leadinginworship

Barabbas

It was a close call.
I thought I was a goner.
I’d been sentenced to death,
and there was a cross with my name on it.
The Romans are brutal, and there is no mercy,
not for someone like me.
I was arrested a week before the festival.
I led my men, we planned and plotted,
waiting for the right time, the right opportunity.
Everyone is sick of this occupation,
this bowing and scraping, yes sir and no sir,
keeping our mouths shut and our eyes down.
Carrying centurions' burdens like donkeys,

The Anti-Magnificat (if I had been Mary)

Dear God:
Thank you for the invitation
you so kindly extended,
inviting me to become pregnant
with the Prince of Peace.
What an honour to be asked,
and I am so grateful for your confidence in me.
The world needs a Saviour and it is to your credit
that you have remembered your promises.
I totally support your endeavors in this regard.
Circumstances being what they are,
I feel constrained to urge you to continue your search.
While I am personally enthusiastic about this project,
I know that my parents would definitely caution me
against over-extending myself, and taking on too much.
I can think of several women in my acquaintance
who are better suited for this task,
I would be happy to forward their names to you.
And if I can be entirely candid with you,
the long and the short of it is
the next few years are very full for me,
with my upcoming marriage to Joseph,
establishing our new home together,
and there is rumour of a census.
I just really don’t know how I would do justice
to the task of raising a newborn king,
given my busy schedule
and our uncertain travel plans.
I am sure you understand.
Please accept my apologies,
thank you again for the offer.
Give my regards to the Angel Gabriel,
it was such a pleasure meeting him.
All the best in your Godly work.
I remain, your humble servant,
Mary

A Manger Scene

A manger scene,
our manger scene,
a tiny little manger scene.
Everywhere we go, we see them.
Mary kneeling, Joseph standing
shepherds with their trailing sheep watching,
wise men with their robes and gifts adoring.
Everyone’s eyes pointing to the baby Jesus,
lying on a bed of hay in a manger.
The wooden beams of the stable sheltering,
the golden angel heralding
and a star shining.

Everywhere we go we see them;
manger scenes made of wood
or clay or glass or cloth or plastic,
on living room tables, Sunday school platforms,
people’s lawns, department store windows.
The manger scene freezeframes the moment of contact,
God made flesh, dwelling among us,
a baby, a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

You came to dwell among us, Lord,
on that long ago Christmas day,
yet this year I want to dwell with you.
I want to find myself in the manger scene,
I want to lose myself in the manger scene,
wrapped up in the story,
the story wrapped up in me.
And so, God of all the Hosts in Heaven,
hear my prayer.

Give me strong legs like Joseph,
standing at Mary’s side, supporting, protecting.
He walked on those legs to Bethlehem,
those legs will take him to Egypt, carrying a baby,
a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

Give me eyes to see like the animals,
eyes like the cow, the sheep, the donkey,
patiently watching, simply being,
waiting to see what will happen next to
a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

Give me hands like the wise men,
always filled with rich gifts
that are carried over long distances,
hands that fold in prayer when they meet
a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

Give me a voice like the angels,
so that I can share good news,
of peace on earth, good will to all people,
telling everyone how to meet
a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

Give me feet like the shepherds,
racing down from the mountains,
feet that seek good news
and will bear good news of
a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

Give me a belly like Mary’s
receptive to love growing inside me,
sheltering that love, nurturing that love,
no barriers between my body, and the body of
a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

Give me a heart that shines
like a bright star twinkling on a dark night,
like a north star over a fathomless sea,
pointing, always pointing truly to
a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

Give me a mind like this stable,
holding this community of faith,
embracing this company of worshipers
whose centre is always, only Jesus,
Immanuel, God with us,
a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

Give us a body like Jesus,
that grows in wisdom
and speaks the truth
and feeds the hungry
and loves the rejected
and heals the wounded
and comforts the brokenhearted
and gives freely, as freely as the one who is
a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

It’s all right here.
In a manger scene,
our manger scene,
a tiny little manger scene.
Everywhere we go, we see them.

