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faith
Sunday Retold: Who – The Transfiguration
I’m working away at my collection of poems, The Year’s Circle, weaving together the seasons of the year and the seasons of the readings many churches follow. And we’re coming up to the story we call the Transfiguration – when three of his friends see Jesus in an otherworldly, shining – vision? or what was it? – with Moses and Elijah from the Hebrew Scriptures. It’s a pivot point in the gospel accounts, important and central, and also strange.
Some have interpreted this event as a revelation of Jesus’ true identity, and perhaps a foreshadowing of the resurrection appearances, and perhaps a glimpse of the Universal Christ – a theme explored by Richard Rohr in his book of that name.
As usual, there is no explanation, no interpretation in the gospel accounts. And there’s something about the event which encouraged me to explore the way it asks questions of us – what we think is really real, and really lasting. How we see – do we see glory? Do we see cloud? Those explorations reminded me of the medieval work, The Cloud of Unknowing, and how beneficial it is to be open and patient with things that are beyond our understanding. It feels like a story to sit with in contemplation, expanding our way of seeing, inviting us into a deeper and truer experience.
Earl Mott’s painting of the Transfiguration
When I was reading Luke’s account I was struck, as I often am, by his ordering of the events. There seems to be a theme emerging, with questions of who Jesus was, and also, what greatness might mean. And so I wrote a short series picking up those themes and exploring them. There are other events woven through that are not covered by the following sequence of poems – the Feeding of the Five Thousand, for instance – which is developing a sequence all of its own.
If you are looking for something to use in your devotions or public worship for the Feast of the Transfiguration (on 6th August), the parts stand alone, and can be used singly. But I was intrigued by the flow of ideas and wanted some space to ponder them on the page. I began with Herod, troubled and awkward in his guilt, and moved through the stories to the little child, standing in the midst of them.
So, here it is….. four poems following a trail.
Who?
Luke 9, Matthew 16-18
I Herod
Herod found you a
question he did not
know how to answer.
Perplexed, he heard
whispers that you
were John back from
the dead, a ghost to
stalk his conscience,
shock his dreams,
or the great Elijah,
or another prophet.
He sought you out, he tried
to see you. Perhaps to
ask you who you were.
What might have been,
what could have been,
if he had met you then?
II Peter’s confession
You asked those who knew you best,
Who do they say I am?
and
Who do you say I am?
To the first, they gave the
answers that blew in the air
like smoke, whispers that
swirled dark around
Herod’s palace, and
through courts and crowds.
John the Baptist, back from the dead.
Elijah. One of the prophets.
And to the second – a moment’s
pause, an intake of breath,
a strangeness rising – to be
asked to name, to more than name,
one they knew daily, and loved,
and still, barely understood.
How to give answer
to such a question?
But Peter did. The vast
words formed in his mouth.
He called you Messiah,
the Christ, the anointed one.
How good it is to be seen,
to be known, to be understood.
How warmed you were by those words.
Enough to give him a new name –
Rock – and a new identity – foundation stone.
For all his impulsiveness, changeability,
you knew him as deeper, and truer.
And yet a sadness enters here.
The anointed one does not
walk in greatness.
The road you will take is
hard and stony. A way of weeping.
And a warning enters too –
those who consider themselves
God’s guardians will subject
you to death, yet death
will not hold you.
Such words cannot
be borne. Such an
upending, a
contradiction,
such pain.
They fall to the earth
like so many
hard-shelled seeds,
trodden into the dirt
and snatched up by
dark, shining beaks.
Sometimes our seeing falls away
and we catch a glimpse of
deeper truth. We say we see the light
Away from everyday thinking,
on the mountain, in prayer,
weighted with sleep.
Perhaps we see a beloved face
lucent in sudden light.
But here, on this mountaintop,
three friends lifted up their eyes
and saw – what shall we say?
to whom shall we compare him?
Shining like the sun, as white
as light, as bright as lightning –
the one they walked with,
ate with, laughed with.
Was it like the lifting of a veil, or
perhaps a dragonfly splitting his
dark skin to emerge a jewel?
Was it a peering through
the door of heaven, or
coming to see the glory
of things here, and now?
I do not know.
I do know it feels
a moment of endless truth.
And in that moment, Jesus,
Elijah and Moses do
not speak of the glory
that blazes around them,
they talk of the pain that
is to come – as ones
who can understand.
I hope there was some
comfort in it.
Something like comfort
too in the sightless
seeing cloud,
shekinah,
that reveals how we
do not and cannot see –
God is beyond us
And yet is with us,
as close as mist
filling our lungs,
beading on our skin,
as close as one we love.
And then they hear that true voice
speaking tenderly, calling him
beloved, and saying to listen,
to listen to their dazzling friend.
Words they will carry in their hearts,
words which in turn will carry them
on that long wide-eyed walk
down the mountain,
and through all that is to come.
