Graced with God's Presence

Every year, those training for ministry at the different denominational colleges in Oxford gather for shared worship, so this responsive prayer of praise was written for that setting.

When the warmth of spring permeates our skin,
When our path is blossom-scattered;
When the air is filled with avian trills
And happy musical chatter;
When the sun lights up these limestone walls
And the vibrant green of neat-clipped lawns,
And we praise You who has made it all:
You grace us with your presence.

As the Word made flesh, our form you took,
And graced us with your presence;
When love speaks through the words of your Book:
You grace us with your presence;
And when with word and flesh combined,
We celebrate in holy sign,
Through eating bread and drinking wine:
You grace us with your presence.

In sister- and in brother-hood,
In laughter and in prayer,
In grace-filled living and forgiving,
In off'ring costly care;
As we encounter the stranger too,
The poor, and those held in negative view;
When we find in all people the likeness of you:
You grace us with your presence.

And now together in this place
From different customs gathered,
With common call to share your grace -
Thus shortly to be scattered;
We lift our voice in worship, for
By your Spirit now outpoured –
In this moment and forever more
You grace us with your presence!

Knocking on the Door

This is a performance piece written last Christmas for use in an Advent Carol service at college and a Churches Together Village Carol Service. For the former we had a variety of actors and costumes, for the latter I performed it alone, using child-friendly pictures depicting the characters/scenes projected onto a screen.

In the same service, Holman Hunt's Light of the World painting - depicting Revelation 3:20's Jesus knocking at the door - was used.

* * * *

On 'stage' - either a door frame of some kind, that each of the characters can stand in, looking through it to the congregation and make the knocking sound, or more simply, something like a woodblock to make the knocking sound.

Before starting, congregation to be taught the refrain (in bold) in response to the knocking sound.


[1. Joseph, as if speaking to relatives not seen for a long time, accompanied by pregnant Mary]

Knock Knock Knock
Who's that there, knocking on the door?
It's Joseph here, and Mary too - you've not met before -
We've come here for the census call, and need a place to stay;
It's pretty urgent - you can see - for baby's on it's way!

[2. Shepherds - with excitement]
Knock Knock Knock
Who's that there, knocking on the door?
Just some shepherds...look the babe! We've come him to adore;
Angels showed themselves to us and glory filled the sky;
They told us of the Saviour born and told us to come by!


[3. Wise men - slowly, in a dignified and philosophical manner]
Knock Knock Knock
Who's that there, knocking on the door?
Excuse me, can you help us find the child we're looking for?
We're trav'lers from the East, you see, who've travelled very far
With gifts to give the Jewish King - we've seen his special star.


[4. Joseph, with Mary and Child - with desperation]
Knock Knock Knock
Who's that there, knocking on the door?
We're refugees from Nazareth: Have mercy, we implore!
My baby and my wife and I have fled an evil King;
To save his life we've left our home, our life, our ev'rything!


[5. Jesus a la Revelation!]
Knock Knock Knock
Who's that there, knocking on the door?
I am the Christ, the Lamb of God, in Earth and Heav'n adored;
The reason for your feasts and gifts and songs this Christmas-tide;
But will you hear me calling you, and welcome me inside?

...


Christ stands at the door and knocks, asking us to invite him in in the midst of our Christmas celebrations.


What might that look like, I wonder?

What might that look like in amongst all the Christmas visiting and spending time with the relatives that we may or may not be thrilled to see?


What might that mean when reality isn’t the magical Christmas picture we would like it to be, and especially when the people around us don’t play ball with our own hopes and expectations?


What might that look like when we consider those outside the circle of fuzzy festive warmth: the lonely, the grieving, the sick, the hungry and the homeless, and those in prison, and thousands of desperate refugees?


Followed by reading: Matthew 25:31-40 (here from the NIV)

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne.  All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

 Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world.  For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
 Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
 The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

                                                                                - November 2015

Lament of the Lonely

This 'psalm' was written at a time when I was paticularly struggling with my experience of being single. The latter half is comprised of assertions from Scripture from which I sought comfort - I have shown the references.

