The Twelve Are Alive In Me

The Twelve Are Alive In Me

There are days

when it feels

as though all the twelve

live in this poor disciple’s heart.

For, depending on the moment’s mystery

each has his place and his preaching

is heard in my soul.

Peter is present

A rock and foundation stone

thrice cleft by betrayal

and cleansed by tears at

cockcrow

but fitting fully now nonetheless,

this rough fisherman of grace,

overawed at Love that does not depart

in the presence of sin

or even self satisfied importance,

but teaches patiently

through the impetuosity

of one who would

build tents to contain heaven

on a hill,

and swing a leg over the side

to begin the water walk of wonder

until storm tossed seas

recall a quavering heart to the lesson of humility

and later call “Quo Vadis?”

to One whose way he will follow to

an upside down end.

O yes.

Peter is present in me.

Andrew beckons too,

the announcer of the Lord.

First called and first to call others

“Come!”

he cries in me, “I have found Him!”

And this is the life of Andrew in me

finding and losing and finding again;

only to lose again so that I may call others to

the finding in their turn,

and in that struggle to perhaps

at the last, find all that I have longed for

and sought in every teacher;

the One from whom the knowledge comes,

the One who is the Wisdom of the Ages

the Lamb walking wild towards His

Paschal place while saying all the while

“Come and See…”

“Come and See…”

O yes. Andrew is present in me.

The Sons of Thunder have their place in me,

brothers both and twice blessed

James and John; lions of the Lord,

tamed slowly into Apostles of

Mercy and Love;

they shine the light

on all unreconciled in me,

all that is yet to yield

to the gentleness of grace,

transforming fire into fire,

light into light, they smoulder within

until finally alight, the mystic flame

burns away my blindness

and gives the eagle’s eye,

the pilgrim’s staff

to see and walk the way

beyond the way

of this world

Matthew dwells here too.

Tax Collector, Publican,

who yet holds the priestly name

too in his heart, even in his broken days.

Forgiven his compromise

with the world and called clean

from the heart of horror

by One who sudden stands unbidden

in the midst of the unclean place

to cleanse and call.

His story told me to hope

that I too could be called

not once only but daily

from the hard taxation

of sin’s slavery

and its distractions to become

a living Gospel

of His grace

evangelising all

in exultation

over mercy found, not once only,

but many times,

where even the tale of my betrayals

becomes a blessed gate to grace

for all who hear.

O yes. Matthew is present in me.

Philip and Bartholomew

Brothers of the road

and companions

on the way

are found in me.

Spirit led preachers and questioners too

seeking wisdom’s light and imparting

wisdom’s blessings all in the power of

the Word.

In their pain they preached

and fulfilled their longing

to see with their own eyes

and touch with their own hands.

They teach the lesson of being open to Angels

met upon the road in all the disguises

of grace, stepping lightly and not long upon the earth

they dance across deserts and invite me

to flow freely in faith

O yes. Philip and Bartholomew are present in me.

Thomas too is here,

sometimes still appearing as

Didymus the Doubter;

needing the touch of truth,

the gaping wound that proves Love’s

Labour birthing blessedness in blindness.

Yet also, and more often

he in me affirms faith and its freedom

describing divinity in mystery

and Lordship in light

touching presence, yes

by becoming the very vessel

in which is seen and heard

the One who is the face

of the Father.

O yes. Thomas is present in me.

Three come forward now

Each with their own share

Of me, in me, with me,

Simon, James and Jude

Of the first two named

I owe the allegiance of the east,

for into the sun rise they walked

their way of faith together

once healed of the heaviness

of seeming loss and ruin on Calvary’s Cross.

In its sign they bought with their blood too

the blessing of a harvest

still to be reaped, not just in distant lands

but in this my soul that lies too often in darkness

and yearns for resurrection dawn.

Of the third what can I say

but that his gift is hope, perhaps

the greatest grace of all save love,

but can love be kindled

save at hope’s hearth?

He too lived his hope unto the gates of Heaven

where hope fades into faith’s fulfilment

and where I pray each day these noble three

may yet bring me and all I love safely home.

O yes. Simon and James and Jude are present in me.

And yes…

There is a Judas place

in which I am the betrayer,

whose faith is so frail

it cannot imagine a mercy

wide enough for me

and hurtles instead headlong

through temptation’s tumult

to bestow a kiss,

by which the silver coin of self

turns to doubt’s dust

in an unknowing dawn, a mere second away from resurrection

May I be saved from it by this sacred knowing that

O yes. Judas is present in me.