As above, also reference to Isaiah 40
IIII Greatness
It is not what we think.
Greatness is not the pomp,
the power, the show,
the mountaintop.
It is the welcoming of a
little child. It is the being
like a little child.
In doing so, we draw
closer to the one
who calls Jesus
beloved,
the Son I love.
Greatness, a costume
cloak of purple and foil.
Let it slip from your
shoulders. Let it
fall.
As ever, I’m sharing with you work in progress. There may be some tweeks and amendments before things land in the book – Wild Goose, Iona Publishing, next year.
Also, as ever, please feel free to use any of my material that helps, referencing this blog as your source. I love to hear about where my poems fly to, and where they land.
Here is a link to some more I’ve written on the Transfiguration. It includes extracts from my retelling, and some thoughts on how we might come to see more truly. I hope you find it nourishing.
Armando Alemdar Ara, from Liturgy Tools
Poem: Overflowing – Sunday Retold
The beach at Walberswick.
So, this Sunday Retold is a little different. The retelling is a poem, which you’ll find below. Some of you may remember that I’m absolutely delighted to be bringing out a book of poems next year, based on the cycle of the seasons – both in nature and in the readings that many churches follow. You can find out a little more about that here. Wild Goose, the publishers, are happy for me to share some pieces in progress with you here as I work on the book.
It seems good to start with Easter, and this week – of the poems I’ve been working on – the one that seems most nearly there is one that happens to tell the story of this week’s gospel reading, John 21:1-19.
It’s such a rich passage, and there is so much that could be and has been said. I think the reason this poem has come most readily is connected to the warmth and tenderness I felt when reading the story. Although we often focus on the extraordinary elements – and they are there, sure enough – I warmed to the ordinary. Once again, Jesus is feeding his friends. He knows they have been working all night, and he anticipates the depth of their hunger, their cold, their disappointment, and their need for this breakfast. It is a feature of these Easter stories, how often eating together is involved, how simple and reassuring the talk.
And here, we see the dance of grace – forgiveness for Peter, yes – but there is also the simple lifegiving grace of sharing food, of receiving, and giving. Of giving, and receiving. It is a revolutionary gift economy in fishing and sharing, in forgiveness and purpose, and its something I’ve missed before…. Perhaps I’ve been too caught up in the strangeness, or the textural intricacies, or the story being about Peter, to see how this new life is also about cooking breakfast for hungry people, and them having enough – strength, fish, new beginnings – to feed others in turn.
I love Wendell Berry’s phrase, “practice resurrection”, and this Easter, I’m wondering what that might mean….
But here is the poem.
Overflowing
Gathered around the fire,
dripping with lake-water
and morning chill,
they warmed themselves
in quiet, not asking who it was
who cooked them breakfast
on charcoal and hot stones.
After such a night, such an empty-
netted night of no-going-back
to the old life, of cold,
of hunger, of ropes
against skin,
they sat on the shore
with the smokesmell
of griddled fish and fresh
bread filling their senses.
In the dawn shadows –
the last stars fading,
the first light gleaming –
you handed them this
feast – loaves and fishes,
bread broken – you fed them
and warmed them.
This is how it flows,
the dance of new life.
We may be fisherfolk with
empty nets, but you
guide our hands. And we are
overflowing. You cook breakfast,
and we share a feast.
And then, and then,
the invitation, the instruction,
the grace to Peter and perhaps to all –
Feed my lambs,
Feed my sheep, my sheep.
We receive, and we give,
we give, and receive, for
there is enough.
There is grace enough to
break the nets and yet
the nets are whole, and look,
still the sea is full of fish
Overflowing
Dancing
In the new light of dawn.
The Little Free Pantry at St Andrew’s Church, Melton – one of many now springing up.
This story, of the miraculous catch of fish, and Peter’s restoration, is included in my retelling pictured above.
Poems: Seven Sentences from the cross
Elizabeth Frink, at St Edmundsbury Cathedral
Edit: April 2025 I’m sharing this with you again this year, as I’ve noticed that a number of you are turning to these poems as we approach Easter. Thank you. I’m also delighted to let you know that they will be part of my first collection of poetry, The Year’s Circle, which will be out next year. It will be published by Wild Goose. Exciting news!
I do hope these poems 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.
5
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.
6
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.
7
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.
The church at Selworthy Green
Bless you
Sunday Retold: Christ the King
This week, I thought I’d share with you my retelling of the reading many churches will be following this Sunday, in the spirit of Sunday Retold.
It explores themes of power, and so follows on from last week’s poem, Stones.
This week’s reading is that electrifying encounter between Jesus and Pontius Pilate – a trial of sorts. For the flow of the storytelling, I’ve taken a longer sweep than the set reading.
So here’s the story from The Bible Story Retold
At the same time, as dawn was breaking, the council gathered – elders, chief priests, teachers of the Law – and faced Jesus.