[For a reader's theatre, a narrator would read the first three stanzas and the last one,
with nine other people reading the parts of the manger scene.
If you have a manger scene with movable parts,
each person could pick up the figure they are speaking about.
The narrator would gesture towards the manger scene at the beginning and ending.]

Mary's Lullaby

Oh! hush thee my Jesus,
the work is behind us,
at last you are lying here
safe in my arms.
The night with its quiet
has fallen upon us
and God and your parents
will keep you from harms.
Now sleeping, now dreaming,
don’t worry my darling,
Ah, sweet little saviourchild
be at your ease.
A star shining brightly
looks downward to find you,
a baby, our baby,
my baby, at peace.

[with thanks to Rudyard Kipling and his brilliant "Seal Lullaby"]

The Travellers

Now the Lord said to Abram
“Go from your country and your kindred
and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.”
A journey; a far journey
to see lands he had never seen,
to meet people he had never known.
Imagine Abram packing his donkey, saying farewell to his family,
leaving behind everything that was dear to him and going forward,
forward into God`s invitation, “to the land that I will show you.”
Abram, the journey-man was the first of a long-line of travellers.
Hagar and Esau unwillingly sent into the wilderness,
Isaac trekking to find a wife.
Jacob running from a pack of lies,
Joseph going to Egypt because of his brothers’ sins.
Moses fleeing from Egypt and then back again at God’s call.
The people of Israel journeying through the wilderness to Canaan,
Ruth and Naomi walking from a far country with tears.
Then there were the prophets, ranging up and down the land.
Samuel sent from home to live in the temple,
Elijah running for his life.
Jonah fleeing from the Lord on a ship, but ending up in Nineveh.
The people of Israel themselves, travelling into exile in Babylon,
singing songs in strange lands, the land that God would show them. 

Mary and Joseph begin the journey even before their son was born,
travelling to Bethlehem and an unknown future.
Exile to Egypt and then back to Nazareth.
Jesus walking to worship in Jerusalem, travelling with his family.
He does the same journey later with his disciples,
travelling up the mountains and down,
from the sea all the way up to a hill outside Jerusalem.
Those same disciples travel to the ends of the earth,
with Paul and many others, spreading the gospel as they go.
Go from your country and your kindred
and your father`s house to the land that I will show you.
This Bible is journey-ridden, because God is calling.
We stand on holy ground as we read,
together with our brothers and sisters,
looking for our place on the map,
wondering where on earth we’ll go.
It’s our call.

Buried in the ground: a grave poem about stewardship

I always feel sorry for the man in Jesus’ story
who buried his money and returned it intact to the master,
only to be scorned for his trouble.
He is remembered forever as the man who didn’t get it,
the man who missed the stewardship boat,
the man who was profoundly untalented. 

What brought him to that inearthly choice?
What circumstances put a shovel in his hand,
and only preservation in his heart?
“I was afraid,” he said.
Maybe it was a deathly fear of change,
he’d rather bury something than risk losing it,
(or risk it growing, a possibility he hardly considered). 

I can relate to him;
I am (wonderfully and) fearfully made.
Some days I can hardly pry my hands off my
money/bank card/time/life,
because it’s mine, you see, that’s the point.
If I let go, who knows how it will change,
I’m scared it won’t be for the better.
Use these chains, this box, these blinders,
step right down here, close down, close in.
Roll that stone over, a few shovels more,
and nothing will be lost.
All of me, safe in the ground:  a deep mine.

Imagine our surprise and shock when the voice of Jesus
breaks open our story like a tomb with the words, “Come out!”
We pause, in the dark, wondering for the first time
whether what we are is buried
or planted. 

On the road from Emmaus: A story from Cleopas' wife

It was just too intense, we had to get away.
So much crying, so much sadness.
Mary Magdalene wailing,
Peter groaning out loud every five minutes
and pounding his fists against his knees.
But worst of all was Jesus’ mother Mary
just sitting motionless,
holding her sides, staring into space,
almost as if she was waiting for something.

There was nothing to wait for,
it was over. Finished.
As final as the thunk of that rock
falling into place over the entrance to the tomb.
There’s something you can hang on to:
death, the one certainty.
Now it claimed even Jesus, our Lord.
We had hoped…
well…we had hoped for a lot of things.