But there is too a blessedness in me,

though not of me,

that kindles faith and hope and love

even in the face of my own weary weakness,

and calls me yet, as they were called

from out the ordinary occupation of the day to know

that these Apostles, all alive in me,

are spokes of one great wheel of love,

that turns the stars and drives the sun across the sky

and pours upon us the uncreated light by which we see the light!

Known to those twelve first as Rabbi, then as Christ, and finally as Lord,

He lights my way, loves me and all that is

into the blessing of being

and asks me now, as then he asked, and he now asks you,

“Will you not come and see?”

O yes. He is present in me.

Moon Memories

Moon Memories:

Once,

The moon followed

me home,

I know,

because I watched her

out the back window of the car.

Occasionally slipping

behind trees or buildings

like a secret agent,

she kept up with us

effortlessly,

as I strained against

the straps of my seat

to meet her gaze.

I felt her interest

and her smile,

happy to have made

a new friend.

Once,

not afraid of the night,

but of the day

that would follow,

I was invited

by my Mother

to gaze on the Moon

outside our house,

and greet her as

Our Lady’s lamp

protecting all,

guiding all home,

wisdom

passed down

from her Father,

whom I had never met,

but always felt

I knew.

He loved the Moon

she said.

There is hereditary

of the heart,

as well as of the blood,

it seems.

To this day

I miss her calls

that would begin always

with,

Have you seen the Moon

tonight?

For I cannot look up

at the Moon

without looking

within

too.

Once,

I spent the night

in a wood made pure

silver

by her presence,

and felt the life in every thing

stir and sing

and dance

in a wild celebration

that is hidden from

the day.

I sat stone still

and watched

Foxes play

about me

and a Badger

pass by like an ancient sage

busy on his own quest,

and I believed

in magic again

by her light.

Once,

I remember her

appearing during the

long drawn out days

of dry schooling,

and seeing her

still serenity

so far above

the awfulness

of that age

made me breathe out

a breath

I did not even know

I had been holding

on to for years.

She felt like a friend

checking in.

We greeted each other

then,

as we do to this day,

each noticing the other

in the blessed acceptance

of being.

Once,

Sick and fevered I rose

gasping in the middle

of a winter’s night

and pulled back the curtain

to find her shining

over snow so newly fallen

that not a flake

had been disturbed

but glowed in her gaze

cascading in curves

over a street I knew

but saw again

for the first time

now softened

by snowlight’s reflection

of her blessed touch.

I looked and looked

at this gracious gift

of enchantment’s echo

until I felt I was being

looked at in turn

and blessed too.

In the morning,

I woke

well.

Once,

I walked the pier

between my parents

on the night before

I left to follow

the path.

We watched her rise

together,

in silence

and listened to a mandolin

playing in the distance.

We did not have to speak,

the Moon sang for us,

soul songs only we could hear.

Always remember this night,

they said later.

As if I could

do anything

else?

Once,

Feeling bereft and lost

I caught sight of her

rising over a strange city

(Though I remember her,

and the feelings,

but not the city it was.)

and I did not feel lost

anymore

How could you be lost

when you are always

under her graced gaze?.

How could you be alone

when everyone you know

and love is beneath her blessing

too?

I asked myself.

Once,

I saw her,

loom so large

as to almost

be alarming,

bedecked in harvest

gold and heavy seeming,

she lit the land beneath

so beautifully

that the cattle on the hills

cried out to her,

and the birds began their chorus

for a dawn

that was yet hours away.

I danced in her light

that night,

beneath the trees,

a slow sandaled

shuffle of monkish sort,

and bowed deeply

as she passed.

How could you not?

When all around

and within

was

psalming

celebration

of her compline

completeness.

Once,

I watched her rise

sickle sharp

over Assisi.

As though making manifest

the unseen divine smile

hanging in the air

over this holy place

where joy was married

to peace in the song

of brother-sisterhood.

I smiled back and felt

the saint smile too

behind it all

and wondered what

his long silent nights

of prayer

must have been like

measured only by her dance

across the sky

slowly revealing her face

to him,

as grace comes gently

to fill us

only as we empty

and so seem

to disappear

into divine darkness

just like

her.

Candlemas Feb 2^nd 2018

Storm Fallen Cedar

Storm Fallen Cedar

It was the storm

that took her

at the last;

while we nestled

deeper in our beds,

unsleeping,

but grateful all the same

for the simple joy

of shelter.

In the smallest hours

Heaven opened

overhead

and poured upon us

an onslaught of

wild wind,

with rain so cold

it was almost snow

in its sharpness.

