This New Year, I’m picking up the occasional series, Sunday Retold. Many churches follow a set pattern of readings, so communities up and down the country are gathering around the same stories, the same prayers, and meditating on them together. Often, at least one of the passages appears in my retelling of the Bible, The Bible Story Retold, and so it seems a good idea to share that with you. If you’d like to use any of the material on this blog please do, and please say where you got it from. My books should be available to order at all the usual real life and online places.
Samuel Dedicated by Hannah at the Temple by Frank W.W. Topham
Anyway, this week is a story often shared with children – at least in part. The central character is the boy Samuel, son of Hannah. He was a much longed for child, who was given to the service of God in the temple at a very young age. Eli, the priest, was given charge of him.
The set reading is 1 Samuel 3:1-10, and here is my retelling:
The boy Samuel learned how to serve God in the shrine. And he slept by the lamp of God’s presence, close to the holy ark of the covenant. One night, in the darkness before dawn a voice called out, “Samuel, Samuel!” So Samuel got up and went to Eli, who was ond, with failing eyes. “Here I am! You called me!” Samuel said. Eli stirred. “I didn’t call you! Go back to sleep!” So he did. But there was the voice again. “Samuel, Samuel!” The boy got up again and went to Eli. “You called, and I came!” “No I didn’t call you. Go back to sleep.” But, when Samuel woke Eli a third time, he wondered what this voice could mean. Perhaps God was speaking. “Go back and lie down. If you are called again, say, ‘Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.'” So Samuel went back to bed and lay there, waiting, hardly daring to breathe. “Samuel, Samuel!” came the voice. Samuel remembered Eli’s words. “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening!” And so God spoke to Samuel. God said that the right to be priests would be taken away from Eli’s family, because his sons had donw wrong, and Eli had not stopped them. They would be punished. In the morning, Samuel had to tell his tacher what God had said. ”God is God, and will do what is best!” Eli sighed.
From The Bible Story Retold in Twelve Chapters
Often, when this passage is shared, the empasis falls on listening to God’s voice, and being ready to respond. We’ll get back to that in due course, but for now I’m following my immediate reaction to this passage today, and how it might help us navigate this difficult new season we’re in.
Samuel in the Temple by David Wilkie
What a message for a child to have to deliver to their high-status, powerful teacher – you and your line have fallen short of the standards expected of you, and your position will be taken away from you. It must have been terrifying for Samuel to have to speak up, even with Eli’s encouragement. I can imagine him shaking in his sandals. Although this story is often a Sunday School favourite, I don’t think many teachers and others in authority would be bold enough to encourage youngsters actively speaking up in condemnation of their elders. And yet, as so often, these stories show God’s leaning towards the powerless, the young, the outsider. So often, the perils of power, and the shortcomings of those who practice it, are central to this counter-cultural narrative. Indeed, as we follow on with Samuel’s story, of how the people of Israel ended up with a king, we see that pattern all the more strongly.
As a story of a child challenging conventional ideas of power, and who has it, the story of the boy Samuel sits well in the season. It’s one of the Epiphany stories in which the rich, the wise, the powerful humbly bow before a mother and child in a simple, working house. It also follows on well from Mary’s radical song in the early stages of her pregnancy, which in turn draws on the words of Hannah, Samuel’s mother, when she leaves her son in Eli’s care. I love the dense connections which imaginatively weave all this together, so rich patterns emerge from the threads. I love the way the lectionary puts things near each other, and then sees what connections and conversation arise like a good host.
And so, back to what struck me today on reading this passage – the wisdom of the child, the going astray of the elders and those in power. I thought of the prophesy “And a little child will lead them” (Isaiah 11.6), and how, today, the young who lives will stretch out far into this century are trying to shake us awake, to speak to us of those things which they care about and will affect their lives and the lives of their children. They see that the way we are living is doing harm, they see the injustice and the destruction more clearly than those of us who may have become immured to it. They see that the structures of power seem to protect the powerful and ride roughshod over those whom the scriptures speak highly of – the widow, the orphan, the outsider, the poor, the young, the old. We need those in power to be humble enough, like Eli, to hear their voices, and to act in their interests. Intergenerational justice is a concept that is coming alive now – especially in terms of debt, and the damage to the ecosystems on which we all depend. We need to pay attention to those who have no voice, and give due respect to the rest of the natural world, as well as to the young. Can we, at the beginning of this year, resolve to notice our natural bias towards the rich and powerful, and seek to listen to the young and the powerless? I think that would be good for us all.
Here in the UK, many have been moved, outraged, saddened and stirred to speak up by the ITV drama, Mr Bates vs The Post Office. It was a powerful drama, compassionately acted. I am always curious, though, about things which really catch the public mood – why this, why now? And I think part of it is the theme of people with power who feel immune and distant from the consequences of their actions, who listen to each other rather than to ordinary people – in this case their employees. I think there is a rising sense of injustice about how some are gathering so much to themselves, while others are stripped of what they have, and what they might come to have in the future too. And this injustice reminds me of the words of the prophets, including the child Samuel.
Of course, this passage carries many meanings, and this critique of power is one amongst many – but it is one that chimes with the biblical narrative as a whole. When we’re thinking of how we might live by it, another question naturally arises – how do we know, in a world of so many voices, which ones to heed? In this passage it is Eli who wonders whether the voice might be God. Yet history is littered with terrible tales of those who were convinced they were acting for God, or doing what was right, and going horribly wrong. Often the very worst things are done by those who claim good motives. And that should give us all pause. I touched on an exploration of this theme in my book, “Jesus said, I Am. Finding life in the everyday” in the chapter on Jesus, the good shepherd, when he talks about the flock knowing his voice.