 

Judas, the friend of Jesus

Judas is so easy to hate.
The  betrayer, the snitch, the bad seed,
his name synonymous with treason.
No one cries when we hear he’s hung himself.
We all think, “Finally he gets what he deserves.”
Cast into the darkness of disgrace for all time,
who mourns for Judas?

But Judas was there from the beginning,
called like every disciple,
leaving behind everything to follow Jesus.
He was there in the boat, watching Jesus walk on water.
His hands touching the five loaves and two fish
multiplied by Jesus to feed the crowds.
From Samaria to Caesaria, from Galilee to Jerusalem,
Judas walking with Jesus, talking with Jesus,
listening and learning.

Jesus trusted Judas.
Matthew the tax collector was the money man,
but it was not to him that Jesus entrusted the purse.
Did Judas siphon cash away?
Jesus was not worried about this, if he did,
although John in his gospel is scathing
in his condemnation.
When the woman anoints Jesus,
John points the finger at Judas,
saying it was Judas who complained,
Judas who stole money.
In his gospel,
John is eager to further ruin Judas’ reputation,
if that is even possible.
After Judas’ betrayal of Jesus,
Judas disappears from John’s gospel.
John will not spare one more word for him.
He could not care less.

It is in Matthew the tax-collector’s gospel
that the story is filled in.
Matthew says all the disciples complained
about the money wasted in the anointing.
In Matthew’s gospel we learn that in the garden,
Jesus greets Judas with the word “Friend”.
Many years later, as Matthew sits to write,
does he remember that night in the garden?
Does he see the look of love on Jesus’ face?
Did it remind him of the relief he felt
the first time he realized that Jesus loved him,
a tax-collector, friendless in Israel?
Matthew’s gospel tells us of Judas repenting,
returning the money, naming himself as sinner.

Can we know why Judas did what he did?
What is the motivation for any sinner?
We can only know that Jesus called him friend.
Greater love has no one than this,
than that they lay down their life for their friends.
It’s easy to hate Judas.
But joined together in repentance
we are friends forever with Judas
through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Mary on Easter Morning

We were weighed down, walking to the tomb.
We knew the way, for we had walked it two days before.
We had followed Joseph of Arimathea and his servant,
down the hill from Golgatha,
their arms straining with the dead weight of Jesus’ body.
We saw where they laid him, how they wrapped him in linen.
We saw their shoulders pushing that stone in place,
the sound of it grinding shut.
And though our eyes streamed tears
we marked the place,
for we knew we would come back.

And on the first day of the week,
we came, arms full of aromatic oil and spices;
cinnamon, cassia, myrrh.
All our resources pooled in a fragrant offering,
one last service for Jesus.
We walked the dark path,
the sky just beginning to lighten.

What we saw in the semi-darkness
was not the closed tomb we had expected,
but a gaping hole!
Alarmed, we looked inside,
seeing that Jesus’ body was gone.
Someone had been there before us.
How could this be?
Grave robbers?
Some final act of blasphemy against our Saviour?
Had Pilate changed his mind,
and was Jesus’ corpse now hanging somewhere for all to see?
I dropped all I was carrying and ran to find the other disciples.
Peter and John came racing back,
entering the tomb:
Jesus was not there.
I stood with them, our hands on the giant stone,
confusion written on our faces.
They left, but I remained, gathering up all those spices,

Jesus Makes Breakfast: A Poem about John 21:1-14

I could smell that charcoal fire a long way off
while we were still rowing far from shore.
As we got closer I could smell the fish cooking,
I imagined I could hear it sizzling.
When you're hungry, your mind works that way.

When the man by the fire called out asking us about our catch,
we held up the empty nets.
And his advice to throw the nets in once more
is something we might have ignored,
except for the smell of cooking fish…
this guy must know something  about catching fish!

The catch took our breath away;
never in my life have we pulled so many in one heave.
I was concentrating on the catch,
but John wasn't even paying attention,
he was staring at the shore
as if his life depended on it.
Then he clutched my shoulder, crying,
"It is the Lord!"

