Our Lord, our Yahweh, thank you for being here with us. We are muddled, and tired, and weak and unworthy.
But you, in your perfection, embrace our aching, grubby bodies, unafraid of our unseen failures and our all too evident mortality.
Come to think of it, when we look closely at your way of doing things, you often seem weak and confused and grubby, too.
Why did you, in your perfect existence, as your powerful spirit hovered over the waters, choose to set off a system of life that would be messy and rebellious and stained with sin?
Why was the climax of your invented, breathtaking universe these two-legged, stubborn beings: the one born of mud, the other from a bloody rib? Why did you leave your angels and your heaven to walk with them in a garden?
Why did you, when they let you down, leave their ancestors with these earthly curses: the men to sweat and toil and be defined by demands of work; the women to grimace with pain in their fertility, their labour and their motherhood?
Why for so many years were you appeased by their slaughtered animals, burning blood and fat, as the men and women turned from you again and again?
Why did you allow so many occasions for weeping and sackcloth and ashes?
Why did you respond to all this mess and sin by splitting apart your holy family, sending the son to be born of woman – in blood and sweat and tears, his first sight a place of animal dung and feed? Did you really need to go through teething, and illness, and puberty and all those humiliations?
How can we think that you, once man, had to depend on others for food, for shelter, for friendship; you chose to wash others, touch leprous skin, be insulted and despised, heal with mud and spittle? You, like us, battled with failing bodies, raw fish, dirty feet, splinters and blackened hearts.
Was it not a terrible mistake for Christ to be mocked and spat upon and beaten and betrayed and killed? For his body to be broken. For him to endure pain beyond our imaginings?
Was it not a terrible mistake for him, on conquering all that, on once again becoming glorious, to go away again, leaving us – the un-risen – with the spirit of you to care for?
We are glad you come amongst us but we do not understand. We are ashamed of our humanity: its mess, its excretions, its lusts, its decay. We hate death. We wish you had not been tainted with these things: we wish you had ruled in clean perfection and made a world that had no flaw. We wish we had been created immortal angels.
But, our Lord, our Yahweh, that has not been your way. We have heard you say your power is made perfect in weakness. We have seen you act that out. Forgive us for wanting to be perfect: when we look at you we see you did not strive for that kind of perfection. You became less, became weaker, became grubbier, and so lived the fullest kind of life.
We are a mess, Lord. But we suspect it does not matter too much. Help us to embrace the dirt, fearless, as you do.
Amen.
Friday, 5 February 2010
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Remembrance and Loss – a meditation on Psalm 137
Not a poem, strictly speaking, but something what I wrote.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
We have not been to Zion. And yet in our deepest being we feel something like a memory of it – a longing for a hidden kingdom. A memory of a place where we belong. And we weep for its loss.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
Is it possible to be creative in the face of loss? At times, we give up on life and worship. In pain, bereavement, betrayal, illness, abuse, loneliness, shattered hopes.
We want to live and play our music. We long for healing.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying: ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
We feel weak and guilty – mocked, at times. Sometimes, we are victims of circumstance. Sometimes, the mess is our own doing. So easily we let ourselves be overrun by selfishness, deceit, suspicion and greed. We feel like a joke, sometimes.
Forgive us. We do not want our songs of praise to seem ridiculous.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying: ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
This land is kind to most of us. But our brothers and sisters live at war and risk of death; burdened by corrupt governments; alone – forgotten; in pain, unable to be fully themselves; abused, bullied, persecuted or threatened – living in fear; dying from lack of food, medicine, clean water or shelter. We remember them and ask what we can do to free them to sing your song again?
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying. ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!
Our heritage is the stories of Adam and Eve; Noah; Abraham; Moses; Jacob; David. Betrayal, greed, violence. Creation, mercy, rescue. We want to tell these stories in our own voices, our own language We want to feel part of this heritage. We want to pass your memory on.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying. ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!
Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.
It is so long since you walked among us. Since Moses saw your face. Since your prophets shouted your words.
And so we forget. We eat, work, maintain comfortable lives, fight our little battles. Build a safe corner for you. Remind us, whatever it takes, that we are a waiting people: a people not of this world. A people whose God gives them meaning.
And may our memories season our days like salt.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying. ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!
Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.
Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem’s fall, how they said, ‘Tear it down! Tear it down! Down to its foundations! O daughter Babylon, you devastator! Happy shall they be who pay you back what you have done to us! Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock!
We are ashamed this Psalm ends with such violence – is it in us too?
Perhaps not - but we are good at subtler cruelties: desiring others’ pain or humiliation; fascinated by others’ suffering; gossiping about misfortune; careless with the hearts of those who love and trust us; wilfully ignorant of our suffering neighbours. Obsessed with protecting ourselves at all cost; accepting of revenge; lacking your compassion.
You died in protest against our fear-driven violence. Most of all, we want to remember you. Your determination not to give into the ways of this world. The hope you offer in our darkest moments - because you knew darker and overcame.
We do not want to forget you.
We do not want our song to end in darkness.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
We have not been to Zion. And yet in our deepest being we feel something like a memory of it – a longing for a hidden kingdom. A memory of a place where we belong. And we weep for its loss.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
Is it possible to be creative in the face of loss? At times, we give up on life and worship. In pain, bereavement, betrayal, illness, abuse, loneliness, shattered hopes.
We want to live and play our music. We long for healing.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying: ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
We feel weak and guilty – mocked, at times. Sometimes, we are victims of circumstance. Sometimes, the mess is our own doing. So easily we let ourselves be overrun by selfishness, deceit, suspicion and greed. We feel like a joke, sometimes.