Of course, knowing the voice, and distinguishing it from the voices of those who would lead us to harm, is no easy thing. I think it helps to come to a place where we don’t see the path ahead of us as a narrow tightrope – one false move and we are lost – but that we look for the relationship, and recognise the freedom to walk behind the shepherd, listening for the voice. ……. History is full of the mistakes people have made, thinking they are doing the right thing but going terribly wrong. I do not ee us going so wrong when we seek to follow the way of love, seeking to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus, and learning from him.
And so, noticing the topsy-turvy nature of the gospel, the way things are not what they seem, let’s be ready to listen, be ready to respond to those promptings and quiet voices which would guide us better than the pomp and power and authority which make so much noise and show.
Dear God, When we hear a mighty wind, strong enough to shatter roci, when the ground underneath us shakes like an earthquake, when fire comes from mountains, help us to know these sounds of power and anger are not your voice. Help us to listen in the silence for your whisper. Help us to wait for your whisper
Ely Cathedral’s powerful statue of Mary, by David Wynne
As we approach the third sunday of Advent, the word we turn to is Joy. And, as part of that turning to joy, many also remember Mary. In particular, her response to the angel’s message when she was invited to participate in this story of “God-with-us”… but more on that later.
As I look at this statue, I find Mary’s stance compelling. It is open and powerful, it feels like a “yes” which accepts and trusts what will be, even if it is beyond the mind’s understanding. Pictures of Mary often show her looking more afraid, more passive. This work captures a moment of glorious, positive choice. But there is something else. The slight downward tilt of her head seems to acknowledge the difficulties caught up in this acceptance, and the enormity of that choice. There is awe and vulnerability here too – vulnerability captured in that bare foot peeking out.
Among the fields and vineyards of Nazareth, in Galilee, lived a girl named Mary. She was soon to be married to Joseph, a carpenter, who could trace his family back to David, the shepherd king.
Then, one day, astonishing news burst into Mary’s quiet, hopeful life. The angel Gabriel came to her with a message. “God is with you, Mary!” Mary gasped, and fell to her knees. “Don’t be afraid. God smiles on you!” The angel spoke the astounding words gently, lovingly. “You will have a son and name him Jesus. He will be called great – the Son of the Most High God! The Lord God will give him the throne of his ancestor David, and his kingdom will never end!”
For a moment there was silence, as Gabriel’s words filled the air – and Mary’s mind. “But how can this be, as I am not yet married?” Mary asked. “God’s Holy Spirit will enfold you. Your child will be holy. Even Elizabeth, from your own family, is going to have a child, despite her age! She is now in her sixth month. So you see, nothing is impossible with God!”
Mary raised her eyes to Gabriel’s face. “I am God’s servant. Let it be as you say.” And the angel let her alone, her mind spinning with the strange words.
Then Mary thought of Elizabeth. “The angel knew all about her – I must go to her.” She got ready, and set off quickly for Elizabeth’s home in Judea to the south, near Jerusalem.
As soon as she arrived at the house, she hurried to Elizabeth and took her hands. At the sound of Mary’s voice, the baby leaped inside Elizabeth, and the Holy Spirit filled her. She understood at once what had happened to Mary.
“You are blessed among all women, and blessed is your unborn child!” she said. “Why have I been so honoured? Why should the mother of my Lord God come to visit me?” Elizabeth laughed, and put Mary’s hand on her belly. “You see how my child leaps for joy at the sound of your voice?”
Then, Mary speaks out extraordinary words, which in turn echo the words of Hannah when she said goodbye to her long-awaited son, Samuel (I Samuel 2) . You can read Mary’s words – the Magnificat – in my version here, and also more about Mary and Elizabeth’s time together.
It strikes me how deeply Mary entered into uncertainty, with her acceptance despite her questions – “how can this be?” She is setting out on a path that will cause her pain, but the angel’s words focus on a bigger picture, an unknowably big picture. There is a vision of what will be, the good that will come from her choice. There is tenderness and reassurance here as she asks the question, honouring her uncertainty, the impossibility of comprehending what this may mean. And there is also a gentle, tactful suggestion of a path to be taken. A path to her cousin Elizabeth – who is also caught up in this great bursting through of hope and joy into a world marked with difficulty and pain. And that path will bring her companionship with someone who will believe her, and will support her, and to whom she can offer love and encouragement in turn.
Sometimes, during Advent, we are also reminded of John the Baptist – Elizabeth’s son – and his question to Jesus when he was in prison: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?” You can read the account here. What I love about this reading is the way Jesus reassures John in a way he will understand, echoing the prophet Isaiah. There is a tenderness and deep compassion here too. We can almost hear an echo of their mothers’ relationship in this question, this uncertainty, and this reassurance. Jesus then goes on to speak to those listening who may, we presume, be shaken by John’s question – or critical of him for doubting. The compassion of Jesus’ response can reassure all of us. It is hard for us to understand, and doubt and question and uncertainty are here embraced and not feared.
So our focus on joy is one where joy can be experienced despite our frailties and uncertainties. It does not come with knowing the answers, having things all neatly wrapped up, but in the courage to enter into the mysterious life of something beyond and greater than ourselves. Perhaps here is the only place it can be found.
We mentioned Isaiah above. Here is part of the passage paired with the reading about John in the Church of England readings for this week. You can read it all here.
The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom. Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy. The glory of Lebanon will be given to it, the splendor of Carmel and Sharon; they will see the glory of the Lord, the splendor of our God.
Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way; say to those with fearful hearts, “Be strong, do not fear; your God will come, he will come with vengeance; with divine retribution he will come to save you.”
Then will the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Then will the lame leap like a deer, and the mute tongue shout for joy. Water will gush forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert. The burning sand will become a pool, the thirsty ground bubbling springs. In the haunts where jackals once lay, grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.
And a highway will be there; it will be called the Way of Holiness; it will be for those who walk on that Way.
Once again, we have a vision of how the world could be, restored and flourishing. A highway through the wetlands bursting with life, and even those who lack strength and steadiness will walk it.
We so need this vision of restoration and abundance. We need this vision of life and joy, of a better way of being in the world. And then we need to walk into it. We can be part of bringing it into being.
We thank you for being born among us, sharing with us what it is to be human. we thank you for showing us a way to live, full of grace and truth. Light up our path, and let us walk with you.
I’ve just discovered the beautiful Waterlands podcast from the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust, which is relevant to the greening of barren places. Why not listen?
It’s so hard to hold on to the theme of Peace as we prepare for Advent’s second Sunday. I can hardly bear to watch the news with the terrible conflict going on in the Middle East, in particular the stream of men running with injured children in their arms, seeking help, and the doctors doing the best they can with so little. We see the pain and waste of war, the agony of the faces of those who are bewildered and overwhelmed by what has come to them. The radio seems a better way for me to hear what’s going on, to try to keep informed and to understand. And I get to make that choice. For thousands, millons, of people, that choice is an unthinkable luxury – war is their ever present reality.
And yet, I hope and pray that there are those both compassionate and wise enough to look at the destruction and pain and see where there is a chink of light, the possibility of something coming after all this, that might grow towards peace. Peace is such a precious, precarious thing. And it sits alongside other things – justice, truth, hope. Those who work for these, the peacemakers, may they indeed by blessed.
Once again, we are engaged in a radical practice of seeing what could be alongside what is. As with the thoughts on Hope, we’re not trusting to wishful thinking, or pretending real obstacles to peace don’t block our way.
They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. “Peace, peace,” they say, when there is no peace.
Says Jeremiah . And I’m sure we all know the distress of having some deep issue dismissed, and peace proclaimed when what that means is people keeping silent about weighty matters. That is no peace. We are in search of something much more radical.
How to hold on to some kind of centre, some kind of Peace, in the midst of all that surrounds us? How to hold on to a centre, and to peace, in the midst of loss, and loneliness, and Christmas pasts too? This Sunday, the second of Advent, the theme of peace is much needed.
Once again, readings for this week turn to the prophets. A longer meander through the section of Isaiah we read from below will reveal much that preceeds the talk of peace. There are words which seek to uncover injustice and untruth, addressing past conflicts and wrongdoings. This isn’t peace which seeks to bandage over matters that need deeper healing, this is peace as a result of a long process of radical transformation. It’s a vision of the dream of God for the world. Of the growth and new life possible in things which seem beyond hope of greening.
A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.
The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them. The cow will feed with the bear, their young will lie down together, and the lion will eat straw like the ox. The infant will play near the cobra’s den, and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest. They will neither harm nor destroy on all my holy mountain, for the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.
Isaiah 11: 1-2, 6-9
I am very struck by the image of the tree stump – cut down, presumed dead, or unproductive – springing back into life. We see again the hope in even the most hopeless situations, the determination of life. Many have looked back at these words of Isaiah and seen the coming of Jesus in them. In the shoot springing up, and in the little child who will gently lead. Born into most unpromising circumstances – homeless (at least temporarily), under enemy occupation and the cruel rule of a local puppet tyrant – there is a deep promise of peace and hope in the coming of Jesus. This new growth will take a suprising form. This dream of a new world will grow under the surface, in hearts and lives. Appearences are deceptive.
Even my beautiful dead cotoneaster, picture at the top of this post, harbours life. Although the plant itself hasn’t sprung up from dead roots, other things have. Birds perched in the branches, dropping seeds, and now the light has reached the ground, things are growing. And the dead wood is a haven for so many small creatures. I wrote about the tree here.
And deeper, and further into the prophecy, we have the harmony of all creatures, including humans, living at peace. We have an ecology of plenty and playfulness, of trust and abundance. As we meditate on the possibilities of peace, and the world as it may be, can we catch a vision of what that might be like? We see destruction visited on the land, on on life, by war, and by destructive ways of being in the world. As we think about the stump of the tree of Jesse, I’m reminded of the number of trees, the whole landscapes and ecosystems, that have been lost, how might these words speak into that situation with hope, justice and peace?
You might consider writing down your own vision for how such a just, peaceful, restorative, abundant world might appear. You might wish to pray “Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” from the Lord’s Prayer. What comes to mind as you pray that bold and transformative prayer? And as we pray, so we seek to live. How might we live this week in response to this vision, this dream, this prayer? It may seem too hard in current circumstances. It might be too hard. Yet there is this promise of the coming of the Prince of Peace. Maybe we can hold on to that.
And as we do so, we could turn to this week’s gospel reading. Trees come up here, too….. John the Baptist, preparing the way for the ministry of his cousin Jesus, speaks of knowing trees by their fruit. What their lives produce.
Under the white heat of the sun, far from shade, the murmuring crowds gathered. Some had walked through city streets, others through fields and vineyards, but all had come out into the stony, dusty Desert of Judea to see one person. It was John, son of Zechariah, who stood by the river Jordan.
