leadinginworship

God chooses face-time

We’re always calling God.

Where are you God?

Why don’t you pick up?

The phone rings and rings,

echoing in that heavenly chamber.

We check the number,

this has got to be right.

Finally God’s answering machine clicks in.

We hear God’s voice,

“Why are you calling me?

I’m standing right beside you.”

via carolpenner.typepad.com

Voices This Christmas

The earth’s soundscape 

roars and lifts these days

as we listen for God’s voice

at Christmas. 

 

Marketers trumpeting,

drawing our attention

to all that we lack,

claiming only they can save us.

 

Politicians posturing,

those with power telling us

soothingly, “All is well;”

their opponents yelling, “All is lost!”

 

Protesters chanting,

outrage in their voices,

as they call for justice,

accountability and change.

 

Social media buzzing

with the world’s gossip,

the doings of the rich and famous 

and the fall of the glamorous.

 

News announcers reporting

the bad news from everywhere,

every evil thing done under the sun

and the daily list of casualties.

 

And then there are our own to-do lists,

that haunt our days and nights

reminding us with insistent voices

of all we have failed to accomplish.

 

Words clatter all around us,

and we wonder if, this Christmas,

we will have ears to hear

the message of angels on any level.

 

This Christmas will teenage girls

drop their phones as they see light, 

not from a screen, and respond,

“Here am I, a servant of the Lord”?

 

This Christmas, will men dream dreams,

that speak of things to come 

and safe paths in dangerous times,

and will they wake and take them?

 

This Christmas will seniors,

who are long past childbearing,

hear prophesies in a personal way,

and have their lives changed by that revelation?

 

This Christmas, will construction workers 

in the field drop their tools

and fall face down

overcome by the glory of God?

 

Will they hear the message “Fear not,”

and the rock solid words,

“Look, I am bringing good news

of great joy for all people.”

 

This Christmas will we hear 

the bold words of the angels

still ricocheting through space,

“A child is born this day, the Messiah, the Lord.”

 

This Christmas will we leave our business

abandoned on the ground,

dropping everything for the chance

to worship for a moment on our knees?

 

This Christmas will we be amazed 

at what God can do,

will we treasure these things,

these amazing things, in our hearts?

 

This Christmas will we go to our homes,

our bodies humming with the vibrations

of the harmonies of heaven 

sung by ageless choirs?

 

Listen!  They are still singing,

“Glory to God in the highest,

and on earth peace,

good will to all people.”

 

God who brought to life 

this story of salvation,

give us ears fine-tuned 

to the message of hope.

Like a mother who can hear

her baby crying through any crowd,

give us all ears to hear

the voice calling to us, 

the voice of Jesus this Christmas.

 

contact me at [email protected] if you would like this in Reader's Theatre format for 4 voices.

Dark Imaginings

The advent of darkness brings with it
a host of fearful thoughts crowding;
sickness striking and life changing forever, 
debts looming and bills that can't get paid,
governments floundering and security teetering,
nature hurling storms and earthquakes everywhere,
humankind falling, evil actions blighting all that's good.
Scrolling the news in my cozy bed,
I rehearse this night time litany too many times to count,
adding it all up, building a tower of catastrophe,
and I pace its' floors until the moonlight
touches my cheek, recalling me to life
not death, not death. 
The wind speaks through the eaves of the house,
the distant train whistles that we are on the move,
and there are these warm blankets.
Although I fear the future
the present moment is fine.
I breathe out these dark imaginings 
breathing into this present,
believing it and it's mine.

Gentler Waters

It doesn’t always go as planned.
Bowled over with newborn love,
the way ahead seems clear and untroubled,
devotion deep and wide enough
to weather any storm.
So we say a prayer, Darling Mother,
for when the crying baby
will not be comforted,
and the night knows what
we want to do.
We say a prayer for when we
reach for the tantruming toddler,
knowing we barely control ourselves.
Prayers for the endless endless housework,
prayers for best things broken,
and for the children fighting,
prayers for facing down
our own anger, bitterness, fears, self-will.
Prayers for years of power struggles
and learning to let go.
And when they walk out the door,
and our great love surfaces
like a whale coming up for air,
be with us as we come to terms
with the mothering we’ve done,
and the mothering left undone.
Give us grace to apologize,
to forgive, even ourselves,
as we move into gentler waters
of parenting adults
no longer children.