Suddenly, everything came into focus,
the man, the catch, the voice,
and nothing could stop me,
I had to be with the Master.

There were no words at breakfast,
beyond, "Pass the fish,"
or "I'll have a bit more bread."
We sat there, eating our fill,
basking in the sunrise.
We didn't have to say anything.
Jesus just smiled and served. 

 

Christmas Reader's Theatre: For unto us a child is born!

[I wrote this for a Christmas Eve service and I had different congregants take the parts; they got up from where they were sitting in the congregation and came to the front to say their part, then they each lit a candle and placed it at around the manger scene that was at the front of the church.]

Narrator:  Waiting, watching, hoping against hope,
the faithful have looked and longed for a Saviour.
Wrapped up in our own lives, in our own struggles,
consumed with our own desires and sins,
still, our hope was in God.
At long last, all generations cry out,
“For unto us a child is born”.

Abraham:   My name is Abraham.  I followed God’s call. 
I went from my own country to the land that God showed me. 
God promised to make a nation from my descendants
and bless all families of the earth through me. 
Now we see the fulfillment of that promise with the gift of this child…
today we are blessed indeed!
For unto us a child is born.

Hagar:  I am Hagar, I was Sarah’s Egyptian slavegirl
who bore Abraham a son, whom I called Ishmael. 
When I was at the end of all hope because of my suffering,
I fled into the wilderness.  
It was there that I met “the God who sees”;
the God who sees even those in slavery, crying in despair. 
This baby is a gift to people like me: 
for unto us a child is born!

Jacob:  I am Jacob, grandson of Abraham. 
Even though I was a liar and a cheater,
there was still room for me in God’s plan. 
I had a dream one night that a ladder filled with angels
went straight from earth to God.
In the morning I called that place Beth-el, the House of God.  
Today a child is born with the same message…
God has come to dwell with us!
We give thanks for Immanuel--God with us.
For unto us a child is born!

Moses:  I am Moses. I had excuses 
when God spoke to me from a burning bush.
I didn’t want to help God free our people from slavery. 
But God didn’t give up on me or on Israel. 
God’s power delivered us from the hands of the mighty Pharaoh.
We worship a God who delivers!
God gave us the law at Sinai to guide us.
We worship a God who guides us!
And today God gives a Saviour who will deliver us from evil,
a Saviour who is our guide.
For unto us a child is born!

Ruth:  I am Ruth, a foreigner from Moab,
who married one of the sons of Israel. 
When my husband died,
I followed my mother-in-law back to Israel.
I was her faithful friend,
and her God, the God of Israel,
was faithful in restoring our happiness.
I gleaned wheat in the fields near this town of Bethlehem. 
A man named Boaz married me, even though I was an outsider,
and I gave birth to a baby that brought great joy to my family.
This baby Jesus is one of my descendants,
he comes to bring great joy to the world!
For unto us a child is born!

Samuel: My name is Samuel.   
When I was just a small boy I heard God calling me.
 I said, “Yes Lord, your servant hears you.” 
And so I served God all my days, calling the people of Israel to faithfulness. 
It was a hard job, because the people did not always want to hear what I had to say.
But God never deserted me. 
Now I see that God sends his own son to call us to faithfulness. 
For unto us a child is born!

David: My name is David.
I was the Lord’s anointed, a man after God’s own heart.
I ruled Israel as a king for many years.
I was a sinner, like everyone else, and I disappointed God in many ways.
But God was faithful to me.
This night in Bethlehem, in my own city,
a new King is born, one of my own descendants.
This Ruler will bring peace to the world. 
He will be called the Prince of Peace.
For unto us a child is born!

Isaiah:  My name is Isaiah, and I was a prophet of the Most High. 
The people of Israel had turned from God. 
God allowed them to be conquered by the Babylonians. 
the holy city Jerusalem was in ruins, our temple was destroyed. 
Our people were taken in chains into captivity. 
How can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given:
and the government shall be upon his shoulder:
and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God,
The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace. 
Of the increase of his government and peace there shall be no end. 
He will establish the throne of David
and uphold it with justice and with righteousness
from this time onward and forevermore. 
The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this!  (Isaiah 9:6-7)

Joseph: Joseph is my name,
and it is my betrothed Mary who has given birth to a son. 
We have named him Jesus, as the angel instructed.
The angel told me that this child will save our people from their sin. 
The hopes of many rest on our child, our son.
For unto us a child is born!