John was no polished performer – he looked wild, dressed in rough clothes of camel hair held together by a leather belt. He was thin, eating only the locusts and wild honey he could find in the desert. But his words were full of power, full of life and holiness. He called out in a loud voice “Repent! Turn your lives around and come back to God! His kingdom is near. Come and be washed clean!” And many came forward, full of sorrow for the wrongs they had done, and John baptized them in the River Jordan.
There some among the religious leaders who came and joined the crowds to look holy in front of everyone else – they thought they were good enough already, and had no real need to change. “You snakes!” the Baptist spat: “We can tell what you are like by what you do – just as you can tell a tree by its fruit. Don’t think you can fool anyone with show-religion!”
But most who came were hungry for a new beginning. For John taught them to hope. In his words, they caught a glimpse of something beyond their everyday lives. They understood that John the Baptist was preparing the way for something, or someone, astonishing. “I baptize you with water, for repentance. But you wait. There is one coming after me who is so much greater. I am not even fit to carry his sandals for him. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire – a baptism that will wash you inside out.”
In Luke’s Gospel, we get an insight into what this preparation for the one who is to come might look like in practice
“Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” And the crowds asked him, “What then shall we do?” In reply he said to them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” …..
Luke 2:9-11
We remember the Advent traditions of giving – not just to friends and relations, but to others as they have need. What John the Baptist is calling people to, to prepare for the coming of the Kingdom of God, looks a lot like sharing, like generosity of spirit, as we are able. Perhaps this is a way towards Peace. As our readings take us closer to Christmas, to the birth of the one who we have been waiting for – springing up like a new shoot – we will find a clearer focus on the Prince of Peace who is to come, and the way of peace he walked.
Hope, and Peace
Perhaps we can make time to keep our eyes open for signs of new growth in the winter gloom, when all seems cold. Are there shoots appearing? Are there signs of new life? Can we pursue peace by looking for justice, and by sharing as far as we are able? We can share kindness, and patience, and perhaps a smile to cheer someone’s day. Perhaps we can do more than that. If we have the choice to simplify things for ourselves, we may find we have a little room to share with others. Might that be a path to a more peaceful Christmas?
Wherever you are in your Christmas preparations today, may you know Peace.
This photo is of an apparently dead, flailed hazel hedge near where I live. Despite this treatment, it has put out some new growth. How many years it’ll withstand such an onslaught, I don’t know. But I am heartened to see the new shoot growing up from a very unpeaceful process. You can read more about the hedge here.
As a small stone, dropped in a pool, sends ripples to its furthers edges, help us know our small actions of love and kindness can do great good. … Help us do the good things we can, trusting you will use them.From Prayers and Verses
On the subject of trees, Eden online bookshop has a few copies of my children’s picture book available….
Waking up this morning, on the first day of Advent, there’s the lightest dusting of snow on the ground. The sun shines, and late autumn leaves glow even as the wind blows down from the north with its biting edge and splinters of ice. Apparently, short eared owls have been blowing in from Scadinavia, but I don’t think they’ve got as far south as Suffolk yet. So, it does feel like the seasons are changing, that Winter is here, and Advent comes along with its glimpses of Hope. Tradition has it that’s the theme of the first Sunday of this season, and that seems a good place to start. Our current Decembers are some distance from the old practices of having Advent as a time of quiet, reflective, waiting – a little like Lent before Easter. It’s so at odds with the flashing lights and loud shops and busyness, that understanding, but we can perhaps catch moments where those wintering practices are possible, and might help us….. pools of quiet light where we can breathe and think, where the cold sharpens our perceptions.
I’m also intrigued by the more medieval practice of putting yourself in the place of the people of Israel as they waited, not quite knowing what they were waiting for. Of not naming Jesus and Christmas, but instead allowing what we long for to be recognised and owned and prayed and worked for. In our context we join so many people throughout history who have felt the future to be shifting and uncertain, and who have longed for a kinder, gentler and more beautiful world. Taking some time to know and feel what we lack, what kind of world and lives we desire, might help us too face a troubling future with some courage and determination.
So Hope is a good place to begin.
Ah, hope. I’ve been turning over in my mind what it means to nurture hope in a world which seems increasingly unstable in climate and economics and culture. I’ve settled, for now, on making a distiction between hope and optimism. So, for me, I’m thinking of optimism as an opinion that things will work out. Something tied to outcomes. I see hope as a stance, an attitude of the heart and spirit, that it’s always worth looking for what brings life, for what is good. It does not require us to be naive about the dangers and difficulties around and within us. We are called to be as wise as serpents, and as gentle as doves – Matthew’s gospel.
Nonetheless, it’s worth working as if the world-as-it-could/should-be is here, emerging amongst us, small as the signs and growth may be. Not a glib avoidance strategy that it’s all fine, really, it’s all going to be fine…. but as a deliberate and courageous stance. I remember being very struck, on reading the Gospels at school as a teenager, with how the message I heard was about how the Kingdon of God was already here, or close at hand, or within and among us – a real and emerging presence, despite the very real difficulties. With the cost of living crisis bringing fear and hardship, and with the climate noticiably more unstable, we need courageous hope that’s prepared to work to refashion things around us in defiance of what we see. There is real power in such acts.
The picture of the bulbs and the bookmark at the top of this post relates to an action I took with some friends in our local high street to coincide with COP 26. We handed out bulbs and bookmarks, and encouraged people to think about ways they could plant hope. You can read more about that here. My last post shares a sliver of a project which is coincing with this year’s conference.
As Advent begins, we re-read the words of the prophets together. They often spoke into desperate, unpromising circumstances with a mixture of a vision to hold in our hearts, and actions for our hands to do. Those actions can be prophetic themselves, speaking out and making plain God’s dream for the world – a beautiful, hopeful vision strong enough to withstand hard times – brave enough to choose to be born to a poor family, who sheltered in a stable, and had to run from a murderous tyrant. This is how hope was offered to the world, in the infant Jesus.
