The Consolations of Writing

Burnt-out Prayer: For Ash Wednesday

King: I cannot come to You however I choose
yet all I am is a bundle
hurriedly put together,
no sack cloth, no ashes,
hair still mussed from slumber,
limbs dragging,
soul flat,
feet not yet expecting to walk…

Can I come to You as a stowaway,
scarcely awake, found among cargo,
hiding like Jonah while the waves ravage?
I bring no grand promise,
no sufficiency,
only the startled eyes of one caught unawares
and the knowledge that, when before kings, I must bow,
and, when cast in oceans, to swim.

Though forty days are hardly enough
for the numbness of limbs to distribute itself
and for fingers to learn, once again, how to pray –
I come to you, King, in dishevelled dismay
and declare my all dross at Your feet.
If my Amen burns faint now
or my wick dwindles, short,
may You be my prayer’s substance,
its fire,
its fuel.

Transfiguration Sunday

These are the words of the One who burns
with all the fire of the morning star,
who shines much whiter than the day
in tabernacle flame.

These are the words of the risen Son
who was, who is, will ever be,
the One who sees, who knows, who calls,
the first, the last, the king.

These are the words of the One who shone
bright, radiant, on the mountain top,
the one who climbed another hill,
and was crowned upon a tree.

These are the words to the bride who yearns,
who strays, who cries, who prays, who strives.
Hear the words that search through hearts:
hear, stand, and overcome.

Obedience

Jonah –
the sea is too wide for you to hide;
no waves can cover your footsteps, no ship
can transport you away from His sight.

Do not run.
The burning sun in heat of day
contains as much His perfect way
as when the sky lights up in flame.
And mercy’s found
in broken ground, when palm trees wilt
and tedium
breaks out in rashes on your skin.

Be still.
The ocean bears such grace
as you, in temper, do not know
and grace is found too on dry roads
and Ninevah, where walls hold skulls.
The broken, ordinary day
is violent with His light.

The sign
for passive hearts that crave a sign,
a miracle to shake their minds,
is dormant in the sea’s womb now
yet breaks soon with its truth.

Obey.
The currents of His day
will take you in. When breakers roar
or water’s still, the same is true
and holds you in its wake.

Gratitude

…The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
– T.S. Eliot, “Preludes”

I will be late for work:
the traffic tells me so,
and Adam's curse run deep in roads
too busy to know their name.

Beaten by roadside lies the debris
and dust of abandoned schedules: here 
someone burst a tyre, there
a jerry-can was left, there some refuse
of a long-forgotten breakfast.

Why do wild flowers speak
in pitches more alive to me?
Pointed, they dance in the breeze: 
small, white-purple flecks of something else,
another time, another Where. 

Yet life is lived on roads,
and time is stretched in tyre-marks 
to places where we'd rather be. 
Wake up. Gratitude's an act of grace
and this day is thick with its potential.

Nothing's lived except when it harkens
to all that defies it,
and all that belies it.
If the day begins thus, then let it, and listen:
this is where you must now be.

Knowledge

http://www.eso.org/public/images/eso1131a/

I do not know the ways of spheres:
     how planets orbit,
         how stars alight.
I do not know how life's sustained,
     how atmospheres enfold.
I do not know the wheres or whys,
     how Jupiter
          protects our sky.
     I only know the heart of man
            and know that it is sick.

I have not plumbed the ocean floor
     nor found the place
          where tides must rest.
I have not climbed the highest peak
     or seen the plates force up.
I have not swept the sea, the land,
     our ancestors 
          trod underfoot.
     I've only met God's hand in time
             and read His plan to save.

I cannot answer mysteries:
     why life exists,
          why time must die.
I cannot say the span of man
     before our time, beyond.
I do not know my mind's own truth
     nor understand
          why hearts must lie.
     Yet I have known Your way with me
             and say that it is good.

Catechism 44

What is baptism?
Baptism is the washing with water in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; it signifies and seals our adoption into Christ, our cleansing from sin, and our commitment to belong to the Lord and to his church.
(New City Catechism)

Why water? First
He hovered, spirit, above the depths,
divided water in sky from land,
said, “Here shall your proud waves be stopped,
here go no further.”

Yet then, when earth
had sickened and man had withered His image,
He took out the stopper and let the waves pour forth.
Now He bids

water flow over bodies
and into hearts, cleansing, reversing
the tides of shame, of uncreation; now pours
Spirit flooding with life, where only
death once hovered.

Take the waves, take
the plunge. Life beckons.
Still His Spirit hovers and breathes
into the dead, still He makes
and remakes and remakes.

Nazarene

“We can only silence the guns of hatred with the guns of love.”

– Nigerian church leader, quoted in Open Doors prayer letter

I am broken in my love:

I cry, I steal,

I hurt, I hate.

My heart has guns which fire and kill

and I am daily killed.

I do not understand my friend;

my neighbour dies,

I pass him by.

I do not walk across my street

or see you in your home.

The scarf around your head sparks fear;

my crucifix

is shame to you.

The Nazarene upon the cross

lives not like I have lived.

All exiles, while the Garden grows

far from our homes,

we never meet

or open hands to shake, to greet

and give as we’ve received.

Yet love transformed by crown of thorns

has power to

unload these guns.

Such love has wounds to mend the rift

and make us many One.

O I am broken in my love.

I cry, I steal,

I hurt, I hate.

O Jesus, Nazarene, come heal;

come open doors and sing.

My Jonah Heart

Recite this catalogue of wrongs:
I loved this tree – if you loved me
I always knew – I told you so…
And all the while in Ninevah
the people weep in ash.

Uphold your cause; God may forget
the hurts you hold, the wounds you bear.
The tree’s shade is your natural right.
Shake fists; see God reply…

The merciful, the good, the just:
perhaps He lost, amidst the dust
of Ninevah your noble case.
You must bemoan your tree.

Or turn your eyes to kings in ash
and rags. See hearts turn round.
You know His name; you know the truth.
Turn, Jonah, and arise.

Learning Bach



Moments of success are rare:

arpeggio-dances, impossible harmonies,

the sound as simple as the wind

yet execution like a fear -

fingers always forgetting how,

only ever stumbling on

success. Evasive moments of

perfect beauty capture souls

yet pass with sudden fumbles and

flustering confusion when

the movement of the hands cannot

so perfectly attune the spheres

as in the neat, transcribed intent.

Still, when all's aligned,

however brief, the sound

sings and motions, like

silence, like heart,

mouth, deed and life in tune,

the dance exact.

The joy remains.

Catechism 43

What are the sacraments or ordinances?
The sacraments or ordinances given by God and instituted by Christ, namely baptism and the Lord’s Supper, are visible signs and seals that we are bound together as a community of faith by his death and resurrection. By our use of them the Holy Spirit more fully declares and seals the promises of the gospel to us.
(New City Catechism)

Because minds are fickle and hope grows faint:
take bread, take wine,
take promise.

Because the world shouts out to us false names:
take depth, take water,
take covenant.

Because our flesh is weak: enact;
embody,
and impart.

Because our souls can wander far:
take hands, take part,
take heart.

Because this world is passing: let
these signs contain
the lasting part.

…The notion of some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing. – T.S. Eliot, “Preludes”

“We can only silence the guns of hatred with the guns of love.”

– Nigerian church leader, quoted in Open Doors prayer letter

…The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
– T.S. Eliot, “Preludes”