Forgive us. We do not want our songs of praise to seem ridiculous.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying: ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
This land is kind to most of us. But our brothers and sisters live at war and risk of death; burdened by corrupt governments; alone – forgotten; in pain, unable to be fully themselves; abused, bullied, persecuted or threatened – living in fear; dying from lack of food, medicine, clean water or shelter. We remember them and ask what we can do to free them to sing your song again?
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying. ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!
Our heritage is the stories of Adam and Eve; Noah; Abraham; Moses; Jacob; David. Betrayal, greed, violence. Creation, mercy, rescue. We want to tell these stories in our own voices, our own language We want to feel part of this heritage. We want to pass your memory on.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying. ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!
Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.
It is so long since you walked among us. Since Moses saw your face. Since your prophets shouted your words.
And so we forget. We eat, work, maintain comfortable lives, fight our little battles. Build a safe corner for you. Remind us, whatever it takes, that we are a waiting people: a people not of this world. A people whose God gives them meaning.
And may our memories season our days like salt.
By the Rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying. ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!
Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.
Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem’s fall, how they said, ‘Tear it down! Tear it down! Down to its foundations! O daughter Babylon, you devastator! Happy shall they be who pay you back what you have done to us! Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock!
We are ashamed this Psalm ends with such violence – is it in us too?
Perhaps not - but we are good at subtler cruelties: desiring others’ pain or humiliation; fascinated by others’ suffering; gossiping about misfortune; careless with the hearts of those who love and trust us; wilfully ignorant of our suffering neighbours. Obsessed with protecting ourselves at all cost; accepting of revenge; lacking your compassion.
You died in protest against our fear-driven violence. Most of all, we want to remember you. Your determination not to give into the ways of this world. The hope you offer in our darkest moments - because you knew darker and overcame.
We do not want to forget you.
We do not want our song to end in darkness.
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
117
Yes.
Praise God, you lands!
Laud him, you tribes,
Since steadfast love accomplished us:
survived all those, our ways.
Yes, you listeners, praise!
Praise God, you lands!
Laud him, you tribes,
Since steadfast love accomplished us:
survived all those, our ways.
Yes, you listeners, praise!
88
God, that can save me,
Your kingdom echoes night and day with my
Cry.
Choose to hear my plea:
Acknowledge me, and lend to me your ear
For I drown here in dark.
I am as dead,
Strewn strengthless, lifeless,
Splayed and anchorless, cloaked deep in blackness, gagging on earth.
Known not,
Forgot.
You
Have cast me down, to deepest depths of sorrow.
You
Weigh ocean anger on me, waves snatching unborn breath.
You
Fence off now scornful friends; pin down numb, reaching limbs.
See. Suffering my vision gags,
Yet still I call, all-straining voice and will and all.
For don’t you
Play wonders yet with death? Make graves places of praise?
Don’t you
Transform e’en hell with kindly love? With faith destroy despair?
Don’t you
Cause dark to shimmer, forge reflections of your glory?
Yet God, that can save me,
I ask for less. How can you breathe my sobbed out air?
Why
turn your face away - deem worthless this
my cause?
I’ve borne too long,
I creep beside myself for comfort from those terrors
That in tidal waves surround.
Now lover, friend, acquaintance turns his face,
Retreats with you
Up
Into space.
Your kingdom echoes night and day with my
Cry.
Choose to hear my plea:
Acknowledge me, and lend to me your ear
For I drown here in dark.
I am as dead,
Strewn strengthless, lifeless,
Splayed and anchorless, cloaked deep in blackness, gagging on earth.
Known not,
Forgot.
You
Have cast me down, to deepest depths of sorrow.
You
Weigh ocean anger on me, waves snatching unborn breath.
You
Fence off now scornful friends; pin down numb, reaching limbs.
See. Suffering my vision gags,
Yet still I call, all-straining voice and will and all.
For don’t you
Play wonders yet with death? Make graves places of praise?
Don’t you
Transform e’en hell with kindly love? With faith destroy despair?
Don’t you
Cause dark to shimmer, forge reflections of your glory?
Yet God, that can save me,
I ask for less. How can you breathe my sobbed out air?
Why
turn your face away - deem worthless this
my cause?
I’ve borne too long,
I creep beside myself for comfort from those terrors
That in tidal waves surround.
Now lover, friend, acquaintance turns his face,
Retreats with you
Up
Into space.
1
Glad is she can shun life’s godless guides,
Can keep from easy, barren tracks,
Can stand apart the cynic crowd:
Dares seek instead that Other’s tumbling, streamly deeps,
Relentless and attentive, loyally surrendered.
As Dryad, brook-banked, reaching up t’ward heav’n,
Appling autumn’s harvest, leafing spring’s wet green,
Fresh-scenting flabby rot and ash. In season. Out of season.
This loathing, they still bare up souls and faces
To the fiery sandstorm sun.
Too late, stiff boughs, awaked by flame,
Curse heav’nly rain’s return. As sandy tracks
Slide sickened, sinking, south.
Each pilgrim’s path is eyed by One
Whose tears, where bid, will fruit the driest skin:
Yet, shunned, cracked cheeks blow ceaseless, incomplete.
Can keep from easy, barren tracks,
Can stand apart the cynic crowd:
Dares seek instead that Other’s tumbling, streamly deeps,
Relentless and attentive, loyally surrendered.
As Dryad, brook-banked, reaching up t’ward heav’n,
Appling autumn’s harvest, leafing spring’s wet green,
Fresh-scenting flabby rot and ash. In season. Out of season.
This loathing, they still bare up souls and faces
To the fiery sandstorm sun.
Too late, stiff boughs, awaked by flame,
Curse heav’nly rain’s return. As sandy tracks
Slide sickened, sinking, south.
Each pilgrim’s path is eyed by One
Whose tears, where bid, will fruit the driest skin:
Yet, shunned, cracked cheeks blow ceaseless, incomplete.
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