“If you are the Christ, the promised one, then tell us!” one said, rolling the words around his mouth as if they were bitter to his taste.
“If I told you, you would not believe me,” Jesus replied, holding him in his steady gaze.
“Are you the Son of God?” they asked.
“You are right to say so.”
At this they rose to their feet with an angry roar, and carried Jesus off to the palace of Pilate, the Roman governor, who had power to sentence people to death.
“This man is a threat to the peace – he claims to be Christ, a king, and opposes Roman taxes,” the accusers called out as Pilate circled around Jesus.
“Are you the King of the Jews?” he asked. Jesus felt the cold edges of the mosaic under his bare feet.
“Yes,” he replied. “But my kingdom is not like the kingdoms of this world.”
“So, you are a king!” Pilate responded.
“Yes! That is why I came, to speak the truth. Everyone who is on the side of truth will listen to me.”
“But what is truth?” Pilate asked. Then he went out to see the leaders and the people together. “I see no reason to charge him,” Pilate said. “This man has done nothing to deserve death. I will set him free.”
“No, set Barabbas free instead!” they cired. Now, Barabbas was a rebel who had killed a man.
They shouted louder, drowning out Pilate’s words: “He’s done nothing wrong! I will release him!”
But, with rising rage, the mob shouted, “Crucify crucify!” In the end, Pilate gave in: he set Barabbas free and handed Jesus over to the guards.
The guards tormented Jesus, the one called king. They draped a fine, purple robe around him, and twisted him a crown of sharp thorns to wear. They called out, “Hail, King of the Jews!” and fell on their kneeds before him, laughing. They spat on him, and struck his head with a staff. They, they took back the robe, and led him out to be crucified in his own simple clothes
Francisco De Zurbaran
We see how those who held religious power allied themselves with the Imperial power of Rome. I expect they were sure they were being faithful, upholding the law and their traditions, defending their faith as they saw it. Being certain you are right can lead you very astray. And we see too how Pilate saw Jesus very differently, one who had done nothing wrong, and yet seemed to have little power in the face of an angry crowd.
The biggest difference of all, to my mind, is in the understanding of what power is, what a kingdom is, who a king is. Those who are embedded in the power structures of this world, and, to be honest, the rest of us too, find it hard to imagine a different kind of power. One that follows a path downwards, even to death. One that washes the feet of the followers, that does not insist on its own place, but instead works through love, in humility, in radical engagement with the world as it is. We will soon be in Advent, preparing for the coming of Jesus. At that time we think of his unity and solidarity with frail humanity, born in such a humble way, amongst the extraordinary, ordinary, beloved people of Bethlehem.
Lord Jesus,
May our lives bear the mark of love.
As we are kind, as we share, as we are gentle,
may your love be seen in us.
Help us, for this is hard for us.Dear God,
May I welcome you as my king:
King of peace,
King of love,
King in death,
King of life.
From my book of prayers to accompany The Bible Story Retold, Prayers and Verses
Poem: Stones. Sunday Retold.
The open doorway of St Peter-on-the-Wall (founded about 660 AD). The wall in question is Roman. The chapel was built using some of the old stone from that wall. Bradwell, Essex.
I took a look at the set readings for this coming Sunday (17th November), and they are difficult and unsettling. Something about the Gospel reading caught my attention, and I thought I’d follow where that led.
Mark 13:1-8
And as he came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what wonderful stones and what wonderful buildings!” 2 And Jesus said to him, “Do you see these great buildings? There will not be left here one stone upon another that will not be thrown down.”
3 And as he sat on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter and James and John and Andrew asked him privately, 4 “Tell us, when will these things be, and what will be the sign when all these things are about to be accomplished?” 5 And Jesus began to say to them, “See that no one leads you astray. 6 Many will come in my name, saying, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. 7 And when you hear of wars and rumours of wars, do not be alarmed. This must take place, but the end is not yet. 8 For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. These are but the beginning of the birth pains.
Once again in our world, we see wars, we see power misused, we see the places where we might put our hope and trust are frail. Just this week, the Church of England has been forced to reckon with terrible abuse that has taken place, and the failure of those in authority to protect the young. And COP 29 has opened with the absence of many leaders, and the presence of corruption – although I have been encouraged to see Kier Starmer taking a lead. Much that has seemed firm has been crumbling, and at the same time, forces which seem to be serving themselves seem very powerful, immovable. It’s a hard place to be for many, and we may need to give time to our fear and grief. We may need to find others with whom to walk through these hard places.