During this Advent series, I’ll share with you some extracts from my books. Here’s something from The Bible Retold , as the retelling of the Hebrew scriptures comes to an end, and we look forward..
As the walls were rebuild, so were the people. For God was building them into a new kind of kingdom. Isaiah the prophet wrote: “This is how to truly serve me: unbind people who are trapped by injustice, and lift up those who are ground down. Share your food with the hungry, and clothe the cold – that is how to live in the light!”
The people listened to his words of bright hope. “There is much darkness in the world, but your light is coming! All nations will be drawn to you, and they, too, will shine!” ….
“A child is born to us, a son is given. Authority will rest on his shoulders, and his names will be Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His kingdom, his peace, will roll across the lands, and he will reign on the throne of David for ever.”
We give thanks for the work that is being done right now, in our communities, to clothe, and feed, and seek justice. May we have the courageous vision to join with that work of light.
The days are dark, Dear God, give us your true light.
The days are dark, Dear God, give us your true life.
The days are dark. Dear God, give us your true love.From Prayers and Verses
The Advent Candle Ring is from the good people at The Chapel in the Fields It gives me great pleasure to know that the oak at the base was once a lectern, and the lighter wood on top a dining table. The words written around it are from the ancient chants, the “O” Antiphons. These chants came into being when people did not call for Jesus to come at Christmas, but instead used names from the Prophets – like Emmanuel, God with us – to name their hopes. The first few centuries of the Christian Era saw these great prayers, the “O” Antiphons, sung during Advent, calling on Christ to come now, and to come again. You can listen to the old chant, and read Malcolm Guite’s sonnet which draws on it, and much more, here.
This coming week, let’s hold on to hope, look for signs of the life of God breaking through, and see where we can be part of that move towards a more beautiful, loving, hopeful world.
I’ve noticed that a number of you are turning to these poems as we approach Easter. Thank you for reading them, and I do hope they are helpful to you as you begin to meditate on Good Friday, and prepare for sharing that time with others – families, groups and congregations. Please do feel free to use and share them, saying where you found them. I love to hear about that.
Below the poems, you’ll find some links to other posts on this blog that you might find helpful too.
Father forgive them, for they know not what they do
We don’t know what we do, from the careless word that starts a fire of anger, to the careless killing of a butterfly – who knows what wide effects, what winds and rains, begin and end with just one death?
We walk in darkness, so often, and so often, we close our eyes, we do not wish to know. And Jesus, seeing this, that his life would end with angry shouts, with fearful washing of hands, with indifferent playing of dice, Knowing all this, even so, he bore our lawful unthinking violence, our blundering disregard for consequences. Another would pay for our actions.
Yet as the ripple of our acts flows out, through the world, who knows where, so too, now, flows forgiveness, following on, spreading and transforming, watering dry ground, lifting burdens and carrying them away.
2
Truly I say to you today you will be with me in paradise
Even as he hung upon the cross, even with blood from that false crown running down, not wiped away, he saw the two men at his side,
One joined in mocking with the priests and soldiers, speaking from his pain, and one did not, this second kept his eyes on something else – a hope.
A hope the one he looked on was a king, and of a kingdom where such things as crosses are not lifted up, a hope, even, of an end to death and pain – this pain, this death.
And, ah, his king begins to speak, of paradise. What a world to gift him dying there. A word of such sweetness, freedom, peace. See – clear water flowing, and flowers, hear the sound of birds, the lazy buzz of insects, the flutter of their wings.
What a word, at your end, to hold to, to capture our beginning, once again. But even more than this, to be with him, beside the king, seen and known, held in the loving gaze of one who hung up on the cross. Might this, even this, be paradise?
3
Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother
And still he sees, looks down towards the one who bore him, bearing this, the pain – not her own pain – worse, the pain of watching one you love twisting on those wooden beams, the nails piercing her own flesh too.
The time has come when all the treasure of her heart is broken open, scattered, lying in the dirt. What use to hold in mind the words of angels, the wealthy gifts brought by the wise, what preparation Simeon’s warning, when now she sees his agony with her eyes. But she is not alone, his friend sees too. John, who writes it down, bears witness, even here, even so. They turn their gaze upon each other and see each other with new eyes – a mother, and a son. Gifting them each other – his one last act of love, this giving, from an empty cup. This task of care can be ours too, to behold each other in our pain, and in our sorrow, walk each other home
4
My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?
You felt your generous heart forsaken, you felt the absence of the one who helps, who was beside you, in the beginning, who knew you from before first light.
We know too well the sparseness of your isolation, without light, and companionless, in the darkness of our own long night. And yet, within our dark, we find you there, Find you have waited for us long days, and years, while our poor eyes have grown accustomed to the dark, have learned at last to see you through our tears. So as you know our pain and feel it, you break our separation with your own. Help us see the forsaken all around us, invisible and in darkness, but seen by you. May we seek each other in the dark, May we have courage to cry out, like you, and so be found.
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I thirst
The well is deep, and you have nothing to draw with. Where now that living water? Where is that spring within you, gushing up to fullness of life? Do you remember, now, the woman by the well? Your deepening talk of thirst and water, as now, again, you humbly ask another for a drink – this time, a sponge of sour wine?
Do you remember too, as the taste dries on your lips, that wedding feast, where water changed to finest wine? The richness and fullness of that beginning soured to this cold bitterness.
