A Conflict Resolved

He had always thought she was a good girl. No, that wasn’t the right word. Good girls came in two flavours, in his experience. The first sort were dull and insipid, and afraid of their own shadows. They never had an interesting opinion or an original thought. They were boring, and ultimately rather nauseating, like food without salt. The thought of spending the rest of his life sharing his bed, his hearth and his children with a woman like that made him shudder. Then there was the second sort, so demure and respectable on the outside, so careful of their reputations – but he had seen their roving eyes when they thought no one was looking and their secret amusement at things that were indecent or mean-spirited, and he had no trust in such girls, and was not young enough to be excited by the things they promised but, in his observation, never fully gave. Besides, as a pious Jew, he knew that none but God was truly good.

She was something else, his Mary. Her eyes were honest and clear, and she looked directly at a person when she spoke to them, without downcast eyes or sidelong glances. She spoke from her heart; gently, because her spirit was gentle, but with genuine surprise when others had not seen as she did. She was too young to have learned of the world’s hypocrisy and wanton cruelty, but he suspected that when she did realise these things, it would make no difference to the light in her smile and the truth in her soul. So how could this have happened? How?

He felt like tearing something or breaking something. Mary was with child. Had some careless lout defiled her? Had she been seduced by some cunning foreigner without understanding what was happening to her until it was too late? He tried to think of excuses, of some reasonable explanation that belonged to the world he knew, but at every suggestion she simply shook her head and repeated her crazy story about an angel. Two months ago he would have sworn on every word and jot and tittle of the Torah that she was the sanest and truest person he had ever met, but she would not change her story. And when he pointed out, exasperated beyond measure, that virgins simply did not have children, she simply smiled and agreed and reminded him that she had asked the angel the same question.

What was a man to do? He didn’t want a scandal and he had no desire to shame her, but his trust had been shattered, and the dissonance between who she was and what she must have done was tearing him to shreds. He would put her away quietly, surely that was the only decent thing to do, wasn’t it?

It was late that night when he fell asleep, crushed at last into exhaustion by his grief. And then the angel appeared to him. Not that he had any idea what an angel should look like, but there was no mistaking this glorious one for anything less than a messenger from heaven. And the angel confirmed every strange and troubling word of Mary’s story. She really was still virgin and the child really was from God. This was a great and holy mystery, and he was caught between the flooding relief that Mary still was all that he had believed her to be, and the trembling awe that he was called to walk by her side through these things that were so far from his ordinary wake-a-day world.  Tears of wonder blurred his sight and he could not even name why he wept. He only knew that first thing in the morning he must go and tell her that now he understood.

Gethsemane

The sun screams down.

This is my desert place

In the heart’s geography,

Leaning out from you.

I have seen the dear desires

Fall away into dust, red dust:

Iron of my heart’s blood

Falling away to nothing,

Crumbling into the wind,

With a mouth too dry to sing.

Dragons are in this place,

Small, skittering, spiny,

But these are not our condemnation.

The other dragons, coiled around our hearts,

Whose honey drips with malice,

These are our habitation,

Till we wear their ugliness with pride.

“Go back! Go back!”

Let the children drown,

Let their lives be locked in iron,

Let us turn our foolish backs, imagining,

We can blot out their pain,

While we stand at the point of breaking,

And the three wise monkeys cling tight to our shoulders.

The names ring through our history:

Tampa, Manus, Nauru,

But, with fingers in our ears,

We try to paint our red dust white.

We stand in the ancient garden,

But we will not kneel to pray,

Preferring to send others to the cross,

Denying

The meeting place of blood,

Denying

The communion of our commonality.

While the lone few stand their vigil

We cannot watch one hour.

The babbled excuses of the comfortable

Burn down to bloodless dust,

Our white bones in the desert -

They gleam like whited sepulchres

Until the red dust blows.

Whom, then, do we crucify,

If not the Son of Man?

The Different Drummer

All of my life I heard

The rhythm beneath the word:

The call and the music,

The dancing the singing,

The march into truth

And the one clear note ringing.

All of my life I heard

The rhythm beneath the word.

Always I heard its call

Reaching to me through all:

Reaching through seasons

Of falling and fumbling

The din and the chatter

Of all the world’s mumbling.

Always I heard its call

Reaching to me through all.

Always I heard its song

Showing the world was wrong:

Flapping and fussing

And rushing and turning

Selling its soul for

A momentary yearning.

Always I heard its song

Showing the world was wrong.

Always it spoke my name

Having the greatest claim:

Starlight and moonlight

And sunbeams a-dancing

Truth like a sword blade

Direct and not glancing.

Always it spoke my name

Having the greatest claim.

Always I heard its beat

Calling my awkward feet:

Kicking and tripping

And scuffing and sliding,

Till every part of me

Moves to its guiding.

