Author: MARK BERRY

Mark is a Pioneer and a Creative, with over 20 years experience. He is a founder of the safespace community.

Life on dirty streets

Life on dirty streets.
Streets of carelessly scattered stories.
Dropped packets that once wrapped precious living,
Yellowed and twisted stubs of grabbed moments,
Torn up world views,
dripping on leeched muted images.
Kicked and blown, ripping remnants
spotlit by stuttering neon,
transported by locomotive urgency
and casual drunken dance.
Butterfly bushes shooting out
from micro pockets of earth
congregating in gaps and wear.
Dust propelled by rain becoming home for colour blooming.
Corners and steps make sanctuary for the chased and the watching,
doorways spilling and spewing tales of everyday existence.
Life pushing deep,
finding space between the crowd.
Life on dirty streets.

Advent 3

Hear me, buy me, admire me, worship me, pity me, own me, need me, do me, love me, elect me, trust me, screw me, use me, notice me, hear me. Every hour, every day. Noise! Listen in, listen out, listen now. Insistent and incessant. How do we hear the voice beyond, the voice that needs to be heard? That speaks of cosmic universal things. That speaks of the heart and the soul. That speaks of things that hold and breathe and live beyond the noise.

Strike me dumb, make me deaf, close my lips and ears to the noise, my noise, that hurts my heart and confounds my spirit. The noise which binds and suffocates me, the noise which seduces and distracts me, the noise which grabs and triggers me, the noise which sucks me into pride and anger, self doubt and insecurity.

Stop me.
Still me.
Speak to me.

In the noise God speaks in whispers and dreams but sometimes I cannot hear. Sometimes I need to be stopped and shocked, sometimes, just sometimes, God needs to scream above the pervading, competing voices! Through the noise Zechariah and Mary heard.

Do not fear.
Do not be afraid.
You are blessed.
Be still and hear.
Be silent and hear.
Be present and hear.
You are loved.
You are favoured.
You have purpose.
Are you listening?
Can you hear?
Are you willing?

Speak loudly God, in the song of Angels, in the poetry of prophets, in the truth of children, in the touch of the lover, in the rhythms of the blood and the breath, in the wind and the water, in the eyes of creation, in the kiss of the spirit.

I will not fear,
I will not hide,
I will not flee,
I will listen.
I can hear.
I am willing.

Advent 2

Listen, hear.

In the chaos of life, a song. In the loneliness of love, a melody. In the dreamless dawn, a word. In the featureless day, a sob. In the exhaustion of survival, a prayer. From the dry, dead wilderness a shout.

Listen, hear.

Don’t listen to the preachers of power, they cannot let go. Don’t listen to the voices from behind, they can only call you back. Don’t listen to the critics who question your ability, they don’t understand the gifts of grace. Don’t listen to the bitter who demand special status, they breed hatred. Don’t listen to the puffed up proud, they have no mercy.

Listen, hear.

The voice of the divine is crying out in the barren places. The voice of love is crying out in hopeless places. The voice of joy is crying out in the grieving places. The voice of mercy is crying out in the guilty places. The voice of peace is crying out in the embattled places. The voice of comfort is crying out in the wounded places.

Listen, hear.

The cry is for you. It calls you and sends you. It calls you to prepare the way. It calls you to break open doors and pull down walls. It calls you to clear paths and rip down fences. It calls you to smooth out obstacles and make the road ahead easy. It calls you to shine with the light of all lights, to sing with the source of all love. It calls you to heal and to soothe, to hold and to calm.

Listen, hear.

You are the pioneer of shalom. You are the herald of the all loving. You are the voice in the emptiness. You are the prophet and the poet. You are the introducer of the divine. You are the cry of the future. You are the hands and the feet of the coming beloved.

Listen, hear, cry, sing.

Advent 1

Waiting. Waiting is all. It feels so close but the wait is just beginning.

Now I must be calm. The earth has just begun to rest. The leaves have just fallen. The cold has just begun to drift in on the wind. The season of sleep is still creeping in.

