This week I received one of the most wonderful gifts - an unexpected flower delivery - which certainly brightened my week, and inspired this: my first attempt at writing a sonnet (admittedly with my own variation on a rhyming scheme...)
The thin grey gloomy light is fading fast,
Today's short winter ration almost spent;
Outside the leafless trees bear their lament
That summer's vital beauty does not last.
I grieve for sunshine felt upon my skin,
For days of care-free warmth that I have known,
For now Chill's fingers wrap around my bones
And stop not there, but touch my heart within.
But here in gentle challenge bold and gay
Erupts a fount of flow'rs and foliage:
Fine layered pink in satin, deep and rich,
And trumpets gold through which I hear you say:
"Spring will return - but until then we pray
Our love, with these, will keep the dark at bay."
Sunday, 8 November 2015
Monday, 29 June 2015
Jairus and the Sick Woman - Combined Monologues
The following dramatic reading is based on the story in Mark 5:21-43 and was written for the Morning Worship service this Sunday morning, with the aim of bringing the passage to life (if you'll excuse the pun!).
Words in normal type: to be read by Jairus
Words in italics: to be read by The Woman
Words in bold: to be read together
*****
It's amazing how quickly things can go downhill. One minute all seems well, you have your family, your work - life is good, and then, BAM, out of nowhere, your daughter is sick, and before you know where you are she is fighting for her life.
It's a strange thing to suddenly feel powerless when you are used to being in control. Head of the family, one of the synagogue leaders - taking charge is part of who I am and I take pride in being someone who makes sure everything is in order, one on whom others can depend. I like to think that if my name, Jairus, is known and respected, it is for good reason. But somehow, suddenly, I was out of my depth, and no matter how much I wanted to make it right for her with her sick little body, for the family in their terror, for the community reeling in shock, I couldn't. That's the thing about death I guess: it knows no prejudice. A good name, a respected family, religious standing - that which seems to hold so much sway in other matters is powerless against its grasp. It even prowls at the door of a little girl. My little girl.
They say 'time is a healer', but whoever 'they' are have obviously never had a chronic disease. Twelve long years I suffered. And suffer I did.
It wasn't just the bleeding, although that was bad enough. It was everything else that came with it. The endless doctors, one after another, prodding and poking and promising one more treatment that should do it, but never did. The first time I felt completely humiliated, exposed, but after a while you get used to the indignity of it. Not that it becomes any less degrading - its more that bit by bit the inner protest drains out of you like the blood you are losing, and you simply become resigned that this is the lot which you have been dealt and must accept.
There's the money too, of course. Treatment does not come cheap, and its not like you get a refund when something doesn't work. I spent every last penny I had, and all I had to show for it was a body more bust than when I had started.
But the worst thing about it is was the isolation. All around you life goes on, but you can't take part anymore...because you're sick. And all your identity fades away until all you are left with is that one defining factor: The woman with the issue of blood. A burden to society, an embarrassment to polite company, and contagiously unhygienic.
And so I came to Jesus.
And so I came to Jesus.
Desperate.
(Pause)
I would beg him to come.
I would hide in the crowd.
If he could just lay his hands on her...
If I could just touch his cloak...
He could make her
me
well.
(Pause)
But things didn't go to plan.
It wasn't until he turned around and asked who had touched him that the audacity of my actions had hit me. I shouldn't be here - I had no right to be in this crowd, let alone reach out to a holy man with my contaminated touch. It was almost ironic - I had spent the last 12 years wishing that someone would just see me, and now suddenly He had, and I was terrified.
Jesus might have come with me, but he didn't seem to understand my sense of urgency. And so when a sick woman touched him on the way, he stopped and spoke with her. Frustration buzzed within me - but somehow I knew he was not one to be interrupted and hurried along. And then word came, and my worst fears were realised. We were too late.
(Pause)
'Do not be afraid', he said.
'Do not be afraid', he said. 'Go on believing.'
'Go in peace and good health', he said.
And he called my daughter out from slumber.
And he called me 'Daughter'.
(Pause)
I learned a lesson that day: no matter how bad things seem, with Jesus there is always hope.
No matter how invisible you feel, with Jesus you are not alone.
With Jesus, life is restored.
Words in normal type: to be read by Jairus
Words in italics: to be read by The Woman
Words in bold: to be read together
*****
It's amazing how quickly things can go downhill. One minute all seems well, you have your family, your work - life is good, and then, BAM, out of nowhere, your daughter is sick, and before you know where you are she is fighting for her life.