Mothering Mended

It’s not easy to trace the tears,
the gaping holes where mothering
went wrong.
I can point to the withering look
that day at the dinner table
when I took my father’s attention.
Or maybe the stoney face
accusing me of losing something precious,
my protests unheard.
Or the subtle manipulations;
the distaste for what I wore,
the way I looked, laughed, talked.
I saw you coming to the front door,
and my heart panicked.
And yet, there was love,
and good times too.
You cutting up an apple for me
as we shared an evening snack,
or our walks along the beach.
The picture I have of you
trying to pick up a piece of driftwood
that you could never lift.
But I couldn’t trust you,
I never knew when you would turn.
I eventually walked out of that room
where mother was judge and jury.

Duty brought me back, not love.
When you had to come to me,
I had to let you in.
And in those final dependent years,
something shifted.
Was it power (yours? mine?)
or was it the pills they gave you,
pharmaceuticals revealing
some inner long hidden sensitivity?
No matter, for suddenly
there was a new language
of affection and appreciation,
so longed for, never before received.
You had the happy blessing of remembering
only pleasantries from our shared history.
I moved forward, trying not to look back.

At the end, you reached the shore alone
but I would have wanted to be there.
I only give thanks now for mothering
mended against all odds,
and the gift of bereavement.

Social Fabric Prayer

The transgender man beaten,
and the woman harassed on the bus.
The disabled student not accommodated,
and the bomb threat at the Jewish child-care centre.
Racial profiling at the border
and another refugee told to go home.
A million tiny teeth
ripping at the webs that connect us,
fissures fracturing the social fabric.
Reading the news my heart feels tattered,
and all that’s good seems lost
and left behind.

Can we defend, say, “Not here!" to hatred,
hold firm to every last strand of civility?
We are not over and done with.
Threads of mercy shuttle between us
and even when we feel like running,
we are being woven, a work in progress.
For every breaking thread,
a new wisp, strong as spider web.

On a night like this,
when darkness looms
and every light seems small,
I stitch a prayer into the night sky.
God of all graces, rip every seam
I’ve sown in hatred.
I want to be stranded in love,
reaching out to touch,
in this material world,
the hem of your garment. 

Holding the Baby

The night God took a deep breath

for all that must be saved,

even the stars outshone themselves

and hillsides gloried with angelic music,

the good, good, good news bouncing down

like boulders, shaking the foundations royally,

announcing the advent of a ruler born

for all who must be saved.

It was the bloody same way

we all arrive on the scene

through the mother of all labour and sweat,

the pain stretching out like tidal waves

for all that must be made flesh.

Love is now newborn, if not exactly

recognizable except to those who know

all must be saved from ourselves and evil

occupying armies whose tramping boots

are aimed exactly here by the bouncing baby news

that will throw even kings from their thrones.

Mary and Joseph and all of us are left

holding the baby,

Is this sensible God?

Jesus doesn’t answer.

He just suckles and sleeps

and wakes to a new day.

 

Going Home for Christmas: A Prayer for the Dying [for Mimi]

Immanuel,
thank you that you are God with us
even in our final good-byes.
Thank you for the ebbing of life,
which is as holy as its birth,
even with all the indignities
that infirmities bring.
Thank you for loved ones gathered,
for memories shared and savoured,
and for quiet vigils,
sweeter than all words,
where all we do is breathe.

And at the stillest moment of all,
as we slip from time and space,
you catch us,
gathering up all of who we are,
our great loves and sorrows,
our deep hopes and dreams.
You move with us from a present
that was always a gift
into a future as mysterious
and as lovely
as the first star
of morning.

Message from the Manger

We love you in the manger, Jesus.

Your little hands and feet,

your soft breathing,

your eyes closed in sleep.

You may be a revolutionary,

but we like our revolutionaries in diapers.

Forgive us, Lord,

for preferring a Saviour that doesn’t talk;

a Saviour that has no words of judgement

for our callousness to the suffering of others,

whose arms aren’t tossing over tables,

whose feet aren’t leading us to Jerusalem.

 

In this advent season,

where the world around us

is convulsing with violence and bigotry,

give us ears to hear

the unspoken message from the manger.

A Middle Eastern baby with dark skin

is threatened with violence

and becomes a refugee.

God with us,

now and forevermore.