There is a long wait ahead. Patience.

Waiting. Waiting is all. It feels like there is so much to do but now is not the moment, not right now.

Now I must be still, catch my breath and let it linger inside. Feel the moment and hold back my desperation for the dawn. Light will flow in time.

There is a long wait ahead. Patience.

Waiting. Waiting is all. Sometimes my frustration is hard to still. Inertia everywhere and I scream for change.

Now I must trust. The vision will not die. It isn’t mine to force into life. I know there must be change coming, I feel it in the shifting colours, hear it in far off conversations.

There is a long wait ahead. Patience.

Waiting. Waiting is all. All I have right now is the wait. Uncertainty wrestles anticipation in front of me. Hope and fear bound in a spinning endless second.

Now I must watch. To learn, to know beyond my need. To stand guard whilst conflict rages and hear the cries of battle. I need to understand.

There is a long wait ahead. Patience.

Waiting. Waiting is all. But waiting is not nothing, it is everything. It is drawing deep on all that is to be born.

Now I must have faith. For faith is all that’s left. We are perishing. We are being remade far away. I am being remade in my hidden places. The Son will break my horizon, the day will come.

There is a long wait ahead. Patience.

Waiting. Waiting is all. Not long to go now.

the stream

Given time a stream cuts deep, slicing into the hardest rock. No need for heat or cold, no need for tools or explosives, no need to rush at change. The caressing current, wears away at imperfections and weaknesses, smoothing, shaping, carving, creating glistening shapes. Down and down through the layers of the years, through all that has become attached and grown. Melting away at the outer coats and stripping back the shell, slowly, gently exposing the colour and texture of innocent days and sweet memories. Pouring down vast funnels into inner places and hidden hearts, washing, quenching, stirring. On it tumbles polishing beauty back in to the worn and dirty, spewing its load out into the ocean where it binds and births life and land for others yet to be. Time slows and water flows, rest and watch. Change is happening.

A tree by the water

In the rushing flood may my feet dig deep and find purchase.
May the bite of the stones into my soul waken my senses.
Bend my knees that I may not be an obstacle to the flow.
Give me strength to stand and become one with the waters,
Give me balance that I would not be cast aside.
Wash me not away but strip me of my mess.
Help my flailing hands find the hands of others,
That we might stand strong together.
That we might be the roots of a tall tree,
A tree that dips it’s branches in the waters,
And grows into a home for the small and weak.
When the waves still and the floods settle,
May the water swell rich fruits and paint vivid colours.
Twist us as one toward the light of heaven,
And bind us deep into the earth.
May our shadow be a place of healing,
And all those who rest in it find love.

(inspired by Revelation 22)

The way I walk

The way I walk is mine to walk,
It’s not a choice I make, but it offers many possibilities,
I get to choose the people I walk with mind.

I can choose the people who I think will make the journey shorter,
The influencers, the gate keepers, the ones who promise an easier way ahead,
I can choose the “you scratch my back” smilers, who want to play the game,
I can choose the traders and bargain makers, the noders and winkers,
But I don’t.

I can choose the experts, the guides and the navigators,
The ones who stride ahead in confidence expecting me to follow.
I can choose the know it all’s, the show it all’s, the wordly wise,
I can choose the been it, done it, seen it’s who lend me their experience,
But I don’t.

I can choose the strong shouldered, the pack horse to save my efforts,
So I can relax and let them loft my weight, take my strain and carry me,
I can choose to be a passenger, an observer, a tourist taking snaps,
I can choose the giants and the heroes, the gladiators and the saviours,
But I don’t.

I can choose to be the patron, the pathfinder, the beast of burden,
But I don’t, I choose to be a pilgrim.

I choose to be a brother, a friend, I choose to be an equal,
I choose to walk with people like me, people who stop when I stop,
Who wonder at the things I wonder at, who ache and break when I do.
I choose to grip hands in fear, in the throb of exhaustion, in simple love,
I choose to walk with you.
I choose the way we walk.