The Boundary

She had always lived right on the edge, both literally and figuratively: literally, because her house was right on the city wall; figuratively because she inhabited the outskirts of society, in a kind of no-man’s-land (or, more accurately, no-woman’s-land). Living on the wall had never bothered her, after all, she had to live somewhere, and this was a position that gave her (and her customers) some privacy to come and go as they needed. Living at the edge of society was not so pleasant. A woman alone had to make a living as best she could, and she was fortunate to have a property. But a woman innkeeper was always suspect; for different reasons both men and women assumed that she was only too happy to give her customers (who, after all, were almost always men) whatever else their lustful hearts desired of her. It was very wearying to have to steer her days through the buffeting currents of male lust and female disdain. And now, if rumour was true, her property was about to become totally worthless. It was time to rethink everything.

When the men came, she knew who they were, and willingly gave them shelter. There was something about them she liked – a kind of cleanness and honesty. They looked at her as if she were a person, and not just a chattel for their use. And besides, if she were to have any future at all, she would need them. She had much to consider.

Rationally, it seemed an easy choice. If even half of what was whispered about them was true, there was no future at all unless she cast her lot in with them. They were not a large people in numbers or military strength, but the trail of victories and miracles that accompanied their march indicated that something remarkable was happening. They claimed (this was well-known) that it was the favour of their God which had enabled their success, and she saw no reason to doubt it. Besides, she had long since lost faith with the Baals of her people. However, it was a huge step. She had crossed many boundaries in her time, losing her respectability in order to live in relative freedom and comfort, but this boundary was much harder. It meant giving up her own people, her own city, and becoming one of an alien people with an alien god. It meant starting from the bottom all over again, knowing that she would come among them as one of a despised and conquered race. But wasn’t the alternative death? She found herself praying to this God she did not know.

For hours she struggled and it was only when she heard the approaching footsteps on the street outside, and rushed to hide her guests under the flax spread out on her rooftop, that she realised that her mind was already made up. The very act of hiding the spies was a betrayal of her people – at least they would certainly see it as such! Somewhere, at some deep place inside herself, she had already made her mind up. She had crossed an unthinkable boundary, the only thing that remained was make it actual. She didn’t think it would be a problem, after all, her quick thinking had already saved their lives. By every custom of human decency they owed her a life ...

It was only much later, when Jericho had fallen and she was safely in the Israelite camp and betrothed to a wonderful man that she looked back and marvelled. It had been a boundary as deep as a mighty chasm, between life and death, between the false, mean gods of her people and the God of loving-kindness, yet, by some miracle, she had crossed it with such a little step!

Hope recovered

The world was dark to him as he walked up the mountainside, even though bright sunlight kept breaking through the skittering clouds. All the promises, all the bright shiny miracles: did they mean anything at all? He had followed this God into a strange new land and a strange new life, trusting that all His purposes were good; but now, for the first time in years, doubts were tearing at him, raking over his soul with their sharp red claws. He looked at the boy, so serious, so trusting, following his father without doubt or question, though the situation made no sense to him. Was he like that with God? Following blindly, trustfully, believing in the love and wisdom of the one he followed, only to find, at the end, the knife at his throat and everything he’d ever hoped for bleeding away into the thirsty dust? He shuddered at the thought, and only the long habit of obedience kept his feet to the path.

So long to wait for the promise – hoping, stumbling, making mistakes along the way, wrestling back and forth about what God might have meant by those diamond-sharp words – so many years until they were given the boy named laughter, the boy whose coming swept away the old doubts and fears. And now came the impossible command – he was to give up this child, and with him all the hopes and promises that had kept him focused through these long journeying years. And he himself (oh, bitter, bitter command!) must be the one who bound the child to the altar and raised the knife. He could hardly bear it. Surely, somewhere in all of this, God’s goodness would become clear?

He could delay no longer, now that they had reached the top. And now that they had reached the inevitable moment, he realised how very much he had been hoping that something would intervene, that it would not come to pass. Stone by heavy stone they built the altar, and every weight he lifted seemed to grind him down further. He saw the boy’s eyes darting around, wondering where the sacrifice was, but he said nothing. And when the altar was finished and the wood laid upon it, and the old man took him and bound him to the altar, as one would bind a lamb or a goat, he still said nothing, but his father dared not meet his eyes, for he knew he would see in them the same monstrous sense of betrayal that was screaming in his own soul.

