The Man in the Pit

A pit is not a good place to be. It is dank, it is dark, and no one ever cleans it. The smell of the beasts was almost overpowering, and the man knew, that, though he had entered it willingly and calmly, eyes wide open and head held high,  his mind composed and his faith at rest, that his body responded to the sensory horror with visceral fear, and the lions could smell the sweat of his ordeal.

There was comfort in remembering how others before him had endured in such a desperate place. The patriarch Joseph had been thrown into a pit (by his own brothers, no less!), sold into slavery, and, because God was with him, later risen to become the second-in-command in mighty Egypt, and saved many lives. Or Jeremiah, who was cast into a pit for speaking faithfully what God had commanded him to say. And then there was Jonah. Wasn’t the insides of the belly of a great fish the worst kind of pit? And, though Jonah’s own folly had brought him to that place, it was the Lord who put him in the pit, and took him out again.

But this was now, not then, and who could predict God’s ways? That a man could pray, faithfully, to the God of his fathers, the Maker of heaven and earth, all the days of his life, and find comfort and sustenance in worship, even though he was far away from Jerusalem and the Temple, and then, when his years were many and his body less, be hauled off to die for the simple act of prayer? But a man does not change his loyalty, his allegiance, when the price tags are changed; if this was the cost of fidelity, so be it, God was still God.

It was the jealousy and malice of men which had put him here, their determination to get rid of a faithful servant whose integrity showed them up; and the king, caught between their cunning and his own weakness, was forced to send his most treasured servant to the pit of the lions. And the lions were hungry.

But they made no move towards him. After a few minutes of silent tension, he turned to face them, and, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he realised that there was another figure standing between the lions and himself, and it was not a mortal man. It was an angel of the most high God, sent for his succour and protection in his hour of need. He was no longer concerned about the lions, but awed into silence by this holy presence. All night long the angel kept guard, all night long the lions remained peacefully in their corner, and the man, with a prayer of thanksgiving lay down to sleep: “For it is You Lord, You, lord, only, who makes me to dwell in safety.”

In the morning the king came, overwhelmed with concern, to find out if his servant had survived. Marvelling, he had him lifted out and checked out to see how his body had borne its terrible incarceration, but he bore no wounds whatsoever. His very body had become a testimony to his God. Yet when his accusers were thrown into the pit in their turn, the lions did not hesitate to destroy them. This was a God to be reverenced and worshipped.

Beauty for ashes

There is a place you find yourself in when it has all been too much, when the worst has happened and yet you are still breathing. The ritual wailing of the mourners had already started, but inside her head there was an empty silence, reverberating only with hopelessness. There was no life left in her except the basic, inexorable functions of a body she no longer fully inhabited. She did not even feel the tears that trickled helplessly down her face, but the mourners did, and it worried them far more than a dramatic exhibition of grief.

She knew, though she feared the sin of saying it, that she did not want to live in a world that did not contain her daughter. All during the girl’s short illness she had bargained and pleaded with God to spare the child, but the girl was dead. She might as well have been asking favours of the rocks and stones.

She had even sent her husband off to seek the Healer, who was supposed to be in the town, but it was too late. The girl was dead – and those words, however they were weighed and turned, bore down on her with their crushing weight. Her only child, her love and her joy, was gone from the world, and all the lights had been turned out. She wondered, heavily and drearily, in the wasteland beyond passion, if God really cared for mothers, or daughters at all. Perhaps He only answered prayers for sons?

There was a commotion at the door: her husband was back with the Healer. Why were they bothering? It was too late -- everything was too late. Even the unvoiced thoughts tasted like ash in the back of her throat. She heard the Healer rebuking the mourners, crazily saying that the child was still asleep. Did He think they were naive children, who could not tell the difference between sleep and death? The sudden silence made her ache; she realised that their wailing had actually help her detach from the pain. Now the bitter knife was twisting afresh in her own heart.

The Healer shooed the mourners away and entered the room with just a few people. She shrank back into the shadows, unable to deal with this intrusion. She felt as if this was a charade for someone else’s benefit, but a cruel mockery of her grief. But his keen eyes sought her where she hid, and smiled with such gentle understanding that she had to take notice.  There was no mockery in Him at all.

He moved to the bed where the child lay, and took her by the hand, and spoke. “Little girl, I say unto you arise!” The voice was soft, and incredibly tender, but He spoke with such authority that, in that moment, she had no trouble believing that death itself would have to obey Him. And immediately the child arose, got up and walked around.

What do you do when you stand in the middle of a miracle? She was dazed, stunned as her world revolved into a new position. Was this real? Could this be? Can the dead be restored to life? Does God answer the prayers of an ordinary woman? Who was this Healer, and, if He really did have the power of God, why should He come into her house? She was afraid to move, to touch her child, for fear the miracle should dissolve and the agony return.

But the Healer noticed and spoke again. “Give her something to eat,” He said. And her world, this new, wonderful world full of hope and promise and gladness, turned right way up again, and she turned towards the kitchen.