You are our source, the spring of all our rivers and still you thirst like us, need help to drink. And so give us this grace, that as we do for the least of these, we may know we do for you.
May we see you in each thirsty face.
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It is finished.
All things come to an end. Even pain like this, Even the anger and the cruelty of a crowd, of us all, even the certainty of those so certain of God they hang a man upon a tree. Even the punishment and scapegoating even violence, even death. The work is done. It has all been borne. You have poured out your love, your life. You have carried our sorrows, suffered under our iniquities.
Your head bowed now, you sink into the final pain of nails, your body bears no more, having borne all. The work is done.
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Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit
There is darkness now, deep darkness, over the face of the deep, and no hovering like a brooding bird, instead, the temple curtain torn in two, from top to bottom, and the Holy of Holies empty.
God is not found there, but here, with this dying man on a tree, He calls out father, and talks of hands, and we remember what his own hands have done, how many were healed by their touch, raised up and restored from cruelty and death, and now, he too will be held in loving hands, a reconciliation beyond our grasp, a trust even at this moment of last breath.
Dying, he taught us to die, dying he brought us life. May we be reconciled, may we know at our end, the comfort of those hands.
Once again, we’re having a strange time of preparation for Christmas. With so much uncertainty about the virus, and some confusion about plans, and travel, I’ve been finding it hard to think I’ll really be able to see loved ones this year…. but so far, it’s looking like it might all still be possible.
And as I woke up this morning, I thought about how uncertain, and bewildering, Mary and Joseph’s situation was at that first Christmas. How much it was, in the end, about God being with us even in the most unpromising situations. For them, it was hardly shining tinsel all tied up with a bow, but the gift of a child born far away from their home was the most profound blessing, after all.
So, whatever ends up happening, I’m trying to hold on to that thought, to steady myself and ready myself as best I can.
May you have a peaceful and blessed Christmas, wherever you are.
The Roman Emperor, Caesar Augustus, had ordered a census throughout the whole empire, when all the people would be counted, and taxed. The orders spread along straight Roman roads, and were proclaimed first in the white marble cities and ports, and then in the towns and villages of the countryside.
Even quiet Nazareth heard the news, and Mary and Joseph began to gather together their belongings, ready to travel to Bethlehem. That was Joseph’s family home: he was descended from King David, of Bethlehem. They set off south on the crowded road, for the whole empire was travelling. But, for Mary, the journey was especially hard, and the road seemed never ending. It was nearly time for her baby to be born.
At last they came to Bethlehem, but it was not the end of their troubles. The city was noisy, bustling, and heaving with crowds, and Joseph searched anxiously for somewhere quiet for Mary to rest – her pains were beginning, and the baby would be born that night. The inn was already full of travellers, and the only place for them was a stable. There, among the animals, Mary gave birth to her firstborn son, and wrapped him up tightly in swaddling bands and laid him in a manger full of hay. Then, she rested next to the manger, smiling at the baby’s tiny face.
There were shepherds who lived out on the hills nearby – the same hills where King David had once watched over the flocks, long ago. The sheep were sleeping in their fold under the shining stars, while the shepherds kept watch. Their fire flickered and crackled, and the lambs would bleat for their mothers, but they were the only sounds. All was peaceful. All was well.
Suddenly, right there in the shepherd’s simple camp, appeared and angel of the Lord, shining with God’s glory and heaven’s brightness. The shepherds gripped each other in terror, their skin prickling with fright. “Don’t be afraid, I’m bringing you good news – it will bring joy to all people!” The shepherds listened, awestruck, their faces glowing with the angel’s light. “This is the day the good news begins, and this is the place. In the town of David, a saviour has been born. He is Christ, the Anointed One, the one you have been waiting for. And this is the sign that these words are true: you will find a baby wrapped tightly in swaddling bands, lying in a manger.”
The shepherds watched as light was added to light, voice to voice, until they were surrounded by a dazzling, heavenly host of angels, all praising God and saying “Glory! Glory to God in the highest, And on the earth be peace!”
And then, in an instant, the angels were gone, and the shepherds were left in dark night shadows, listening to the sound of a distant wind. But their eyes still shone with heaven’s light. “Let’s go and see for ourselves!” they called to one another as they raced over the dark, rocky fields to Bethlehem. There, they found Mary and Joseph, and, just as the angel had said, they found the baby wrapped tightly in swaddling bands and lying in a manger. They saw him with their own eyes, and spread the angel’s message to all they met. “The Promised One has come! The Christ, the Anointed One, has been born!” The angel’s words were on everyone’s lips that night in Bethlehem. And, as the shepherds made their way back to their sheep, bursting with good news, Mary kept their words safe, like treasures, in her heart.
What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb; If I were a wise man I would do my part; Yet what I can, I give Him – Give my heart. Christina Rosetti 1830-1894
Also from Prayers and Verses, a poem I wrote as a child.
The dawn is breaking, the snow is making everything shimmer and glimmer and white.
The trees are towering, the mist is devouring all that is in the reaches of sight.
A bell is ringing, the town is beginning, slowly, gradually, to come to life.
A candle is lighted, and all are excited, for today is the ending of all man’s strife.
The light is coming into the world.
Please feel free to use the extracts, saying where they are from.
Saturday 6th November was the mid point of COP 26, and a Day of Action where we could add their voices to the thousands gathered in Glasgow. Here in Woodbridge, a few organisations had got together to plan a march, and it soon became apparent that many were interested in joining them. So, Woodbridge Churches Together, Transition Woodbridge and the local Womens Institute did an excellent job – all working together to organise and hold a peaceful, purposeful, inspiring community action.