Mary:  My name is Mary and I am a servant of the Lord.
God’s mercy is on those who fear God, from generation to generation. 
God has fulfilled the promise made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and Sarah and to their descendants forever. 
Jesus is a blessing for the world, that  comes through my life.
For unto us a child is born!

People:  Today we add our voices to the chorus of thanksgiving.
We sing our part in the song that rises through time,
around the world, in every language,
“Glory to God in the highest”.
We give thanks for God’s son,
a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord!
For unto us a child is born!

 

Inside and Outside the Stable: A Christmas Poem

Inside the stable there is darkness pushing in,
a small light, perhaps, illuminating three faces.
The murmurs of a baby’s cries, his snuffling and suckling,
the rustle of straw, the sound of animals shifting.
The smell of sweat and blood and manure,
the fragrance of milk and sweet baby.
The  touch of a hand on a smooth small forehead,
a man’s arm holding a body still shaking with afterpains.

Outside the stable, darkness is pushed away,
radiant brightness illuminating shepherds, flocks.
The gasps of fright as grown men topple to the ground,
the angels’ words of comfort, “Fear not,”
and their miraculous proclamation of a king.
And then the singing;  strong, clarion, clear,
piercing the dark with a message of hope.

Inside the stable there are no angel visitors,
only the arrival of a child, revealed at last to tired parents.
Their weary quietness is disturbed by excited voices.
Shepherds, eyes ablaze and arms akimbo
fill the room, trying to describe their miracle.
When they pause for breath, they feel the silence.
They sense the fragility of this small baby.
They leave quietly, pondering this helpless mystery, hours old,
revealed to them by choirs of angel armies.

This poem can be read by two voices, divided this way:

Good Friday poem: Peter

My first thought was, “It’s not going to be me.”

Jesus, in a voice barely audible,

told us we would all become deserters.

When I protested, he looked at me,

and singled me out,

and said that I would deny him too.

 

After everything we’d gone through together,

after all I’d left behind, these three years of ministry…

how could he doubt me?

Was I not the only one who stepped out of the boat,

waves raging, my one thought to be at his side? 

With all my heart, I’d told him what I knew to be true,

that he was the Christ, the son of the Living God.

Me desert him?  Never!

Then and there I vowed,

"I will not leave this man."

I am going to stick with Jesus

whatever the cost...prison, death…

nothing will stop me.

And I am a man of my word.

 

We heard the soldiers coming,

but Jesus didn’t move, he only waited.

And then the betrayer was at hand,

Judas, armed only with a kiss.

When they went to seize our Lord,

I drew my sword to defend him.

No one else came prepared to fight,

but Jesus refused my protection,

meagre as it was.

I would have died fighting at his side,

but he would not have it.

I don’t know where the other disciples went

but I never lost sight of Jesus,

I was there with him,

walking in the shadows.

 

I can hardly say what I was expecting…

Moses or Elijah, a voice from heaven,

a storm from him whom the winds obeyed,

bonds broken in pieces like bread on a hillside,

something, anything to end that unthinkable captivity.

Instead there was only a quiet night,

the clink of chains

the darkness broken by fires.

I could see him with the soldiers.

I went as close as I could,

cautious, as I knew that I was out of place.

And sure enough, that girl picked me out of the crowd.

She would have had me thrown out of the courtyard,

but I was determined to stay close to Jesus.

I said anything to keep my vow to not leave his side.

If I admitted I knew him, they would send me away.

Three times I was challenged

and at the third time, I turned and looked at Jesus,

saying with my eyes, “I am still here, I won’t leave you.”

He lifts his head, and his gaze locks on mine

even as the crazy cry of the rooster announces the dawn.

The sound recalls his words that I would deny him three times…

But I am still here!  I have not left your side!

I will not desert you!

His eyes reach inside me like the shock of a desert dawn.

I had missed something essential.