Just before the dawn

it peaked in power,

finally enough,

as it

whipped

like a scourge

against her long aged, grey,

elephantine skin

and, though her sisters

held their vigil nearby,

she gently gave way,

and fell,

prostrate upon the earth

from which she came,

embraced by the sacred soil

of our little

graveyard.

Was she tired

of her long watch upon the hill?

Holding her gaze

over the forest, the family

and now the friars,

for three hundred

of our human years

(Whatever kind of reckoning

Trees make of time

I do not know,

and they do not tell

in our tongue at least.)

So much had passed

beneath her branches

famines, feasts, families

and finally, friars, all played

their part

measuring her time,

each in their own way.

That morning,

emerging into light,

we heard the news

in shock;

the ripple of her passing

echoing

in awe and prayer both,

a sadness felt in brother, bird, and beast

for those still enough to hear.

Today,

I made my pilgrimage

to pay my respects

as she lies in state,

our sacred sister,

eldress of this land.

Finding her broken body

dissolving already,

her ancient green soul

flown.

Her long hidden heartwood

now exposed,

still raw and soft yet,

open to the breeze,

that touched her broken branches

with the sacred sprinkling

of the rain.

So often before

I had blessed her,

and given her my brother’s bow

in passing by,

and so been blessed in turn

by her simple stately

being.

My hands, resting upon her trunk,

felt the difference

today.

No pulse,

no inner warmth,

no great deep

breathing in her

root,

trunk,

branch,

bark.

It brought sadness too,

but also the joy of knowing

that in every death

something withdraws,

is freed,

leaves.

For all that live

sing their own soul song

arising from Divine love,

and in someway,

at the end will

return their essence

as gift borrowed for a while,

until the new creation

allows resurrection seed

to finally fully bloom

in all beings.

I was not the first

to grieve her though,

For all around the tracks

and trails of those she sheltered showed;

the fleet of foot, feathered, furred

they too had felt her passing,

and it seemed had held their funeral rites

ever before us.

And then,

I looked up from my troubled thoughts

and found my gaze held

by a Stag who watched,

wary and wonderful and wild,

from the forest’s edge.

Both of us, in our own way,

guardians of this land.

Both of us mourning

the passing of our eldress,

each in our own way.

Both of us simply there

in the brotherhood of all being.

And I think, in that moment

we were blessed,

and blessed each other too,

in our common grief and trust

that all that live upon this earth will die,

and all that dies will live again in Love.

Then, bowing gently, we withdrew

to forest and to friary each,

aware of other 

and of something

beyond other, 

I, for my part, call grace,

(Whatever kind of reckoning

Deer make of grace

I do not know,

and they do not tell

in our tongue at least.),

grace that had led us both

to be there

at that time, together,

in mourning,

for our storm fallen sister,

the great and ancient being

we simply call

Tree.

Christmas Homily: Ards 2017: Year of the Family

Christmas Homily: Ards 2017: Year of the Family

Emmanuel that is the title He gives Himself…

God with us…

Down the dark and longing ages the prophet’s flame touched words are heard,

“A virgin will conceive and bear a Son and his name shall be Emmanuel”…

They were not understood but they were repeated, renewed in each generation’s heartfelt yearning…and so the sacred words come down to us…

They shine an inner light upon that yearning that arises from that deeply gnawing sense we all have of separation… of being alone… of isolation…

Separated from our God, sin sundered from each other, separated by death… we long for completeness, for perfection, for peace… for life eternal,

for God with us…

We look for its fulfilment… so often searching in the wrong places… We give ourselves over to short term solutions, thinking that our hungers are more important than asking why we are hungry at all and, if we are then what are we truly hungry for? We think our desires are more important than those of others, our needs more pressing than yours…and so finding in our overwhelming desires a fire that scorches and destroys when all the time we were really looking for a light that illumines and enlightens…

It is enough to make us despair…

Or it would be…

Were it not for the prophet’s Spirit whispered promise…

Emmanuel: Our God with us…

the fulfilment of all our hopes and dreams with us…

Can it really be possible?

We wonder…

Could the God of gods, the light from light truly want to be with us?

With us in our mess?

With us in our sin?

With us in our brokenness?

No! Impossible, we think,

At least not until I make myself perfect, or at least a little better,

God would not come to my home, to my heart, to my family… I mean look at us…

Look at me…

“If you really knew me…” we say

 and the fall silent before the mirror of our own soul and its sin soiled surface

No, we think… He could not want to be with me, and in our twisted pride we close our doors to him, just as surely as the innkeeper did on that night,

as the Pharisees would later,

as Pilate finally will with the washing of his hands…

But look at the name He is announced under…

God with us… Emmanuel

Not God with us if…

Not God with us… when

Not God with us…but

You see, where true love exists there are no ifs, buts, or whens;

no conditions no limits no ultimatums

There is only with…

The Lover with the Beloved

Each allowing the other to be who they are.