Photo by Charmian Berry
There were about 300 of us, which is quite a turn out for a small town. The atmosphere was energising and determined and also celebratory. There was music and speeches to inspire, and to remind us of some of the things that are already going on in the town, and the much more that could be done. We looked forward for ways to proceed, to work locally for a better and fairer place for all, as well as how to continue to let our voices be heard.
As is becoming a tradition in our town, people could leave their banners to be tied to the railings of the Shire Hall, reminding the Town Council of the strength of feeling.
Photo by Councillor Caroline Page
My home-made placard was double sided. Here’s the front… you might be able to see it hanging up.
One of the very positive things about a march in your local commuity is that many of us knew each other. Already, I’ve been having conversations with old friends and acquaintances who were there, and beginning to nudge forward to what we might want to do together to help green our local place even more.
All this was in the afternoon. In the morning, I, and a few friends, were in the Thoroughfare, our main shopping street, having a small happening. Some of you who have followed this blog for a while may remember that last year I had an idea of giving out bulbs and bookmarks, inviting people to Plant Hope. You can read about it following the link. It’s so good that this year, the time seemed right to do it. Having the support of a few friends made all the difference. It was so good having the chance to talk to people about hope in difficult times, about the power of plants and nature to help us in our crisis. A very moving morning.
Photo by Jacquie Tricker
As you can see, by the time we got round to taking a photo, nearly all the bulbs and bookmarks had gone!
There was another aspect to our happening though. If you look at the tree, you’ll see some cardboard leaves. We invited passers by to write down their hopes, dreams and fears for the environment and hang them on the tree. We’ve gathered them up, and are in the process of turning them into a poem to send to our politicians, both local and national, and to others. It’s very moving to see what people young and old have written. It’ll be called November Leaves, and I’ll be sharing more with you on that in due course.
It was a wonderful, hopeful, sad day, a day of coming together in community, which is a thing I’ve missed very much.
It also felt like the beginning of closer engagement for many, with many organisation coming together for the common good.
Last year, I just made this one bookmark. This year, I could have given away twice as many as I made. How things grow.
My friend Jacquie has published an excellent article about eco anxiety and anger, and the power of finding your tribe – people you can work with to take some action. It talks about this march and action, which we did together. You can find it by following the link here.
Last year, I gathered together some links for poems, readings and prayers here on my blog. All of them, on the theme of the road to Easter, are included in this revised post. I’ve also added some links to additional material. You will find sections for different days, with links included. I’ve noticed that quite a few people have been looking at Holy Week and Easter posts, and I’m really grateful for the interest. Thank you for joining me here. I hope you find this update helpful. I’ve also been contacted by some churches in the USA asking if they can use my poems in their online services. I am very happy to share my writing in this way. It really helps me if you acknowledge my authorship, and this blog as the source. It is a real encouragement if you feel able to post a comment about how you have used the material, and also how it went. I do love reading those!
I really didn’t think, when I gathered this stuff together last year, we’d still be keeping these holy days at home, or on zoom, or in very small gatherings, this year. But, as we are, I hope you find what follows useful. At the end, I share a link to a poem I posted for last Easter Sunday, which deals with the themes of being shut away. I wonder if this second strange Easter season may continue to give us some new insight into the isolation and separation recorded in the Gospel accounts.
This season of Holy Week and Easter is filled with realism and hope. It looks darkness, despair, violence and loss full in the face, unflinchingly. And then, it shows something new and good arising. It shows us a strange, unsettling hope for new life. It shows this hope birthed in a tomb. I think our recent collective and solitary experience may help us understand more deeply.
Perhaps we can focus on an inner journey, something quieter, more contemplative. As we do so, we may find, as many have before, that we get to a place of deeper connection, more grounded truth, fuller love. We may find new meaning in Jesus’ teaching and example – how he let things fall away, how he found himself alone, how he loved and forgave even so.
Please feel free to use any of the resources you find helpful, and to share them, saying where they are from.
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The links will take you to blog posts where you will find extracts from my books, too. The books include:
You may have local bookshops open – if you do, they can order these for you. Otherwise, they are available wherever you usually do your online bookshopping. The links above take you to Bookshop.org, which supports local bookshops in the UK.
The Retold thread of my blog gives you sections from my book, “The Bible Story Retold in Twelve Chapters”, and “Prayers and Verses” that sits alongside it. They are good for all ages, and have been used in all age worship, Messy Church, and care homes alike.
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The House at Bethany, the Raising of Lazarus
Many spend time with this Gospel story in Holy Week. It’s a story that means a great deal to me. You can find some links below.
Here you will find the readings, and some things to ponder, as well as one of my Mary at your feet poem. If you would like to focus on the poetry, you could go here:
Other Holy Week stories – You can find these in Chapter 11 of my retelling – both editions: The Bible Story Retold, and The Lion Classic Bible, which share the same text. The second of these has lovely illustrations by Sophie Williamson.
Prayers and Verses also has a section in Chapter 11 called The Road to Good Friday, which you might find useful.
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Maundy Thursday – The Last Supper, Jesus washes their feet.
Last year, I wrote a series of poems for Good Friday, which were used in a number of churches near where I live. It was a great honour to be able to do this. I put together a recording and posted it on Youtube, and there’s a link to that below. I also compiled a suggestion for a Good Friday Meditation, with links to music and the poems. It’s all here, I hope it helps!
Today, I’m sharing with you an extract of my retelling of the Story of the Magi – the Wise Men. Today is the day we celebrate their arrival, and their gifts. You can read a previous year’s bog post here – where I write of how so many different people came to know about the birth of Jesus in so many different ways. How attentiveness can lead to the joy of finding a King, a hope, even in the most unpromising circumstances.