Purification

Deep are these waters, deep and moving fast,

My mind, caught in the eddy and the swing,

Falters at knowing, yet is called to know,

The wonder and the mercy of this thing.

Once I would look at lepers on the street

Shuffling past, “Unclean!” their bitter cry,

Locked up within the prison of disease –

Yet these, I knew, were far more clean than I.

I, daughter of the seed of Abraham,

Born in the covenant, the fold of God,

Was now a creature of such bitter shame

I cringed from streets where decent women trod.

I cringed, and in the lonely bitter night,

I wondered how my life had come to be

A gagging poison moving in my veins

A tremulous and hated infamy.

But oh, my story is as old as time,

When the seducer came, well, I was weak,

And ignorant, believing this was love

Soon I became the victim false men seek.

Shame spiraled down through shame, and down some more,

Until that day they grabbed me from some bed,

And hauled me forth with coarse and cruel jests

I stood there silent, broken, with bent head,

Awaiting stones; but that day no stones came

Instead clear words I never thought to hear

Turned the accusers back upon themselves.

For the first time, I felt a different fear.

I heard their footsteps leaving, one by one,

Till all was silence, then I raised my eyes.

He looked at me as though my soul were real

And there was nothing for him to despise.

I did not understand, how could I then?

My dirty life was clean. My soul reborn

Sang with the angels, laughed against the night

And rose up like a bird into the dawn.

He took my shame, I never dreamt what cost

He placed on it – for shame he paid such price!

My worthless life was reckoned at such worth:

Purification comes through sacrifice!

And so he gave what I had never sought;

And so I live, and so he died for me,

And so his dear blood has my freedom bought.

He was made captive for my liberty.

I walk in wonder, I am mercy’s thrall,

Unfeigned, unstained, a captive of delight:

Washed into whiteness, no shame to recall,

And lifted into glory clean and bright.

Things you shouldn't say

Somewhere along the way I missed the memo.

Perhaps it was a fluff-cloud day,

When my heart was in the sky,

My attention wandering.

Or maybe fear

Clanked chains so loud

I simply didn’t hear.

Or maybe my parents.

For reasons all their own

Forgot to give the message.

Perhaps I was simply

Socially dyslexic -

Or someone switched the tags?

Somehow, it seems, I never learned the rules.

So much is understood, but never spoken

By some strange code whose key I never saw:

Truth reconstructed in a neater frame

To fit in some denatured comfort zone.

I will go wander with the daffodils,

Who never blush or stammer at my words,

And maybe ponder this strange mystery,

Or maybe not .. perchance a bird might sing. ..

Going away

Going away

It is only when you leave that you remember

The smell of eucalyptus in the air,

The rain that drums so hard and fiercely tender

The sunlight far too bright for you to bear.

The artful architecture of the gum trees

Where each branch twists in balance to the whole

Where leaves are worn as garnish, not as garment,

Their beauty has been rooted in my soul.

The balmy air of a soft summer morning,

Before cicadas sing the heavy heat

A sky so blue you yearn with reaching sorrow

And ground too hot to walk on in bare feet.

The Music

The Music

Sometimes I hear it in a sudden snatch of birdsong,

The intensity of rain,

Your footsteps in the breeze.

You laugh through the cicadas

And splash in the fountains:

Air and water sing of you.

But more often I hear with my eyes.

The sky’s infinity sings of you:

Blueness in immeasurable caress.

I catch your tune in the rain-dropped leaves,

The gladness of buttercups,

The playfulness of clouds.

The lift of a bird’s wing

Breaks my heart with melody,

And the trees cry “Hallelujah!”

In antiphonal chorus.

The waves crash with angelic percussion,

And the small things warble, “yes!”

But clearest of all, the music sounds in stories.

Its chords ring out in courage and sacrifice,

Pianissimo in tenderness,

And marching sharp in truth.

Harps sound in common kindness,

And flutes in soul’s resolve.

The mystery of grace demands

An orchestra of tears.

In the story of your love

The music swells past bearing.

Blessed are the ears that hear,

And the souls that listen

And the hearts that understand.

Blessed are they that sing

Your own notes back to you

However out of tune.

And blessed are the feet that move in time

To the melody of heaven.

Let ..

Let me dance in your heart this fragile moment,

Let us kiss souls with wonder we have seen.

Let us hold hands and weep for life’s short-falling,

Let us hold vigil for what might have been.

Let us strew roses in the sunless alleys,

Let us plant trees where no tree ever grew,

Let us be unafraid to speak affection

Nor, in discomfort, turn from what is new.

Let us clap with delight like little children.

Let terrible compassion make us wise.

Let us breathe deep and share our secret dreaming.

Let us not let our old clothes cramp our size.

Let us wipe slow tears from each other’s faces

Let us look up and laugh against the sky.

Let us be swords – but not against each other.

Let us take up the Life that bids us die.