The One present to the other in open compassion and peace.

That is love

That alone

And to prove this He comes in the most simple and poor way possible.

He descends directly into the mess, into the heart of the mess,

Into a divided world

Into conquered nation

Into a persecuted people

Into a displaced tribe

Into a dung and straw filled stable

Into a topsy turvy family barely ready for a birth

Into the pure heart of a young girl

Love descends.

Love itself descends and becomes one with the mess

Becomes one with us.

Becomes one with me.

Becomes one with you.

And we touch pure, divine unconditional love

No waiting for us to be perfect here…

If God was to wait for us to be perfect there would never have been a Christmas!

No He comes to the mess and in coming to it begins to heal it there and then.

Right there in the midst of it all.

He comes.

The star hangs silent and almost unnoticed over a town overrun with chaos

The angels travel to the simplest and most unclean to deliver the message

of peace!

(no shepherds allowed in the temple! No farmers before the altar with their muddy sandals and earthy hands.)

Emmanuel: Our God with us…

He comes in stillness

He comes in peace

He comes in vulnerability

He comes in the middle of the night

He comes in the deep midwinter

He comes to be loved

He comes to love as only a baby loves

Without judgement and always in the perfect

present moment, forgetting what has just been before

and open to Love now.

Emmanuel: Our God with us…

One with us…

And in that shining moment of Bethlehem we are made part of His family again

The one great family of creation restored as sons and daughters of the Most High

There is no one without a family ever again

No one without a place here at the manger

No one for whom the babe would not have come

Or did not come…

He came for you

He came for me, broken, sinful me…

And He came so that in the Love that is God the broken would be made whole, the sin forgiven and the new beginning of blessing begun in my life and in yours too…

This is what we celebrate tonight…

Every Christmas light you see reminds us of the light of the stable and the star,

every tree in every window the evergreen welcome of Christ in His Love,

every gift exchanged a shadow of the greatest gift ever given…

this is why we gather here and in all the churches of the world tonight and it is why we are sent from here with this message, this commission to tell the whole world

Our God is Emmanuel

Our God is with us!

Hear it!

You have a commission… You cannot call yourself a Christian and absolve yourself from it! Wherever you are, wherever you go you have a message to proclaim, if not by your words then more importantly by your life!

In your home

In your place of work

In your relationships

You must be Christmas!

You must be the reminder to all that God is with us!

You must become a Christmas tolling bell announcing the Word made Flesh,

the birth of the Saviour…

No one should meet you, friend or stranger and not meet the Good News of God in the mess, God with us…

No one should meet you, should meet me

without knowing they have met another call to the manger,

a call to come home to the family of God,

a call to the embrace of Love;

No one should meet you, should meet me

without knowing that in some way they have met the Christ who comes,

the babe of Bethlehem, the God who is with us…

the God who is love.

The God who sees in us only and always

His beloved sons and daughters

His family.

We have called Him Lord and Master and rightly, for so He is…

We have called Him Prince of Peace, and Wonderful Counsellor and Everlasting Father, and so He is…

But He has called Himself Emmanuel…

God with us…

And that is what we celebrate this Christmas night.

May the Lord give you His Peace this Christmas Night: The Father, the Son and + the Holy Spirit.

Amen/

The Wild Nativity

The Wild Nativity.