And so, turning to this reading, I see we are invited into something like a practice of deep realism, and a long view. We remember that for Mark’s early readers and listeners, this passage would call to mind the terror and trauma of the destruction of the Temple in AD 70 after a relentless seige by the Romans. The Roman historian Josephus records that 1.1 million people died during that time. It’s hard to imagine the suffering and shock of such loss. It must indeed have felt the end of the world. It was the end of the world for many. Even in the midst of such terror and shock, these words may have offered something to hold on to. Maybe there is some wisdom here about how to live through difficult times, when all seems destroyed, or we fear all may be destroyed. Such wisdom is arrived at through pain and loss, it is not intended as some kind of spiritual bypassing, that eveything is going to be fine. Everything is not fine. That much is clear.
So this poem, written in response to Jesus’ words, is an experiment in that long view. I hope that, if it lands with you at the right moment, it might resonate with you.
Stones
These beautiful stones
This beautiful Temple
all that wealth and power
all Herod’s might and posturing
Always, always can
and will be
thrown down.
And always, always, it is not
the end of all things
although it is the end.
For time still stretches out
among ruins lost to
twilight,
and dust settles, or
blows on the grey wind.
Strength seems invincible.
Stones seem solid, immovable.
The might and ritual of a temple
have such sure foundations
in the mind.
And yet time, wind, whispers,
armies, the running of water,
the roots of trees can and will
undo them all.
So do not be cowed
by these great walls,
for they will fall,
nor by their falling
For fall they must,
and the world will turn
and turn again, and what
was an ending may come
to seem the blowing of dry
leaves in autumn, an absence –
it may even, dare we hope,
begin to be birth-pangs, after all.
Gaia at Ely Cathedral. You can find more about that – including a poem – here.
You might enjoy this gentle conversation(Nomad Podcast) with the the musician Jon Bilbrough, known as Wilderthorn. Towards the end is some music recorded in the chapel pictured at the head of this post, St Peter-on-the-wall.
I’m turning back to that chapel in my mind – imagining how the stones from the old Roman wall, probably a fort, were reused in the building of this – itself ancient – place of peace and prayer.
Swords beaten into ploughshares, and things being made new.
New things can and do emerge, in time. That is something we can gather around, and work for.
From Prayers and Verses These are prayers in response to the stories of Exile we find in the Hebrew Scriptures, and I know that experience will resonate with many today. I hope this helps.
Poem: Jacob’s Dream and Awakening. Sunday Retold.
Hello. This week I’ve been taking a look at the readings many churches follow on Sunday, and found something coming up this week that has sparked my interest, and led to some contemplation. A poem has emerged, as they sometimes do. I’m not sure I can say it’s finished, but it is settled for now, and I’d like to share it with you. Those who have been looking at this blog for a while – thank you – may remember that I’ve a thread running through it called Sunday Retold, which includes extracts from my book, The Bible Story Retold in Twelve Chapters.
This beautiful illustration by Sophy Williams is from another edition of the same text, published as The Lion Classic Bible
Here’s my retelling of Jacob’s dream:
Jacob went alone, travelling until it was dark. Shivering in the chill of the desert night, he took a stone for a pillow, and lay down to sleep. As Jacob slept, a dream came to him. He saw a ladder, with its feet on the ground, stretching up and up to heaven. In his dream, he watched as God’s bright angels travelled up and down in between heaven and earth. And in his dream, God himself was there……
Jacob woke with a jolt and looked around. He was alone.
“God was here and I didn’t know it! This place is the gate of heaven!” he said Then he took the stone he had slept upon and set it up as an altar to God. He poured oil on it as an offering, and worshipped there. Starting out once more, he left his homeland far behind.
You can read the original here, Genesis 28: 10-17, it’s the set reading for this week. It’s a story which has spoken to many over the centuries, revealing depths of meaning. For me, this time, I was struck by the way comfort came to one who was a fugitive, who had lost all that was precious to him. It also speaks to me of how our perception can shift, and we can be illuminated with a new understanding, how we can find the simplest things holy.
Jacob’s dream and awakening
Night can fall suddenly
on the road, when alone.
Darkness sweeps in
like a flood,
and one who lived with
others, a dweller
among tents, is out
in open country now.
Alone, he chooses a stone
and rests on cold rock
And finds that to the fugitive,
the lonely, the guilty one,
dreams may come.
And company, too, of sorts –
strange, perhaps luminous –
angels ascending and
descending
And a presence, such a presence,
that is here, and now.
One who is above the angels,
and right beside him, and speaks
with that deep resonance
that comes through dreams.
Perhaps those away
from the knottiness and rush
of their own mind can
know that this stone,
and so every stone,
is the gate of heaven,
shining with oil.
That this place, and so
every place,
is where God is
That this dream-night
can change the day-heart
of one who walks away.
For even the stones have a
sheen of brightness now,
wherever they are.
From my companion collection, Prayers and Verses through the Bible
If you’d like to use any of my material, please feel free to do so, acknowledging this blog as the source. It’s always a great encouragement when people let me know where my writing has been read.
Andrea Skevington 