The good book

I was always captivated by
“Once upon a time”:
the magical invitation
into a world not mine.
The world of giants and talking animals,
the world of spies and zookeepers,
pirates, pioneers and pilots--
I followed them through deserts and oceans,
deep space, rush hour traffic,
mountains and subterranean caverns.
I puzzled things out with Nancy Drew,
yearned for justice with Black Beauty,
cried with Jane Eyre,
whistled with Tom Sawyer,
and found my way to Narnia
through a dusty old wardrobe.
The stories of people long ago,
and of people yet to be,
mingled in my mind
with the stories of people just like me.
Hours spent turning pages
have helped me more than I can say
to walk in others’ footsteps
and imagine the lives they lead.
So I give thanks for authors,
for the feel of pages between my fingers,
for libraries and bookstores and friend’s shelves.
I give thanks for literacy and leisure to read.
I praise God for the good book.

Singing with Angels: a Christmas Eve Poem

Hear the angel’s song tonight:
glimmering harmonies,
glorias gliding in the air like snowflakes,
glorias glancing off gleaming eyes,
glorias glowing in gladsome, gladful hearts.
That glorious melody, full of earth peace,
so rich tonight, so full-fleshed,
it pierces to the deep heart’s core
and opens there, like a rose, blooming.

Loaded with melody, melodious we go
into our surroundsound society
that marches to a different drum.
Life’s discord, sin’s unholy racket,
rises and lifts with jackhammer insistence,
its wild rhythm chaining us, paining us.
When the clash and clang, the babel and bang
of our real world threatens to extinguish us,
God of great gifts,
keep the angel’s song alive.
Teach us their tune by heart.
We would sing gloria in terror’s grip,
gloria as cruelty scars all that’s good,
gloria as hope lies broken and battered
and all we love seems lost or left behind.

That angel song, strong as the morning star,
threads through every thundering storm with strains of joy.
The first-born gloria sung to shepherds sustains us
as it sustained that long ago Christmas couple.
We carry it in our hearts on the long road to Egypt,
we cling to it at every Calvary,
and its notes burst the bedrock of our disbelief
as Jesus is born again
who knows how
in the hearts of those
who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.
With angels we sang, we sing, we will sing,
the age-old, age-long chorus to
Immanuel, God still with us.
Gloria! Gloria!

Guesthouse

My life is a guesthouse
and each day brings its visitors.
Years of regular customers,
rational and sensible,
ordered and predictable—
they cause no trouble.
Steady Contentment, calm Happiness,
busy Industry, pleasant Enjoyment.
Every once in a while Temper checks in,
turning the whole house upside down for a while,
but he doesn’t stay long.
Green-eyed Jealousy is a sly guest
who no one likes,
but she rarely lingers.
Take it from me,
running a guesthouse is a good life,
you wake up each day with a smile.

Then one day it all changes.
The doctor phones, results are in
and suddenly Fear is banging on my door.
He barges in uninvited
and claims the best chair
planting his muddy boots on the table.
Every other guest flees from his presence.
He’s not going anywhere fast,
and worse than that,
he invites his unpleasant friends—
Despair, Bitterness, Anger.
They’re loud and obnoxious
and they fill every room.
As they turn on the NO VACANCY sign,
I realize with a sinking feeling
that these are not visitors.
This is an occupation.

Tonight they are all talking at once,
and I can’t hear myself think.
I crouch down in a corner of what was once my life,
huddling in the tiniest outbuilding,
on the edge of everything
and it’s precisely at that moment
that I hear the insistent knocking.

It’s a hugely pregnant woman and her husband
who obviously have not read the sign.
That’s all we need right now,
some baby crying in this wilderness. 

 

*with thanks to Rumi, for his wonderful poem "Guesthouse"

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.]

Golden

The gold band stays the same,
a bit warped maybe,
the edges worn down,
some scratches.
Still hugging my ring finger
since the day
you put it there
round about an age ago.
Like your love,
still surrounding me
these many years,
still holding me
still cherishing me
still honouring me.
Thank you for being
a man of your word,
steady through all these seasons.
A partner is hard to describe,
our roots entwined so tight;
so many comings and goings
but always there’s a home
when you walk in the room.
Your voice, your laugh,
your walk are still a magnet
drawing my eyes in any crowd.
You are a good companion;
thoughtful, intelligent, funny
(you laugh at almost all my jokes).
You’ve worked hard to support us.
We’ve held our babies, raised them,
and reveled together
as we’ve watched them launch.
Sick or healthy,
through every up and down,
from east to west,
you’ve been my faithful friend.
So much behind us,
(we are rich in the Memory Bank)
who knows what’s before us.
I hope that God will gift us
with many more anniversaries
which we will ring in
with deep smiles and thankfulness
for a family, our family,
a happy golden life together.