Today, I’ve been mulling over the ways we can fail to see. In this story, people fail to see – or see and profoundly miss the point. There is Herod, insecure in all his power and wealth, seeing only a challenge to him personally. Unaware, as they all are, of how this is a different kind of king altogether, he responds with fear, and manipulative cruelty. He knew of the birth, but could not see beyond his own enclosing neediness. His sight turns inward. And then there are the experts in the law. They knew, too, in the sense that they pored over the scrolls and could give and answer to Herod’s questions, but they don’t seem to have done anything good with that knowledge. On the contrary, they share their knowledge with Herod, and so contribute to the terrible sequel to this story. They did not seek out the new Messiah as far as we are told – I wonder why not? Were they so caught up with their own study of the scriptures that they did not step outside to see what new work of God was opening so close by? Were they so caught up in the service of Herod, or at least their influence with him, that they could not see outside the wealth and power of that palace? Were they afraid?
We don’t know. What we can see, throughout the Christmas stories, is how God is at work in places and in people you would not expect. And, if we look to the religious experts, and those in power – Herod and these experts in scripture – we find they are so full of their own power, their own position, they are unable to see this glorious new thing.
But let’s not stay in Herod’s court. Let’s journey in strange and wise company, looking to the star to guide us. Let’s enter the house where the child Jesus and his mother are, and lay what we have before this most extraordinary of kings. Let us open our eyes to the unexpected, and look for God to be at work.
Far away from Jerusalem, in a land to the east, wise men looked up at the clear night skies above the desert and saw a star rising. For years they had studied the movements of the stars and planets, and they had never seen anything like this before. They unrolled their charts and plotted its path. “This means a new king has been born to the Jews!” they said to each other, as they gave hurried orders to their servants to prepare for a journey. When these strangely dressed foreigners arrived in Jerusalem, they began to ask “Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews?” Troubled rumours spread through the city, for there had been no proclamation of any birth. King Herod the Great’s advisors approached him nervously. “Your Majesty, strangers from the east have arrived in the city. They are searching for a child who they say has been born King of the Jews. They saw a sign in the heavens!” Herod caught his breath, and turned white with fear. He had been given that title himself by the authority of Rome, building palaces and the great Temple to spread his fame. What kind of king was coming to challenge him? Then he asked his advisors “Where is the Messiah, the Anointed One, to be born?” The scholars unrolled the scroll of the prophet Micah, and read out loud: “Bethlehem will no longer be the least important of the towns. For from it will come a leader who will rule my people Israel like a shepherd-king.”
“Bethlehem, eh?” murmured Herod. He gave orders for the wise men to be invited to the palace. He listened to their tale of the star with keen interest, nodding and smiling as if he were delighted at the news. He told them all about Bethlehem. “Go and find the child, then please send a message so I can join you in your worship. What wonderful times these are!” Herod hid his crooked smile. As the wise men set off from the cool marble and mosaics of the palace, they looked up at the sky once more. And there was the star, guiding them to Bethlehem. They followed, and found the child with his mother, Mary. She was astonished to receive such guests – who bowed low, and spoke of her son with reverence, and unwrapped precious gifts to lay at their feet.
She unclasped the caskets one by one. The first shone, it was full of gold. The second opened to a rich, sweet smell. “The smell of the Temple,” Mary murmured to herself. It was frankincense, used in worship. The third contained an earthy, dark, resin. It was myrrh, more valuable than gold, used in burials, and for healing. Mary looked up at her visitors, and thanked them for these extraordinary, extravagant gifts as the smell of the incense and the myrrh hung in the air about them.
The wise men did not send word to Herod in Jerusalem, for that night, they were troubled in their dreams about him. They paid attention to the warning, as they had to the star. So they slipped away, avoiding the city, to cross the desert once more.
Lord Jesus, The wise men brought you gold: Let us use our riches to do good.
The wise men brought you frankincense: Let our prayers rise like smoke to heaven.
The wise men brought you myrrh: Let us seek to comfort those who are sad and grieving.
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Let there be little Christmases throughout the year, when unexpected acts of kindness bring heaven’s light to earth.
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What can I give him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb; If I were a wise man I would do my part; Yet what I can I give him – give my heart.
Here, I’m reblogging some thoughts for the third Sunday of Advent, as we draw closer to Christmas.
This week’s theme is Joy, and we consider the way joy and difficulty might be held together. We also think about how the presence of another person can help that holding. This year, that’s hard, but I’m greatly encouraged by the imaginative and determined way we’re seeking to connect with each other, even when it’s far from ideal. I have also noticed how very precious these apparently small meetings are, how amplified in their capacity to sustain us.
Small gestures, small connections, with neighbours and friends and people far away, really matter.
I love this contemporary statue of Mary in the ancient setting of Ely Cathedral’s Lady Chapel. I love the bright, pure colours of blue and gold, which are probably much closer to the original look than the current mellow stone. Most of all, I love her stance. It is open, powerful, ready to receive the extraordinary gift that was promised her. It is joyful – with a joy that acknowledges the reality of the difficulties to come, I feel.
Once again, this week, we have a powerful word – Joy – as our theme. Once again, we are aware that our immediate circumstances may not point to joy, but to sadness, or anxiety, or emptiness. Once again, we see examples in the stories of Christmas where people have faced great difficulty, as Mary must have done with her unexplained pregnancy. The consequences…
Mary by David Wynne, Lady Chapel, Ely Cathedral 
Andrea Skevington 