Advent 13

The road is a lonely place to wake, every grain of earth and fallen leaf is new. The way the light breaks through the landscape, the smell on the first breath of wind, when the silence is split by alien cries and dawn greets in a foreign tongue.

Eyes take time to adjust and the mind a moment behind. The body feels all out of place and time, as it stretches the aches of the night, easing joints bruised by the makeshift rest and limbs weary from the road. The sights and smells, sounds and sensations of yesterday now weave into the whole journey’s pattern as space for today is made.

Breaking the fast brings some grounding. Watching companions feeling their skin, tired, tight and rough. Massaging warmth and life into still sleeping bones. Consuming heat from the steaming drink, feeling it seep slowly through the numbness.

Then we begin to prepare, binding struggling stretched muscles, patching torn feet. Packing what was pulled in haste from bags and blankets as the darkness had rushed in. Loading and balancing, smoothing out folds and lumps that might become knives and rasps through the day.

This is the life on the traveller, the wanderer, the pilgrim. The morning becomes a ritual that floats on the strangest of seas. Each day the farewells feel more distant but the faces of family grow closer. The further we go, the more painful the parting. The closer we get to our ending the more the uncertainty wounds. Things that seemed lifetimes away now stabbing fear in each step and each stop.

Do they stand on the wall and watch? Do they even know we are coming? Will the gatekeepers be ready to welcome us in, will the peacemakers open their arms? Will the fire be stoked, will the kettle be on? Will there be food enough for all?

But those are questions ahead and right now it is time to walk. God of the road be before us, God of the stream be alongside, God of the sky light our path, God of the fields and the furrows nourish, God of the dawn light our way, God of the hearth bring companionship, God of the journey lead on.

Advent 12

There is rhythm in my travel, in the beating heart I hold,

I hear it in my breathing, in the stories I’ve been told.

It’s there in the air as the wind moves, it’s there in the chorus of life.

It forms tunes all around that I sing to, painting melody thick with a knife.

The songs ease the passage of distance, taking me places that I’ve never been.

I’m finding the truth in each step, and meaning in sights that I’ve seen.

I need to keep sure as we move, the direction we head still feels right.

The promise breaks brilliant ahead, behind nothing is left but the night.

This is the road of our Fathers, we have to return to their place.

But we know that we’re not moving backward, it’s an uncertain future we face.

The world had seemed scored to perfection, then the sweet voice spoke into the dark,

It started to play a new rhythm, dawn harmonies sung by the lark.

We sang legends and lyrics of promise, as we waited to hear what came next,

We sang songs that were bigger than all of us, of a world that is woven and flexed.

Of eras and ages before us, when the spirits danced over the seas,

When the ground that we walk on was forming, when they loved in the shade of the trees.

We sang of times before time was first counted, and wisdom held firm to each hand,

We wept when she told of its ending, as hate burned like fire through the land.

Now I hear something new in the distance, the rhythm becoming a beat,

It pounds in my heart and my soul, as we walk it is under my feet.

So this is the way of our journey, familiar yet totally new,

As we follow the songs of the future, and dance in the promise of you.

Advent 9

We think the strong will change the world, and seed a better way,
But look and see the Kings and Lords who crush it in their will.
The weak, the vulnerable and willing, are true bearers of new earth,
Those who can be planted deep, to die wrapped in the soil,
To give what tiny portion’s theirs for a good beyond themselves,
And surrender who they are to nourish grace, and peace, and love.
Watch the governors, the powerful, clothed in precious ego,
The jewelled and the robed, weilding staffs and polished swords.
They do not see, they cannot hear, their souls and minds are deaf,
To the gentle voice that calls and weaps from the centre of the storm.
The song calls to the young, to the oppressed and the neglected,
To the hungry and the homeless, to the poor and to the blind.
To the one who finds no peace in sleep, the one who dreads the dawn.
To the mother and the father of the babe thats not yet born.

Advent 8

I am the story of a different time,
A beginning time,
A birthing time,
A time when all was dark.
A time when all was possible.
A time when all was not.
A time when all could be.
A time when all was energy.
A time when all was love.
In this time began.
A word began to whisper,
A light began to spark,
A breath began to flow,
A sphere began to spin,
A world began to form,
A life began to beat,
And it was good.

It was then that I began to dream,
And the story wrote itself.
I saw the waters flood the land,
I saw the land fight back,
I saw it rise and split and move,
I saw it burst with fire and flame,
I saw it twist and crack and tear,
I saw it crumble and form rich earth,
And from those seas and in that soil,
I felt the beat of simple hearts,
I felt the first life jump and dance,
I felt it swim and fly and run,
I felt it all,
And it was good.

And then I saw it rot and mould,
As greed and power and death,
Took over from the waters,
And flooded out to drown the land.
And as I saw, I cried.
I saw it stir and raise its head,
I saw it spit and spew and shit,
It fouled its way through everything.
And I felt it.

I felt the pain of the innocent.
I felt the cry of the abused.
I felt the ache of the grieving,
I felt the sob of the lonely,
I felt hunger of the just,
I felt the loneliness of the lovers,
And it was agony.

I felt the pain as they turned on me.
They blamed me and I felt their shame.
But in the night they knew,
They knew what they had lost,
And in the night they cried.
And some could not hold back the tears when the dawn had come.
Hope lived, its roots were deep.
And so I’m here.