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"]

Grace Raining

Jesus help us live in peace,
even as we go to pieces.
The body of the redeemed
pulled apart by faithfulness,
yanked by righteousness,
clawed by holiness.
Ecclesial politics as a blood sport.
We stand our ground grandly,
confident of its moral highness.
“They’ve lost the way,”
“They don’t care,”
“We are following Jesus,”
echo back and forth
from every side.
We lay our stones boldly
on the foundation of Jesus Christ,
watching carefully so we can kick away
the rubble laid by other hands.
Fingers point, posture threatens,
raised fists poised to strike,
construction slows for the cataclysm.
The world lines up for the feature presentation;
a bloody good show titled
“Apostasy Returns: The Final Battle”.
Things are just heating up
when the first drops fall.
Where did that cloud come from?
No one was looking for it.
The drops are light at first,
running down our cheeks
like tears from heaven.
Rivulets running down us,
running down them,
pooling at our feet.
And then comes the deluge,
a torrent from above
that finally makes us shut our mouths.
We grope our way off the battlefield
unsure whose hands we’re grasping
in the wet dark.
We walk right by some guy
with outstretched arms,
an anonymous prophet
standing like Elijah
raining grace upon us

Mutiny on the Disciple Ship

Getting on board the disciple ship
was not what I expected.
I imagined clear sailing,
Jesus at the helm,
the congregation a happy crew
learning the ropes together. 

Back then, I didn’t know how close quarters
can sometimes drive us
to gnawing on the ties that bind.
Conflicts rolling over us like sea billows.
Doctrines, finances, personalities,
all these loomed large
until they were dwarfed by
a tsunami of debate on inclusion and exclusion.
The wind came from every direction,
and we either cut or lost the anchor somewhere.
It was a dark and stormy night,
and though the call was for
“All hands on deck”,
we were tossed over like Jonah.
Adrift on the sea, we tread water,
looking for a whale of a solution. 

Imagine our surprise when Jesus appears
walking on this wind-swept sea.
Looking at both the overthrown
and the throwers-over,
he throws out the one-word life-line:
“Come.”

Born into darkness

Jesus is born into darkness,
a darkness that’s over the deep:
the deep sorrowing of our world,
the mourning over murdered children,
the soft sobbing of the hungry,
the wailing over bombed cities,
the despairing over a polluted earth,
the crying over our own sad stories.
On our darkest Christmas eve,
when we’ve forgotten what light looks like,
a baby is born. 

On that first Christmas eve,
the baby came like all babies--
with pain, with great labour,
with giant heaving breaths.
Hope and fear mixed together,
with blood, sweat and tears,
Jesus is born.
Light fills the eyes of Mary and Joseph
as they behold their newborn son,
a child promised of God.
Held by loving arms,
his tiny eyes open,
seeing the world God created
for the very first time.

In the same way in our darkness
light struggles to be born.
We struggle against hatred,
we work against prejudice,
we labour in the face of despair.
With blood, sweat and tears,
with heaving breaths of hope,
Jesus is born.
In the now-done darkness,
we open our eyes
to the beauty of God’s present
for the very first time.

[thank you to Gerard Manley Hopkins for the phrase "now-done darkness" which he used in his 1918 poem "Carrion Comfort"]

Jesus, arrived at last

The baby emerges
like every baby:
wet, naked and wrinkled,
mouth opening for breath,
lungs expanding like a wet butterfly,
fingers stretching, eyes blinking.
The first wailing cry. 

Arms cradle,
hands touch each limb,
smoothing, cleaning, swaddling.
Two adults weak with relief,
stretched with joy,
lips brush the tiny cheek,
the first kiss. 

A baby is born,
a mother is delivered,
prayers are murmured
for a miracle of birth
to a travelling family
far from home
for their first born. 

A mother bends
with her mouth close
to a tiny ear, soft and bent,
as she whispers the word “Jesus”.
It means salvation.
Hope for a nation
come at last. 

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.