We have our prophecies too
you know,
we tell our own tales,
and so we knew
to gather there
that night,
ambassadors of our
varied kinds all.
Before old Joseph
came back
with supplies from the inn.
We were there,
hidden in the hay,
up amongst the old beams,
resting by the manger
or drawn there
by the new star
that rose that night
pure and shining
like a snowflake
in its light.
We were there.
We had felt the
old pull of Eden
in our furred and feathered hearts
and felt his long forgotten nearness
once again who walked with us
once in evening light.
Old rivalries forgotten,
or at least put aside tonight,
we sat peacefully
in storied rank
half hidden in the shadows,
lost in awe at her,
settled
so still
in the straw,
her eyes closed
as though present
to a mystery
within.
We were there
waiting for Him
with her.
Let us prepare
His place we said...
Wren moved first,
to pluck her own breast
scattering the softest down
amongst the rough straw
and sparrows followed
weaving moss and herbs
as mattress
as Owl, and old Crow
and Hawk directed.
"I will keep him warm",
said Robin,
reddening his breast
while fanning flame alight.
"We will sing to him
when at last He comes"
said the little ones,
four footed and furred
and long tailed too,
piping in their tiny voices
choiring high as mouse
and vole, rabbit
and hedgehog all
assembled there,
followed by fox's clear tenor
and Badger's earthy baritone
to sing their
benediction of
wild welcome.
And then he came.
How? As sun shines sudden through a cloud breaking blindingly!
How? As the first rays of dawn mark that moment when night becomes a new day.
How? As a scenting nose is suddenly aware of a change in the air.
He came.
More than that we will not say.
Ours alone was that privilege to see and we will guard it down the ages...
And Mary looked upon us with love
and thanked us all
and in her smile and words
we heard old Eve laugh
at last again.
And then there was noise,
and people,
so many people,
and we withdrew
as we always do
to the shadows
again.
But not before He smiled at us
a smile of long recognition
graced and grateful
both.
After the shepherds left,
and their piping drumming din
went off amongst the crowds.
After Bethlehem finally became still.
After old Joseph nodded off
to his Angeled dreams.
We were there
and came forth again
from the shadows
to dwell with them,
our new Adam and Eve,
and heard then
our Gospel
preached to us,
who are already
of His kingdom
and always were.
We made our covenant
with Him then,
to be the first apostles
of His love
and in
our being blessed
and shared with you
to remind you
of the innocence
you lost
and He renews
if you would but follow
our
wild way to
Eden's light
again.
We have been
forgotten now
as shepherds, kings
and crowds
followed,
but not by Him,
who from his mother's arms
smiled past them all at us
hiding in the shadows
there.
And we would later
meet Him
in the desert
and the garden,
there
we will be with Him
again,
for we have
our prophecies too
you know,
and tell our tales
too,
whispering
to each other
across the woods
and hills,
on this night
each year
as you toll your bells
and sing,
we look to the skies
and
remember;
we
were
there.

Christmas Blessings to you and yours this Holy Night +

(Pic is of The Christmas Star by Lynn Bywaters)

On the Edge of Waiting: A Meditation Poem for Christmas Eve, Eve.

On the Edge of Waiting.
(A Meditation Poem for Christmas Eve, Eve)

Shhh...
Come away a moment,
my friend.
Come away
from the lights,
and the crowds,
and the shops,
and the noise,
and the pressure,
and the worrries,
and the old wounds that
winter us
before our time.
Come and sit with me here.
Rest.
Just for a moment.
Let me share with you once again
what we forget in our festive
frenzy:
He is coming…
Down the long ages of despair
He comes as Hope.
Down the rough road of doubt
He comes as Faith.
Down the broken byways
of the
human heart
He comes as Love.
He is coming…
Sit with me on the edge of waiting…
Sit in sacred stillness…
Breathe the deep breath of
blessing.
You do not have to do anything.
He is coming…
Whether you are ready or not
Aware or not,
Able or not,
Present or not,
Believing or not,
He is coming…
As the sun rises,
as the moon shines,
as the tides turn,
as the stars dance,
He is coming…
So do not worry.
Let the tyranny of
tension
fall from you…
You never needed to carry it.
Let the false face of
righteous readiness to defend,
dissolve.
You never needed to wear it.
How could you ever be ready
for this?
For the first proclamation of the
Kingdom to be heard in a baby’s
cry.
Nothing is asked of you
but
to be here and now
who you are.
Truly.
Fully.
Broken?
Yes.
Weak?
Yes.
Called?
Oh yes.
He is coming…
And He is calling you to come to Him.
As He always does.
As He always will.
So, how will you greet Him,
the One who is coming?
The One who calls you,
to His crib.
(Yes, you.)
Will you prepare a place for Him?
Will you open the cave of your heart to Him?
Will you place Him in the sanctuary of your soul?
Will you lay Him upon the rough straw of your life?
Will you swaddle Him with your silence?
Will you offer Him the gentle warmth of animal breath?
Will you offer Him your love?
Or not.
He is coming…
Do not miss the moment
Of Mystery’s
mangered birth
by succumbing to
Bethlehem busyness.
No.
Become as still as a shepherd watching the flock of slumbering sheep.
Become as still as a sage watching the long dance of the stars.
Become as still as Joseph hearing Angels on the edge of dreams.
Become as still as she who is the stillpoint of love’s longing, filled with light,
and whose silence
brought forth the
Word of Love.
Be still and you will know
He is coming…
Always…
In stillness,
on the edge of waiting…
He is coming for you…
He is coming to you…
Always.
He is coming in Love.

(I wrote this last year and just discovered it has been shared over 1000 times on FB! As it seems to be something we all need to hear I'm posting it again. May its words continue to bless all who read it... Happy Christmas Eve, Eve to all)
Brother Richard