lighthouse towers,
A hardy little garden with ragged little flowers.
The sky is domed and lovely,
The sun has its own pups:
And all the Ewes are waiting
For a visit from their Tups.
Do not miss it sticking off the end of Kent:
The Magnox now dismantled,
The road curves round a bend.
The wild Saxon Shore curves on,
By stones and shells it’s marked
And if you tread along it the scenery is stark.
Your way is found by guesswork
And so is the route back.
It is the wild wilderness by way of Dungeness.
JAL 01.11.2017
Warning: this is an epic poem about the British landscape. Do not study it for your GCSE coursework. Just enjoy the anarchy and chaos it contains.
I am in the heart of God
And God is in my heart.
There is no place, no organisation
No institution, that holds me
To this earth, rather I am connected
To every family under heaven
By the heart dwelling One.
As the tide rises and falls,
As the waves crash and the shingle rattles,
I am in awe of the order of creation,
The patterns of time and chaos,
Of light and colour, dark and shadow.
My breath goes out on the breeze
And returns to refresh me again.
My muscles move, my brain imagines:
The world rotates and the sun breaks through.
With each movement I know you
As Companion and side walking one.
When the stones scatter as we step together
Or you catch me as my feet stumble,
I know you have been this way before.
I hear the sounds of the shore,
Gulls and people start their morning shriek,
Yet they do not disturb my focus.
I am in the heart of God
And God is in my heart.
29.10. 2017 Deal