It's a strange thing to suddenly feel powerless when you are used to being in control. Head of the family, one of the synagogue leaders - taking charge is part of who I am and I take pride in being someone who makes sure everything is in order, one on whom others can depend. I like to think that if my name, Jairus, is known and respected, it is for good reason. But somehow, suddenly, I was out of my depth, and no matter how much I wanted to make it right for her with her sick little body, for the family in their terror, for the community reeling in shock, I couldn't. That's the thing about death I guess: it knows no prejudice. A good name, a respected family, religious standing - that which seems to hold so much sway in other matters is powerless against its grasp. It even prowls at the door of a little girl. My little girl.
They say 'time is a healer', but whoever 'they' are have obviously never had a chronic disease. Twelve long years I suffered. And suffer I did.
It wasn't just the bleeding, although that was bad enough. It was everything else that came with it. The endless doctors, one after another, prodding and poking and promising one more treatment that should do it, but never did. The first time I felt completely humiliated, exposed, but after a while you get used to the indignity of it. Not that it becomes any less degrading - its more that bit by bit the inner protest drains out of you like the blood you are losing, and you simply become resigned that this is the lot which you have been dealt and must accept.
There's the money too, of course. Treatment does not come cheap, and its not like you get a refund when something doesn't work. I spent every last penny I had, and all I had to show for it was a body more bust than when I had started.
But the worst thing about it is was the isolation. All around you life goes on, but you can't take part anymore...because you're sick. And all your identity fades away until all you are left with is that one defining factor: The woman with the issue of blood. A burden to society, an embarrassment to polite company, and contagiously unhygienic.
And so I came to Jesus.
And so I came to Jesus.
Desperate.
(Pause)
I would beg him to come.
I would hide in the crowd.
If he could just lay his hands on her...
If I could just touch his cloak...
He could make her
me
well.
(Pause)
But things didn't go to plan.
It wasn't until he turned around and asked who had touched him that the audacity of my actions had hit me. I shouldn't be here - I had no right to be in this crowd, let alone reach out to a holy man with my contaminated touch. It was almost ironic - I had spent the last 12 years wishing that someone would just see me, and now suddenly He had, and I was terrified.
Jesus might have come with me, but he didn't seem to understand my sense of urgency. And so when a sick woman touched him on the way, he stopped and spoke with her. Frustration buzzed within me - but somehow I knew he was not one to be interrupted and hurried along. And then word came, and my worst fears were realised. We were too late.
(Pause)
'Do not be afraid', he said.
'Do not be afraid', he said. 'Go on believing.'
'Go in peace and good health', he said.
And he called my daughter out from slumber.
And he called me 'Daughter'.
(Pause)
I learned a lesson that day: no matter how bad things seem, with Jesus there is always hope.
No matter how invisible you feel, with Jesus you are not alone.
With Jesus, life is restored.
Monday, 4 May 2015
In Tears (Confessions of a Weeper)
As a self-confessed weeper, there have been many times over the years when I have had to explain to concerned witnesses that they mustn't worry - that my tears were not evidence of the beginning of a break-down but often the very opposite - a needed release of tension, the beginning of a healing, a turning point. For one reason and another, tears that once flowed freely had been rather absent from my life of late. Recently however, they visited again, and I was reminded of their power...
The pressure has been building for a while now,
and finally a last straw causes the dam to break:
a thoughtless word...or a perceptive, kind one;
a problem whose solution seems beyond me;
witnessing the suffering of another;
something sad on TV that rings true.
The first droplet forms, and drops.
Perhaps only a few will follow, in silent release of that which is within.
Or many more may come, in torrents, with heavy, heaving sobs, full of anguish,
leaving my nose red and face sore, my head foggy and fragile,
and my body a tired, empty shell.
We're well acquainted, these tears and I;
From the day of my birth they have given expression
to my neediness, my frustrations, my joys, my disappointments,
and much more.
Lately though, a vague notion that
crying isn't for grown-ups/professionals/the British
has encouraged me to pursue 'holding it together'
over letting them fall.
Even so, eventually and inevitably they come,
and when they do, I remember that strangely, these tears are a gift.
Like the make-up that they wash away,
they strip back the protective layers of that 'brave face'
that I have been putting on to the world and myself,
obliging me to remember who I really am:
Vulnerable.
Tender-hearted.
Resilient in my fragility.
Human.
But it is not just myself with whom I am reacquainted in this moment,
for my tears cause me to reach out to another -
One who draws near to the broken hearted,
who hears the cries of His people,
who comforts those that mourn.
