God of the Quake and the Calm

Today commemmorates the death, in 1878, of Bishop George Augustus Selwyn, the first Bishop of New Zealand. He was, from what I have read, a wise and godly man who did his best to build up a healthy church in New Zealand, and resisted the land-grabbing and violence that pervaded British colonisation at the time. The following poem is based partially on a sermon he preached after an earthquake in Wellington in 1848.

God of the Quake and the Calm
(For George Augustus Selwyn)
God is known in the rustling of the trees in the cool of the day, or in the wind that breaketh the cedars of Libanus: at his will he reveals himself in the still small voice, or in the raging wind, in the earthquake or in the fire.
– Bishop Selwyn, St John’s College, 1849
You knew of the tides, the times
When it was safest to mount the waters in your boat,
And you studied the times of men and of wars,
Observed the uprisings, noted the stirrings
Of anger and resentment, gave praises
In the calm and saw always in the gentleness
Of the waves that you travelled the hand
Of the one who could shake them up in an instant.
When mountains shook, you were unperturbed,
Stood in your pulpit and called all to heed
The warnings that rumbled in each quiver of ground
And each belch of earth’s fires. You saw in both order
And flux in the seasons the wisdom and power
Of the hand that flung stars into the farthest of skies,
Who said to the waves, “Here are your limits, go no further,”
And yet shook the heavens when the time called for it.
You gave warning to those lost in sleep and did not
Slumber yourself while nations heaved up,
And as bodies collected in dead, broken soil,
Your hands turned to bury, your tongue to make peace,
Joined hands with the weary who still could rejoice,
Though the heavens were black, that they saw,
In the storm, that spot of blue sky, and joined
In the hope of the soon-passing storm?

Easter Tuesday: The Stone

The stone, which once sat,
In the dingiest corner,
The home for all refuse,
All dust and all junk,
The stone, once rejected
By builders who saw it
As useless, untidy,
Awkward and poor,
That stone and its brothers –
That ramshackle quarry
Of pebbles and off-cuts,
The debris of ruins –
Now stand as a house,
A glorious palace,
Stadia by stadia
In height and in width.
Those stones, they now sparkle
And glimmer in light
Such as none of those builders
And labourers ever saw,
And firm in foundation,
Its worth all displayed,
Surrounded by rubble
Now glorious and great,
The stone once rejected
(The stone on which builders
Tripped and cut toes)
Now stands in the corner,
The prince of the stones.

The Cost – A Poem for Dietrich Bonhoeffer

On this day in 1945, German pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer died, imprisoned for his role in the plot to kill Adolf Hitler. His actions in this area were controversial, but he remains one of the most significant theologians of the twentieth century. Today he is remembered in the Anglican Prayer Book’s calendar, and so here is a poem also in memory of him.

The Cost
(For Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Some say
He bore the cost proudly,
Strutting forth from his prison
With all the smug confidence of a tyrant.

Some say that he sinned
A little too bravely,
That he took on a burden
That was not his to take.

Some say
He thought judgment his own to dish out,
Like a petty child taking refuge behind
His own pious gavel and wig,
And hid in the plans, the machines of the pack
Who could not wait quietly
In still, humble hope.

Some say, some say
What cannot be said
When we judge only by
The smile on his face
And the stirrings and churnings
Of a conscience that was,
All things considered,
Much tenderer than ours.

Some say he stood up
When all in the crowd
Cowered and drowned.
Some say he took up
Barbed wire as a cross
And was strong to the last
In the strength of his God.

Some say that the joy
On his face is held out
To all who would swim
In the sea of Christ’s grace,

And the cost of this grace
(The cost that he bore,
As he waited in hope
Of a city to break
Through all of these fences
And wirebarbed-hearts)

Is there in Christ’s cross,
Is there in his crown
Of wire and thorns,
And is paid and is there,
And is there for the counting.

Good Friday: Via Dolorosa

I
In the garden you
Sweat in drops of blood, you who
Made the earth blossom
II
And then a kiss
Betrays you with the violence
Of a close friend’s sword
III
By dark, the council
Meets and seals your fate. You let
Your own reject you
IV
While, by firelight,
Your close friend lies, denies you
To keep himself warm
V
In the morning sun,
Amid the screams, the prefect
Washes his hands clean
VI
Scourges eat your flesh
The soldiers taunt you, laugh and
Crown you now with thorns
VII
On your back you bear
The curse of all the world. You
Fall; it crushes you
VIII
A stranger by the way
Shares the weight of the cross, but
Cannot drink the cup
IX
Women weep, lament
But do they cry for you or
For the brown, dead tree?
X
The nails are hammered
You fill your lungs with anguish
While night takes the crowd
XI
But one sees through it:
A thief who sees your kingship
And dwells now with you
XII
Then, last words to she
Who gave you life; the Life, you
Now prepare to leave
XIII
With a cry, you give
Up your spirit; It’s finished,
You proclaim, and die
XIV
Down we take your body,
In the thrall of darkness, to
Its tomb in the garden

All the Books of the World (Lent Poems 40)