It was only then, as he raised the knife, and every last hope had died, that the miracle took place and the Lord intervened and the voice from heaven spoke.  The boy was to be spared. There was a ram in the thicket he could sacrifice instead, and he did, though he could scarcely see what he was doing for the tears of relief that were streaming down his face. And then the voice from heaven came again, renewing the promise of his many descendants, and that through him all the nations of the world would find blessing. Where does a man find words at such a time? There are none that can keep pace with the swirling emotions that threaten to overwhelm him: wonder, relief, joy, pain, the renewal of faith and the deep sense of confusion. He held his son close, but it was a long time before he dared to look him in the eye. But when he finally did, he did not find the anger, betrayal and hurt he was expecting. Isaac, too, had encountered the Lord on the mountain of provision. There would be long, starlit evenings ahead to explore the meaning of it all. For now it was enough to be thankful.

A Painful Memory

It is sweet to sit again on the branch of a tree, to breathe the clean, wide-open air, and lift my wings into the sunshine. Day by day I watch the waters recede, and I know that very soon my mate will join me, we will start a family and joy together in this precious freedom. We will watch together as the scars heal in this broken world, as all green and growing things rush to eradicate the sodden, empty places, and as our fellow creatures go forth, two by two, to fill this remade landscape with their future. We will watch and we will wonder, for strange and marvellous are the ways of the Almighty, and His dealings with humankind are a mystery that hurts our feathered minds.

For pain lies just behind us: pain and terror and calamity as the whole world was unmade and reborn while we sheltered in our storm tossed boat knowing the very heights of the mountains lay far beneath us. We sheltered, in the mighty boat, eight human beings and creatures beyond count, creatures of every kind; and all the rest, kin, acquaintance and strangers, perished beneath the torment of the waters. We were glad of the pounding rain, so that we could neither see nor hear the world beyond our walls, we knew there was horror out there, even while there was safety and noise and bustle inside.

It took generations of our kind for that boat to be built; my parents, and my parents’ parents, and who knows how many more parents of parents before that watched from their nest tree as the man Noah and his sons toiled at their monstrous boat, the frame and the decks and the outsides – and all the insides had to be fitted out to accommodate the various creatures, and all the outsides had to be coated in pitch – a most unpleasant smell to have near your nest, but at this point the story had become our family legend, so we couldn’t leave now! And then the food – all the different kinds of fodder that had to be brought on board, and something for the humans as well!

But in all that time, not one of the neighbours took them seriously, they would laugh and jeer, even make up rude songs about it, and sometimes sneak up under cover of darkness and throw all kinds of filth on it, till, eventually, Noah and his sons had to take turns guarding it at night. And all the time we doves sat hidden in the foliage and watched and listened to everything, and resolved that, whatever it was really all about, we wanted to be part of whatever Noah was doing.

For Noah was a good man, kind to everyone and rarely provoked, no matter what his neighbours said and did. When his neighbours mocked him, he would plead with them, sometimes with tears, to take God seriously, warning them of a great destruction to come. But the more he pleaded, the wilder and rougher they became, and the more they did evil in front of him, defiantly aiming to shock him. And on the day that God brought the animals to the ark, they laughed louder than ever. But on the day that the rains began, their laughter was silenced. If God Himself had not shut the door, Noah would have opened to their pleading, but it was too late. And as Noah wept for them we perched above him and wept also, for we love the things that make for peace and we mourned for the pain of such a broken world.

And now we have a new beginning, and we will rejoice at the sun as it rises each morning. But we will not forget the terror of the waters, or the great loss that the world endured, and we will pray that such a thing need never happen again

Paschal Moon

I see your bright fullness lighting up the April sky, and I remember that Easter is coming.

I see the stars dim and fade against your light and I remember that you were made to reflect the greater glory of the sun with a gentle light that is kinder to our eyes. We cannot see all things by your light, but nor do we stumble in the darkness. We too were made to be reflectors of the light of God, each in our small capacity, into the darkness of this world. But there was One whose light was the life of men.

I watch the dark clouds race across your tranquil face. They cannot change you, they only affect us. This is the nature of clouds, and the nature of the changeable currents of this world. We are a vulnerable and fickle people, and we project that fickleness onto you – yet you ever keep your face fixed toward the greater light, where your true allegiance lies, it is only towards us that you change. And I think of the Unchanging God with worship wonder and joy.