As He answers my call, I remember again:
He chose the path of vulnerability,
was fragile even to death,
yet was resilient beyond it.
And He, too, was One who wept.
This is my weeper's confession:
God is to be found in tears.
The pressure has been building for a while now,
and finally a last straw causes the dam to break:
a thoughtless word...or a perceptive, kind one;
a problem whose solution seems beyond me;
witnessing the suffering of another;
something sad on TV that rings true.
The first droplet forms, and drops.
Perhaps only a few will follow, in silent release of that which is within.
Or many more may come, in torrents, with heavy, heaving sobs, full of anguish,
leaving my nose red and face sore, my head foggy and fragile,
and my body a tired, empty shell.
We're well acquainted, these tears and I;
From the day of my birth they have given expression
to my neediness, my frustrations, my joys, my disappointments,
and much more.
Lately though, a vague notion that
crying isn't for grown-ups/professionals/the British
has encouraged me to pursue 'holding it together'
over letting them fall.
Even so, eventually and inevitably they come,
and when they do, I remember that strangely, these tears are a gift.
Like the make-up that they wash away,
they strip back the protective layers of that 'brave face'
that I have been putting on to the world and myself,
obliging me to remember who I really am:
Vulnerable.
Tender-hearted.
Resilient in my fragility.
Human.
But it is not just myself with whom I am reacquainted in this moment,
for my tears cause me to reach out to another -
One who draws near to the broken hearted,
who hears the cries of His people,
who comforts those that mourn.
As He answers my call, I remember again:
He chose the path of vulnerability,
was fragile even to death,
yet was resilient beyond it.
And He, too, was One who wept.
This is my weeper's confession:
God is to be found in tears.
Sunday, 8 February 2015
The Ballad of the Unjust Judge
Based on Luke 18:1-8
Gathered friends, lend me
your ears
I have a tale to tell;
Blesséd is the one who
hears
And learns its message
well.
My tale is of a certain
judge
Who judged a certain city;
A judge who knew no fear
of God,
Nor for his neighbour,
pity.
Now in that city also was
A widow, weak and poor.
With no-one else to fight
her cause,
She banged upon his door.
"Oh help me please, please
help me, Sir!
Yes, help me,
please," she cried.
"For every day I've
suffered much
Since my husband died.
"No food have I, nor
means to farm;
On hand-outs I depend -
Yet still there's one who
steals from me
- Only you can make it
end!
"Take up my cause,
and make him stop,
Avenge me - make it right!
Make him pay back all he
owes.
Please save me from my
plight!"
But the judge's heart was
hard;
He cared not what was just.
And so he sent her on her way
To languish in the dust.
The widow, though, was not
put off
And back she came, ' next
day
To bang and plead and beg
and cry
Until she got her way.
"Oh help me please,
please help me, Sir!
Yes, help me,
please," she cried.
"For every day I've
suffered much
Since my husband died.
"Take up my cause,
and make him stop,
Avenge me - make it right!
Make him pay back all he
owes.
Please save me from my
plight!"
Still unmoved, the judge
but sighed,
And told her to be gone.
But soon enough, again she
tried
And so the scene went on:
"Oh help me please,
please help me, Sir!
Yes, help me,
please," she cried.
"For every day I've
suffered much
Since my husband died.
"Take up my cause,
and make him stop,
Avenge me - make it right!
Make him pay back all he
owes.
Please save me from my
plight!"
For weeks the widow, day
by day,
Continued with her riot
Until at last the judge,
he snapped
"Oh what I'd give for
quiet!"
"Fear of God, nor
care for man
could tempt me to comply.
But help I not, this
woman, I fear,
Might punch me in the
eye!"
And so, at last, the judge
did yield -
The rest I hardly need
tell:
The persistent widow won
her appeal,
Was avenged and all was well.
In this tale there is, of
course,
A lesson for us here -
For when we think our
cries to God
Have fallen on deaf ears.
Think of that judge: a
cruel man
Lacking good intent,
Yet even he, when asked
and asked
Was prompted to relent.
Our God is not cruel, but
just,
And loves us - that is
plain;
Thus it seems, it can't be
that
Our prayers are made in
vain.
When weak and poor we call
to him;
When this earthly life is tough;
When others question - don't
give up!
He'll answer soon enough!
If He seems slow, then we
can trust
He has good cause to stall;
That judgement paused is
done for grace,
That more may hear his
call.
And since we cannot know
the hour,
Let this be our concern:
Will he find faith within
our hearts
That day when he returns?
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