I had paid too dearly for the sight of him.

 

I stumbled from that place

stung from the terrible choice of being with or being true.

I left his side,

wildly weeping for a lost saviour.

I could not save him with my presence,

even with a truer word spoken.

A poem for Joseph and his brothers

It wasn’t the colourful coat

or even Joseph’s dreams that tipped the balance.

Maybe it was the day—too hot,

or maybe just the fact that there was a pit.

If the traders hadn’t happened by

they would have all had supper together,

Reuben’s voice as eldest

would have decided the outcome.

But instead the cup of resentment,

filled drop by drop for years,

is drained in one sudden act of violence.

The deal is done, the money changes hands

and Joseph is on his way to Egypt.

The coat is the cover-up they need.

They find their story in the mind of their father,

anxious about his young son’s solitary journey.

They didn’t even technically lie, only asking,

“Is this your son’s coat?”

 

The one thing the brothers hadn’t counted on

was their father’s grief;

it’s expansiveness, its power to grow in their lives,

like a seedling in the crack of a rock.

In Egypt we find that Judah is a changed man.

It wasn’t being thrown in jail that did it,

or the misfortune of the mysterious stolen cup.

It’s not the trips back and forth, carrying money and grain.

The seed of remorse was rooted in him,

watered by years of Jacob’s tears,

and it blossoms suddenly as he bargains for his brother’s life,

as he tries to give his own to save his father,

who cannot survive another season of grief.

 

When the Egyptian ruler speaks their language

with the shocking words, ‘My brothers...,”

they see him morph from bejeweled foreigner

into Joseph, their own flesh and blood.

Risen from the grave of Egypt,

his presence haunts them with forgiveness.

Even at their father’s death the brothers still fear Joseph.

Their long-done deed aches like an old wound

in the deep heart’s core,

untouched by Joseph’s healing words,

the tears he weeps.

Poem for Lent: Jesus' Angels

It was a miracle really, that we were there at all.

We sold our trade goods remarkably quickly

and set off for home far earlier than expected.

The long trek through the wilderness went so fast,

it was mid-day when we came to the spring where we always stop.

Having gained so much time, we decided to spend the night.

My son Cornelius took the notion of climbing the high mountain,

“I came to see the world, Father,” he said to me!

It’s our last trip before he becomes a centurion,

he’ll see the world soon enough.

I sent two servants with him (there are lions in these parts),

and the rest of us settled in for a long nap in the shade.

 

Hours later I heard his voice, echoing over the rocks,

“Father, I’ve found a man!” And down they came,

my two servants supporting someone between them.

Cornelius poured out his story, how they’d reached the top

only to find this man sitting there, “He says his name is Jesus.

And can you believe it Father, he called us angels!”

 

I don’t know what that man was doing on that mountain,

other than perishing of hunger.

I do know he was as close to death as you can get,

 and there was no way he could have come down himself.

We saved him and that’s a fact.

He was weak as a lamb;  we fed him bread and wine.

We carried him on our camels as far as Capernaum.

I have a friend who runs an inn,

so we left Jesus there to gather his strength.

I’ll settle the bill next time I’m through.

 

He made quite an impression on my son Cornelius,

they were always talking late into the night.

When we left Jesus at the inn he grasped my hand,

“How can I re-pay you for your kindness?”

I told him he owed me nothing, and then he said,

“I will always remember the mercy you have shown me.”

As we left the city, I laughed with my companions about it,

“…so somewhere in Galilee there’s a poor man who remembers me.

Everyone should be so lucky!”

Mary's Christmas Prayer

Lord, you have done great things

and holy is your name!

For unto us a child is born

and holy is your name!

For you have shown mercy to your handmaid

and holy is your name!

 

From the angel’s first appearance

I’ve waited for this moment.

Confident in your plan,

confident that all generations will call me blessed.

Confident, when Joseph doubted me,

when my parents did not understand,

when my friends laughed at me,

and turned the other way.

Confident, in the face of a journey

decreed by Rome’s power,

a journey to this city of David.

Confident even in my labour pains

that you would deliver me.

 

And tonight I brought forth my first-born son.