And I wonder what you have seen, riding high above the centuries as the spinning spheres mark out the passage of time. Do you remember that first Passover? Were they still painting the blood on the doors when you rose, or were they finished by then, and inside eating that feast with its promise of redemption? I am not sure if you could see the angel of death pass over the land, but you would have heard the mighty cry of grief that rose up from every household where the firstborn were destroyed. And you would have seen a nation of slaves march out of Egypt into a miracle they could barely understand.

And then, so many years later, you saw Him there, while you cast strange, twisted shadows from the olives. You saw Him there, praying in anguish, and you marveled that those who loved Him best could sleep through His pain. You saw the weight of His torment bearing down upon Him, till His sweat fell like mighty drops of blood, and you saw the love which held Him steadfast to his agonizing purpose. You could not turn your face away. Your light glinted on their armor as the soldiers came to arrest Him. You saw the traitor’s kiss and the despair of His friends.

By the time you rose the next night they had cut Him down from the cross and put Him in the tomb, so that His body would not hang there to desecrate the Sabbath. And all the world was dark and sad – for it seemed their only hope had died.

But then, Sunday morning, while it was yet dark and you still lingered in the sky, you saw the miracle take place that no human eyes beheld. You saw the very angels of God roll away the stone that sealed His tomb and the Risen Lord walk forth. You saw the women, who set out while it was still dark, turn their sorrow-burdened steps towards His burial place, and no doubt you smiled to yourself in anticipation of the wonderful surprise that awaited them there. And, as your light faded into the dawning of day, you knew that a new morning had begun for the whole creation; for death, the last enemy, had been defeated, and all the promises were beginning to come true. And you shine down on us still, watching our folly and our desperate prayers, as you wait with us for the consummation of all things.

Journey's End

In terms of distance, it was probably the shortest journey he had ever taken since the time he first learned how to walk. But the distance was the least important part, except as a cause to marvel that he ever covered any distance at all. Nor was it so very life-changing at the time, though later, when he looked back, it assumed tremendous significance, because then he understood both the big picture and the intimate wonder of it all. Of course there had been emotion at the time – how could there not be? – but life was full of peril, accident and adventure, and living in the emotions of each moment he had not stopped to ponder the meaning. Passive reflection had never been his style, anyway. He knew, from one of those odd, momentary vignettes that take hold of the memory, that he had been wiping his wet face afterwards, but he could not have said whether it was the rain, or his tears, or just the wild spray of the storm-tossed lake. But there was emotion enough now, in the recollection ..

By any normal reckoning, the whole scenario was preposterous. There they were, out in the boat in a raging storm, in the exhausting pre-dawn darkness, where they would never have gone at all without the Master’s express orders. They had no idea what was going on, and no energy to speculate, it was taking all their strength to row against the strong pull of the waves. And then … In the confusion of the moment he had never been sure who had been the first to see .. there was that figure, oddly luminous in the fitful storm-light, walking across the top of the water. There wasn’t much that could distract a bunch of experienced fishermen in the middle of a storm, but this succeeded:

‘Are my eyes playing ticks?’ Look – over there ..’ ‘What is it?’ ‘I can’t see .. oh, yes, now I can.’ It’s coming closer!’ ‘Is it .. a ghost?’

It was only when Jesus called out reassurance that they knew who it was. Why he was walking across the storm-crazed waters was another matter altogether, but not one Peter was even thinking of at the time. Instead, asking permission, before he even stopped to think about it, he was there, out of the boat and on top of the water, doing the totally impossible. It was the shortest journey he ever walked. Just a few steps, glorious, impossible steps, and then he realized that this could not be happening, and, gazing at the wild waves all about him, he took his eyes off Jesus, his courage failed, and he was sinking in the waves, just like he would have expected to at any normal time.

But the waves did not close over him; that was not his journey’s end. Instead, even as he cried out for help, the strong hand of God took hold of him, and he was held secure by his Master in the midst of the storm. At the time it was a matter for wonder and worship; but now, looking back, he knew it was even more. He had stepped out of the boat and walked into a living parable, and the truth at the heart of it would sustain him all his days. For he knew now, in that heart-deep place where doubt has no penetration, that this is what his ultimate journey’s end would also be. He would step out into the raging chaos of death, and this same Jesus, in love immeasurable, would already have hold of him, and would carry him to safety, and into glory beyond his power to imagine. And that would be the greatest journey of all.

Through Lenten Lands

In this waiting is becoming ..

