Words to bridge the gap between faith and life…
Flights delay; schedules must be rearranged.
Pause in the park; there is nothing else nearby;
though sickness and tiredness lag our legs
and this message must be read, that query returned.
All the dead time of the week, all these fragmented moments –
purpose evades when we have no control.
Yet moments ripple when we detour through trees
to watch Creator’s joy in the brilliant green
of a duck’s hidden wing.
Indeed, my friends, let us not forget in our wakefulness…
(Saint Ephraim the Syrian, Hymns of the Nativity)
Do I assume this peace?
Some peasants once, I am told,
when they had had enough of false liberty,
took cobblestones and made them missiles.
And men of another age were warned
that their panelled houses could fall,
while others, trusting horses,
were told whom they should fear.
For the quiet of now, give thanks.
The sun is your friend today and streets whistle with silent birdsong.
Later, I may collect chairs from the street or sit in a library to read.
But remember the shelves which Eratosthenes kept,
more famous for ruin than what they contained.
Look for the library without any walls;
look for the Word which shines like today.
Bend knees as you walk or stones will rise up.
Today’s beauty must make you bow.
When you are able, bend your knees, when you cannot, make intercession in your mind, ‘at evening and at morning and at midday’.
(St Ephraim the Syrian)
From the rising of the sun –
whatever morning reveals –
to the setting of the same –
You remain.
What ruins lie at our feet –
whatever looks safer in darkness –
what night fears have haunted us –
we kneel.
And when we cannot, Lord, for aching –
when the ground kicks against us –
when the rising sun scalds us –
minds bow.
Turn our minds to the breaking of Your dawn.
The sun today blinds us –
history wounds us –
yet Your dawn is sure,
won’t fail.
And, in early morning,
before the suburb rightly wakes,
a shot is fired
straight into the law.
When cars arrive
to learn for the day, there is tape
and blue-and-white cars mark the place
where safety cannot go just yet.
First impressions: a colleague mentions
ISIS, and though
a wry smile suggests irony,
beneath the comment lies the knowledge
that possibility has burst its banks
and each day may hold
the unthinkable.
Reading Italo, I see
Italian youths
preparing to swim while
il Duce prepares for war.
At home, on our couch,
while afternoon leisure
blends with our tea,
a reporter speaks
to a background of song:
Australia may soon
be under attack.
The words overlap
with piano and strings
and my mind hears,
I am titanium.
In Damascus, people whisper when out in public. When a waiter arrives at a table, people stop talking…
Then he said what I kept hearing over and over on this trip: “Syrians cannot do this to other Syrians.”
(Janine di Giovanni, “Seven Days in Syria”)
In the days before spring burst in war,
some still danced and lazed in pools.
Some saw the lion on the prowl,
and others stood beside him.
The food was fine still, and the wine.
The poetry was rich; the fruit
was ripening on the trees. Yet some
saw wolves lurk on the fold.
The wolf was in us before we knew;
the lamb was our first and last chance.
The older, younger Noah’s son
bought sunshine with His bow.
And on the hills we see an ark
where lion, lamb and wolf lie down.*
Yet only when true peace is prized
and no-one hides from truth.
*after Ephraim the Syrian, “Hymns on the Nativity: Hymn 7”
Now it happens
in places with names we know:
near streets we have walked,
in stadiums and concert halls,
in coffee shops,
where violence never breathed before,
where we were safe.
Now we look for signs of links
to Syria, to al-Assad,
ISIL, and cells which fire.
Nothing has prepared us, yet
to others this has brewed for long.
The boundaries ever shifting say
that nothing was ever safe.
When French Charlie can’t say his name
without all heads turning at once,
the times are only waving a sign.
Once, when peasants were offered cake,
no-one ate to celebrate
Today, remember: Damascus’ streets bustled before,
and in the days of Noah men ate and drank
and no-one saw the rain.
For the occasions past and present, when sons and daughters of the Catholic Church have sinned by action or omission against their Orthodox brothers and sisters, may the Lord grant us forgiveness.
(Pope John Paul II, May 2001)
I believe one holy catholic and apostolic Church.
(Nicene Creed)
The year the towers fell, John Paul
set foot where he was not welcome.
A Polish pope stretched out his hand,
though age had made him weak in grasp,
and held the breach, deep into past,
and said that it was wrong.
How far are spirits breached? How long
must souls be searched to find the start?
A silent prayer in Umayyad
cuts back to Hagar, Ishmael.
The God-who-sees hears whispered prayers
and knows how nations fell.
If we don’t speak of Cyprus now,
if East and West still cannot meet,
if schism is a constant truth
and where Saint Paul walked stands a wall:
thank God for arms that span the breach
and bear our coffin nails.
We cannot see al-Assad now
beside the pope and hope that he
will bring the peace we long to see;
the breach stands still, is deeper now,
yet Spirit moans for unity,
for being Three-In-One.
Behold all that are asleep, awake and rise to sing praise…
(From Psalm 148, Midnight Prayer liturgy, Syriac Orthodox Church)
Could we have seen it coming?
Was our slumber too deep?
Midnight’s for sleeping, yet You do not sleep,
nor did You sleep
as boundaries changed and names were rearranged.
You did not sleep as serpents hatched their eggs.
As feet kicked against the goads, awake, You rose.
Arise now!
Do You sleep?
We lie now as wide-eyed at midnight as at midday,
yet every praise that You ordain spells death to faithful lips.
Awake –
And waken us to see the grace
that lies here with us,
sleepless.
Your garments glisten, my brethren, as snow;—and fair is your shining in the likeness of Angels.
(St Ephraim the Syrian, “Hymn for the Baptised”)
You are the light of the world;
you are the body of Life.
The persecutor kicked you;
you kick within yourself,
yet you remain – kept, preserved;
you cannot be hidden.
You are the beaten body.
Yet the body shines more for being broken;
more like the Head with every thorn,
you live because your foes assault you.
Hold up the Body by the crown
and it will radiate before all men.
Glisten with water, with blood,
Child of God.
Your cradle is pillaged;
the persecutor walks your roads again.
Over seas, the body binds itself,
strikes and licks its wounds,
kicks its own goads.
Yet you are the child.
Glisten and radiate –
let the earth see and know.
Your roads stood firm beneath the Zealot’s feet;
your foes became your brothers. Shine:
though the cradle may fall, the life remains.
Shine, broken body, and stand.
The Consolations of Writing 