Have mercy on me, O God;
   my heart is sick with loneliness.

I wake alone with no-one to witness my rising;
   and at the end of the day, to whom can I say "Goodnight"?
I fill my days with endless distraction,
   but when I look back it all seems meaningless.

The lives of those around me are rich with relationships.
I reach out, desperate to be connected, valued, wanted,
But their minds are filled with husbands and wives and children and workmates:
My advances intrude; I am little more than an afterthought.

I am alone; who will notice me?
My days are unwitnessed,
 My movements without consequence,
 And my soul is empty.

But you, Lord, are full of compassion and rich in unfailing love.             Psalm 145:8-9
Even though through you all things were created,                                      John 1:3
   still you are mindful of me.                                                                     Psalm 8:4

You see my every movement, and you hear my every thought;                Psalm 139:2
All my days are recorded by you and you count each one as precious.    Psalm 139:16

You are with me always, even until the very end of the age.                     Matt 28:20
Nothing can separate me from your love -                                                 Romans 8:38
Such love that you would lay down your life for me.                                John 15:13

You will satisfy my desires with good things;                                            Psalm 103:5
   In you will I find fulness of life.                                                             John 10:10

Help me to trust you, O God, and rest in your love,
That I may seek first your Kingdom
And the way of righteousness.                                                                     Matt 6:33

This Man

Reflections on Jesus, written April 2011. The quotation at the end is taken from the words of the centurion looking on at the crucifixion, recorded in Mark 15:39.

This man has kind eyes and gentle hands,
Yet strong arms and a voice of authority.
This man stands tall, with confidence and dignity,
But shows nothing of arrogance or disdain.

This man is down-to-earth, easy to be with.
He makes breakfast on the beach, and brings the best wine to parties.
Yet this man can fast for 40 days;
There is a spirituality about this man deeper and more profound than any other.

When this man speaks, those listening hang onto his every word,
    spoken with wisdom and understanding.
This man's words can simultaneously be healing balm and double-edged sword.

This man heals the sick and gives sight to the blind.
This man can bring the dead back to life.

This man is unimpressed by fancy-worded prayers
   spoken for the benefit of those listening in.
This man is angered by heartless doctrinal pedantics.
This man is pleased with simple faith,
 and responds to desperate cries from the humble and repentant.

This man causes trouble.
He does not accept injustice, just because that's the way things are done around here.
This man boldly challenges the powers that be.
This man is a truth-speaker, not a people-pleaser.

This man loves his friends, and they love him.
This man's enemies want him dead, and he loves them too.
This man gives even to the ungrateful,
And pleads forgiveness even for the unrepentant.

This man is utterly selfless.

This man was put to death,
Yet this man is living.

"Surely this man is the Son of God."

A Sunset Encounter

Another poem that's just for fun. This one was inspired by one of many wonderful experiences a good friend and I enjoyed on a holiday in Scotland last summer. 

The mountains before us are elegant grey; 

The evening sun hovers, low, crisp and bright.

Our little boat carries us, bobbing, away

From the harbour, aglow in the soft summer light. 

Someone speaks first - I don't know who - 

A casual remark met with friendly reply;

Like the clear sea around us your eyes sparkle blue

And we marvel together at " 'bonnie pink sky". 

Our fresh-faced delight drinking everything in;

Our rucksacks, camera and footwear still smart

Seem gaudy against your nonchalant grin

And give us away as not from these parts. 

But you have the easy air of a native,

Of one who's been sculpted by life in this place -

With weather-worn hands, gently abrasive, 

And crag-like cracks in your ruddy grey face.

Our fervour, though passioned, has hastily grown;

Yours, much more subtle, is bedded in deep. 

By your heart this land is most thoroughly known -

Every contour and castle, each secret it keeps. 

The jetty approaches, brings an end to our meeting;

A quick local tip, and we wave our goodbyes.

But I'll always remember this friendship, most fleeting,

In Oban, with Tom, and his sparkling blue eyes. 

On Receiving Flowers

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."

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.