Here he lies, in my arms;

a tiny baby, beautiful and perfect.

A future king, you say, destined for a throne.

Here in this stable, a king!

Truly you have exalted those of low degree.

 

Nine months ago, the angel came

planting words in my heart

The power of the most High overshadowing me.

Tonight that angel appeared again

to shepherds in their fields.

In glory the angel told them of a Saviour

Christ the Lord, born this night.

You appeared to the shepherds

but it is I who need your counsel.

Gabriel, come again to me,

I must question you.

 

I’ve called my son Jesus.

“Jesus, Son of the Highest,

reigning over the House of David forever,”

those were your words.

But how shall he take his throne?

Who will recognise him?

Joseph and I are ordinary people,

we don’t know how to raise a king!

This night we have become parents

to such a child as this.

 

The shepherds tell of a star,

will this sign bring help for me?

Of all the babies in Bethlehem tonight

this is the one you’ve destined to bring salvation

and I do not know how this will be accomplished.

 

This child brings peace on earth,

but my heart is filled with questions.

God, through your tender mercy

calm my fears

and guide my feet into this way of peace.

I am a handmaid of the Lord.

Good Samaritan Poem: On the Road to Jericho

We invested in goods to sell in the trade city of Jericho

and I walked the long journey with my loaded donkey.

I stopped that last night at an inn

poised on the edge of Jericho's wilderness valley.

The neighbours at my table did not look promising;

holy men who carried scrolls not knives,

shabby companions on this last stretch

where you need someone who will stand firm beside you,

someone good for a fight.

That next morning I left the inn alone,

the dawn just crowning;

leaving the door open in my haste,

the innkeeper slammed it as she hissed after me,

"Born in a barn, were you?"

In half-darkness I led my donkey down the steep road.

 

It was mid-morning when it happened.

I heard them before I saw them,

the six bandits clattering down the rocks.

Enough time for me to assess the situation, "grim",

to muster my courage and grab my knife.

"Give us what you have," they yelled,

which only made me smile,

picturing my sons, and me telling them,

"They asked for your inheritance, so I gave it to them."

And so I fought, but the odds were against me.

They broke my arms, and beat me

and took everything, even my clothes,

and left me on the side of the road,

listening to the sound of our savings being led away.

 

I drifted in and out as the pain overpowered me,

but I knew that help was on its way. 

Those holy men were on the road behind me,

an hour or two at most and I would be saved.

I woke to see that priest’s heels walking away.

My voice also deserted me, too dry to call for help.

The vultures arrived at the same time as the levite,

I was watching them trace lazy circles in the cloudless blue

as he circled wide around me,

the blood and flies too unclean for his hands, no doubt.

I lay baking in the hot son, waiting for death.

 

A man on a donkey appeared on the road from Jericho.

A foreigner, he greeted me with the words, "Friend, I`ll help you."

He put me on his donkey, no mean feat with my broken arms,

and took me to the inn I’d left that morning.

The innkeeper shook her head as she looked from my wounds to my face,

"Ah, the man born in a barn."

They tended to me day and night,

and now weeks later I still sit here mending, on the Samaritan's tab.

 

Last night the holy men, the priest and levite,

were neighbours at my table as they took their homeward journey.

They would not meet my eye, which is not surprising.

I do not know if they noticed that I could not meet theirs.

I have no bitterness at what they did not do,

instead my mind is haunted by what might have been.

Had they set out first, and I came upon one of them, broken and bleeding,

would I have unloaded my donkey, left my fortune by the road

and carried them to safety?

Or would I have minded my own business?

I received mercy, but would I have given it?

Each day, I am forever on that wilderness road.

Easter poem: On the road again with Peter

On Friday night we left the tomb in silence,

our feet heavy on that grave road,

clinging to each other for support

every face wet with tears.

Our steps beating out the refrain of our hearts,

“He’s dead, he’s dead.”

 

No sleep for me all that long night.

Each time I closed my eyes

I was again on that road to Jerusalem

palm branches waving,

again at a table with Jesus

again in a garden,

again in a courtyard.

Again hearing the news that indeed

our Saviour Christ the Lord

had been murdered,

crucified like a criminal.