Wait…

Advent 7

The day has come to kill the future,

We’ve cast it as a golden god, and raised it on the plain.

Then we’ve spent our nights in worship, of the thing we want to be.

The day has come to kill the future,

For if we don’t we leave no space, into which it can be born.

Advent 6

“Strengthen weary hands, make firm the feeble knees”

The morning after the day before feels so numb,
What felt so definite, so certain,
feels like a fist of a hole,
torn from the heart of the soul.
All that had been is gone,
The day ahead full of questions,
The voices of the Angels that sang in the night are now gone,
Their song like a dream at the edge of the dawn.
We share a look, a saturated look,
a flooded look.
We want to feel the joy,
but it’s hard to grasp,
it lies deep encased in fear, uncertainty and questions…
So many questions!
We wept the fullest tears possible.
We gripped each other as the sun rose.
Just to feel as the day began.
To know the cut of skin and bone.
To share solid reality,
To break the doubt.
Outside the light is spreading through the town that watches,
seeping through the streets.
What was sure and solid in the dark seems to melt with the morning.
Our resolve in danger of being taken by the tide.
The Angels sang of promise,
words we knew from the Prophet,

“the desert shall blossom and burst into song
and streams will flow in the wilderness.”

They called the name, “Immanuel” into the space where he will grow.
They told of love and joy and freedom.
Words that meant so much,
but now we face the day, they seem so strange.
Today, we need to know.
We need to stand, we need to walk.
We need to hold on to each other.
Today the questions start, not just our own
In the night there were messengers,
right now we need to know the Source,
if we are to face the flood, if we are to see the flowers bloom.
Today we begin to sing our song,
whatever that will mean.

“Strengthen weary hands, make firm the feeble knees”

Isaiah 35

Advent 5

I wish this just made sense,
I have no words, no way to see.
I’ve know this girl all of my life,
Our future knotted together,
when we were still young.
At first the anger rose!
We had a job to do,
to carry the family name,
our place in the community.
The skills we have,
passed down by father’s father,
and the many who went before.
Our lives shaped
and set in motion by our ancestors.
We were content,
We knew our place.
We learned to love.
Some dreamt of the city,
of golden temples and stone streets,
Of rich food and flowing wine,
Of priests and kings,
colour and culture,
music and games,
endless markets selling beauty.
Not us, we were happy here,
happy with all we knew and had.
And then this!
But I can’t reside in anger.
I made a promise, we are promised.
I know that this means something,
I know I have to stay.
It doesn’t mean I understand,
It doesn’t mean that I don’t hurt.
I do, it burns and tears me deep inside.
I see them looking,
they don’t yet know, but I do!
Yes, I know, but I wonder if I dream?
It feels like someone else’s life,
Someone else’s story,
all mixed and messed up in mine.
I saw the question in my mother’s eyes,
the shame deep in my Father’s.
They, like me had no words,
No way to grasp what lies before us.
They gave me options,
A way out of what had always been.
But I can’t do that!
I can’t leave her.
I love her.
I love her.
So much! Too much?
It doesn’t really matter!
My future is not my own,
My future will be formed in her.
Then the world turned,
She said it’s God,
That the baby is important!
How can I know!
But look at her! She shines!
The way she looks at me,
With hope, joy and, yes with love!
How can I stand in anger?
I love her.
I love her.
I promised, we are promised.
I will not make her face this alone!
I love her.
I love her.
That is all I know! Now I must sleep.

Advent 4

Oh Mary, sweet girl, strong woman, survivor, mother. How your life must have spun, how your soul must have shook, how your heart must have flown! To feel the light break through, startling in its focus. To feel the love crash in, blinding in its perfection. To hear the voice, dawn singing, clear and soft, definite yet light, soothing in its authority, caressing in its power. “Fear not!” and you did not fear! Though you did not understand, you did not run from the one who spoke, you did not shy from his sight.

Oh Mary, sweet girl, strong woman, survivor, mother. How his eyes must have shone as they looked on you. How his face must have beckoned you, embraced you and loved you. How his words must have spiralled and danced, weaving purpose and promise, colours and harmonies into a life so new. How did you feel it, did it warm your skin like the morning sun then gradually push deeper until it soaked your heart? Or did it well like a spring of frothing purity from your centre until it flowed through your veins?

Oh Mary, sweet girl, strong woman, survivor, mother. In that flicker you became the life giver, the author of light, the birther of love, the carrier of blessing. You became mother of mothers, archetype and inspiration, hope and comfort. Even then you were ordinary, even then you were normal, even then you were humble. But what is ordinary if it is not beautiful, what is normal if it is not rich, what is humble if it is not full of grace?

Oh Mary, sweet girl, strong woman, survivor, mother. How little you knew, yet how much you were willing to take on. How did you find the words, where did your language rise from? “How?” you asked, not “Why?” “Yes!” you answered, not “But…” Would I respond the same? Would my words be words of willingness or would I hesitate? Could I begin to walk the road you took that day? Could I sing your song? Could I look into Gabriel’s glow and choose to take the words as my words?

Oh Mary, sweet girl, strong woman, survivor, mother. When you saw, when you knew, when you chose, the Word began to beat.

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.