And all the books in all the worlds
Could not contain his words,
And all the paper of all the trees and
All the ink of every pen
Could never capture all the Word,
And all the waters of all earth’s
Imaginable seas could not
Stretch far enough to show us how
Far and deep his love has gone
To find us, who were hidden in
The caverns of our darkest sin.
And all the heights of all these waves
Could not reach the heavens where
He came from, he who made
These waters and who calmed them,
Sailed them, caught their fish;
And all our water could not cleanse
What he has washed now with his blood,
And all these words can only hope
To stand like beacons, on the shore,
Small pulses of his brightest light
To guide all sailors, safe unto him,
Now unto him,
Now unto the king…

Stretching, Bending (Lent Poems 39)

When I was a child, you said, I would dress
Myself, and then go where I wanted to go.
But when an old man, they would dress me in clothes
Of torment, stretch my arms out to take me
Where I’d not want to go,
And in the grains of the sand
That we walked on were nails,
Stabbing into my feet like the sharpest of words,
While the other disciple trailed behind us,
Feet pattering gently, protected and safe.
What, Lord, for him? I asked. How will he go?
A rebuke then like ice in your firm, furrowed brow,
A look of stern warning, a block in the path:
Do not go there. It’s not for you to know,
And the nails dug then sharper, deeper into
The feet of my soul, and I saw myself carried
By my arms and then nailed, as you, Lord,
Were nailed, and could not quite see
That the nails would be my badges of pride,
As you, now immortal, still carried your scars.
If I want him to stay alive until I
Return, you said, Peter, what is it to you?
And I caught in your words then a sound of such sternness
That all I could do was let my heart bow, contritely, to you,
And bend with your wisdom, as vast as the sea.

The Firmness of Rock (Lent Poems 38)

I.
All night we’d been fishing
Though the sea was dry and our nets empty,
And all our local knowledge told us only
That we were fresh out of luck.
Then the stranger came and bolstered his way
Into our ears: Put your nets, he said, on the other side.
Raving mad, or foolish, his steady stare compelled me
To believe him, or else keep the madness at bay.
Only, the nets filled to breaking and,
As we called to our partner boats to come help us,
The stranger’s face – so calm, so sure – caught
My soul with his hook and would not let go.
Leave your nets, he said, on the shore.
I will show you how to fish for men.
His words were lulling nonsense in my ears
Yet I would have gone to Rome at his slightest word.
From now on you’ll be Peter, he said, and there
On the coast stood a rock, so steady and proud.
The waves crashed now and then against it and yet
The rock remained firm.
II.
All night we’d been fishing
Though the sea offered up no fruit for our labour.
Rock-stubborn, I pushed on, though all
My broken knowledge said I was out of favour.
Then the stranger called, from the shore:
Throw your nets on the other side.
Inside me I felt the hook twinge and his
Steady stare compelled me to obey.
And soon the nets were full enough to break
Our backs as we hauled them onto the shore!
And, breaking bread there, the stranger
Met our eyes, and we knew him: a stranger no more.
Simon, son of John, do you love me? He prodded, so gently,
Three times, made me shout three times out
What the rooster heard me three times deny.
Each time, the same, certain reply:
Feed my lambs. By the shore stood a rock,
Firmly grounded. I looked from the rock back to him,
And his gaze did not flinch in its unerring grace.
It held me firmly in his stead.

The Upper Room (Lent Poems 37)

Now somehow still hiding, we gather,
Afraid of the words that the women have said, yet
Hearts swarming with all the things we have heard,
And into the padlocks and chains of the room,
Walks now a stranger who knows all our names
And sparks in us a dangerous, snow-melting hope,
Like the sound of the first birds of earliest spring
Or the rush of the wildest torrents of thaw; and in
A voice of deep comfort, he says to us, Peace,
As he shows us his side and the scars where the spear
And the nails have pierced. And we look then upon
The one we have pierced, as he breaths and pours out
His Spirit like flame; Receive now my Spirit, he says,
And the sound of his voice is the hope of deep rivers
Flowing forgiveness. What sins you forgive,
He says, are forgiven. I look to the scars
On his hands and his side. The cost is there spoken
And always supplied. The room’s full of silence,
His breath in our lungs, and the crushed hope
Of the last days revived, now alive.

The Gardener (Lent Poems 35)

Why do you cry? the strangers asked,
As if it were unclear, the tomb gaping wide
While beasts and marauders
Took Him who-knows-where!
And my eyes like rivers flooded grief
While my voice strained into words:
Please, they have taken away my Lord;
Another choke. I do not know where.
Then behind me, a new man
Asking, softly, the same: Why are you crying?
And the look in his eyes speaking,
Somehow, of knowledge. Sir, I said, if
It’s you that has taken him, can you please tell me?
The soil and the greenness of the new day
Were thick about him and his eyes full of the sun.
Into mine they looked and, in a flash, all
The gardens in the universe came
Together in life and new growth in my soul.
And the prince of the heavens, standing before me,
Dug deep to the roots of me, said to me: Mary.