I shuffle-walk the desert of my questions
In the too-long season, the dreary, dark-grey dryness,
Checking the sparse map constantly, for fear I’ve gone astray.

Who said Celestial City was an easy stroll?

I would be swept up in Your love
In the great tide of the wind, that soars above the mountains,
Buffeted by wonder,
Screaming glory-praise into the wild, wild air.
But first I must grow wings.

Or heart-whole gathered in the gentle of Your care
Healed into certainty, resting in Your arms,
Needing no other lover in a world entire;
In the shelter-shade of knowing I am home at last,
Washed in that river.

But I am not yet come.

The stones of this world’s hurting crack against my feet.
I shrink from the sun by day and the moon by night,
Lest they illuminate
The wide stretch of my terror –
As if talking makes it so.

Forgive my folly.

These hands .. these hands ..
These hands – they cannot build
A house to be the dwelling place of God:
Built from the building blocks of stony hearts,
This only foolish hardened heart I have.
Better to tear down walls of my pretence,
Better to stand alone in scouring wind,
Face down the maelstrom of my brokenness,
Better to stand till I am forced to kneel,
Better to kneel till I fall in despair,
Until I know You are already there.
Here in the pray-er, and here in the prayer.

What did I think? That I’d come waltzing home,
Lurch, leaden-footed in my lovelessness,
Bringing my bleating hell to heaven’s halls:
Complete in incompleteness, armour-clad
With self’s excrescences and all befouled?

But still Your rain falls gently on my soul,
Washing the while I wait in Lenten Lands,
Until this pilgrimage has run its course.
In desolation, but not desolate.
For here, for me, Your table is prepared,
In presence of my neediness and pain,
In presence of my doubt and striving fear,
Till I am present with You once again.

The Healer

He had mercy on them, he had always had mercy on them. From the beginning of all things, he was not only the Maker, but the Healer, for his children were broken and they lived in pain: pain of body, pain of mind, pain of heart and pain of soul. Every one of them was disabled in their deepest places; every one of them needed the restoration that only he could give.

To the man and the woman, naked and afraid in the garden, he offered a covering for the deep wound of their shame and a promise to restore their broken hope.

To those writhing in the agony of poison, desperate and helpless in their pain, expecting to die in the wilderness with no belonging place, he offered the simplest of remedies. All they had to do was turn their heads and open their eyes .. a repentance so very small ..

Their cries continually went up before him.

He offered liberty to slaves, and dignity to women. He saw their pain, and his mercy overflowed. He came to the desperate concubine, and she named him “the God who sees”, because, while everyone else ignored or objectified her, the Lord of all that is acknowledged and responded to her pain.

He came among them, he walked among them: a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. He carried their pain, he carried their brokenness, ultimately he carried his light down into their darkness and his life down into their death, and their sin down into his absolute forgiveness. He was made man, and the pain and shame and degradation of being human assaulted him from every angle.

They came to him and he healed them: the lame, the blind, the deaf, those with strange fevers or withered, useless limbs. But it was never only their bodies, though relief for their physical pain was often the first thing that they sought. The God who had made them knew their nature, he knew how fearfully and wonderfully their flesh and their spirit were intertwined.

And so he spoke to them. He commended their stuttering faith, he pronounced forgiveness to the man who was brought with a paralysed body, he acknowledged his acceptance (not revulsion) for the woman who had bled for twelve shameful years. And for the lepers, the most despised and rejected of people, he offered not only healing of their terrible disfigurement but a reminder of how to be received back into the community of their people.
And the fools, blinded by his familiar humanity, said to him, “Physician heal yourself”. And they could not see that it was their own unbelief that got in the way. That stopped them from receiving from the abundance of their giving. Meanwhile, the helpless and the hopeless, the ones who had nothing, and therefore nothing to lose, received with open-handed wonder. The demonized were there, in all their agony, and he spoke with authority and their tormentors were gone. And for some, death itself was turned backwards, foreshadowing a greater resurrection.

But the deepest healing of all could not be done by words alone. Sin and death must be overcome from the inside. So, open-eyed and fixed of face, he went forward into death and hell, through impossible agony of body and soul, and then returned from the dead to become, in himself, the way by which the terrors of death and judgment could be overcome.

And still he heals, and his children come with their broken prayers and his mercy still pours forth to them. And one day he will come again, in his final act of healing, and all that is shall no longer groan in brokenness, but be made anew; and a new song shall fill the new heavens and new earth, for all creation shall be utterly well.