Always I heard its beat

Calling my awkward feet.

Always a step beyond

The path familiar, fond:

Taken in trembling

To unknown places,

Finding my foothold

In alien graces.

Always a step beyond

The path familiar, fond.

The First Time

I think there were 72 of us (though someone made the count only 70). The Master summoned us to himself and gave us clear instructions. We were to go out before him into the towns and villages of Judea who had not yet heard of him. We were to travel light with nothing to fall back on, not even a purse or a spare pair of sandals in case the strap broke. That sounded ridiculous until I remembered what Moses said to the people in the wilderness, that though they had spent 40 travelling in that barren nowhere, still, by an unnoticed miracle of God their clothes had not worn out in all that time. For a moment my attention wandered, when had they realised that this was not normal? After 5 years? Or 10? Or 20? Or had they simply forgotten that clothes wore out until Moses brought it to mind? It would have been something to see their faces when they found out! I could just imagine the dawning amazement as they ran critical eyes over the state of the cloth and the strength of the seams!

But no, I must pay attention now! I didn’t want to let him down by ignoring his instructions. I figured that if we weren’t to take anything for backup, it was because God would see to it that we wouldn’t need it. So I was clear on that, though the “lambs among wolves” bit was a little concerning.

The next part seemed straightforward enough. We were to wish peace on anyone who welcomed us, we were to depart from anyone, or any place, that didn’t.  I was happy with that, it was a workable approach, and I liked having clear instructions to follow. And to eat what was set before us was just good manners. We weren’t some privileged group of people to demand special food and special treatment! (Actually, we were incredibly privileged, but I only dimly grasped it then, because our privilege did not come from the honour other people might bestow on us, but from the wonder of knowing, and being known by the Master, and being called into his service.

But what was this? “Heal the sick and say to them, ‘The Kingdom of God has come near you.’” We had seen the Master heal the sick, oh, it was one of the things that first drew me to him, as much, if not more, for his compassion as for his power! But now we were to do the same? Who was I that the healing power of God should flow through me?

I trembled. The audacity of such an idea was overwhelming. But the strange thing was that when I looked at Jesus, such an Idea didn’t sound wickedly presumptuous, but merely a simple act of obedience. Perhaps that’s where all true miracles are found, not in any exaltation, but simply in the willingness to keep on obeying in the place where only faith can carry us. So we went forth, two by two, in his blessing and returned in wonder and rejoicing.

 That was then. So much has happened since: his death, his resurrection and the coming of the empowering Spirit. That first time I went forth battling fear, doubt and uncertainty. Now, though there is still so much I do not fully comprehend, I go forth with one great certainty: I am wrapped in his love, I am called to his service, and he who once died for me now lives and reigns forever.

Annunciation 3

The angel brings a lily.

What does she need of this,

When Gabriel’s words shall hurl her

Into a strange abyss?

The angel brings a lily

And brings a word so vast

This step is the beginning,

It shall not be the last.

The angel brings a lily,

Its scent is sweet and strong,

And thoughts and dreams and wonders

Surround her in a throng.

The angel brings a lily

Though frosts still grip the ground.

For only in bright heaven

Is such a flower found.

The angel brings a lily

More white than the new snow

Purer than her heart’s yearning,

For anything below.

The angel brings a lily

Can she decline such gift?

When the world’s hope is offered,

She answers clean and swift.

The angel brings a lily

And in that moment’s span

She glimpses the great marvel

Of God becoming man.

The angel brings a lily

As fresh as morning air;

Her faith borne up like eagles

She bows her head to dare.

The angel brings a lily

She is the chosen one.

She marvels, all-consenting,

The mother of God’s Son.

Annunciation 2

Suddenly she feels

The concavity of darkness

Pushed back by perfect light.

Suddenly she feels

Her mundane hours

Transfigured by eternity.

Suddenly she feels

Undreamt possibilities

Dancing before her eyes,

And chooses simplicity.

Suddenly she feels

All immensity gathered

Into one small space,

And choosing smaller yet.

Suddenly she feels

Herself-and-not-herself

With a calling that questions identity,

An identity still uncalled.

Suddenly she feels

She knows

Accepts

And wonders,

As impossibility becomes her flesh.

Annunciation

She stands in the silence,

Beyond the rage of nations,,

Stands on the hinge of history,

And an angel waits her answer with respect.

Why her?

Her hands are too small to hold the world,

Her life too ordinary for glory,

And the silence folds her in,

Heaven hanging breathless for her answer.

What thoughts spin through her heart?

She stands, breathing through the breathless moment,

And feels her world shift, change,

Caught by the love in an angel’s eyes,

Choosing love, not fear.

In her consent the pain and promise meet

And the wind that blows where it will

Wraps the still point of her womb

 And life joins hands with death.

Let us enter into her yes.