We met the women at the tomb

and saw his broken body.

As night fell

we put our shoulders to that heavy stone.

We left him there in that cold cave.

 

There were few words that next day,

we each sought our own company.

John went to the temple.

James went wandering on the hills.

I found myself again in the garden,

the place where I could not stay awake to pray.

Sleep now was far from me,

but prayers still escaped me.

I came back to my bed in the darkness.

 

I must have slept,

for I thought I was dreaming

the knocking and the women’s excited voices

the light of the rising sun

just touching my pillow.

John’s words “He is risen?”

propelled me from my bed

and I was there

holding Mary’s arms,

shaking her, she half laughing, half crying,

making no sense,

talking of stones rolled away and

gardeners, and angels, and the tomb empty.

I looked at John, and with the same thought

we grabbed our cloaks and ran,

our feet beating the distance of that road

our breath ragged. 

I could see it, the tomb,

the stone rolled away.

And then I was there, in the doorway,

the spot where we had left Jesus-- empty.

The cloths that had wrapped his cold body

neatly folded in a pile.

I came to the door of the tomb

the linen cloths hanging from my hands,

and paused there, like Lazarus

blinking with incomprehension at this new life.

 

Who rolled this stone away?

What force conquered death?

When will I see my Saviour again?

Where will he meet me?

How can this be?

 

On Sunday morning we left the tomb in silence,

our feet hurrying on that grave road,

clinging to each other for support,

every face wet with tears.

Our steps beating out the refrain of our hearts,

“He’s risen, he’s risen!”

The Innkeeper: An Epiphany Poem

They were grateful lodgers,

considering the humble accommodations.

We did the best we could,

the place full up,

our stable the last corner we had.

Mary, who had a baby coming,

wanting only peace and privacy,

was happy with anything.

It was a birth like any other,

the mother spent, the baby crying,

the father bewildered.

I gave her swaddling clothes,

the ones my Daniel used.

Daniel was on my hip as I gave them,

and he wanted down,

and toddled over to the baby,

leaning close, patting his face.

We all laughed.

 

They stayed a couple of weeks,

we had no trouble with them.

Some shepherds came to visit,

the night that bright star had us all out and staring.

Then there were those foreign fellows,

I don’t know how they knew them…

but they didn’t stay long.

The next morning in fact, early,

her husband pounding on the door at daybreak,

wanted to settle the bill, with gold coins no less.

I went out to say good-bye.

Holding the baby tightly,

she looked grey with worry.

I hurried over, thinking the baby was sick,

but she told me of her husband’s dream,

that Herod was coming to kill their child

and now they were fleeing this very hour…

to Egypt, of all places!

 

I reassured her as best I could,

her not being from these parts.

It’s safe here, safe as anywhere, I told her.

And why would Herod take an interest

in any child in Bethlehem?

Egypt is a long way away--

I looked into her eyes,

you’ll go all that way, for a dream?

The last I saw of them, they were cresting that hill.

She looked back, and held up her hand,

and then they were gone, Egypt bound.

 

I did not think much about them again

until the day the soldiers came.

Herod’s men, silent and brutal,

untouched by any mother’s screams.

House to house, they searched for children under two.

I was standing here by the window when they came

and tore my Daniel from my arms.

They left him lying on the ground outside…

and I tell you that day a sword pierced my soul also.

 

The crying on the outside has stopped,

but inside I’m still weeping for Daniel

and every other missing child.

I think of Mary in Egypt with her baby in her arms,

all ours dead and buried.

If we had known the danger,

we would have left everything and followed her.

 

The anger that fills me now is bigger than my life.

It looks for a king whose bloody men

come armed and armoured for babes in arms.

It looks toward Roman rulers that leave our men

enraged and helpless, knowing that survival

depends on accepting suffering, at least for now.

And my anger ranges as far as God’s throne,

challenging a deity who sends dreams to only one. 

Would it have been too much to ask for a dream

that warned of danger for all Bethlehem’s children?

 

My mind swirling with anger and grief,

I sit here empty lapped,

and my dreams are all of Egypt

and a baby safe in his mother’s arms.