Prodigals…

I uploaded a couple of old liturgies on Twelvebaskets the other day, which is a great collection of worship resources for those of you on the look out for material to use in services and house gatherings.

I came across an old piece that I wrote from one of our Greenbelt worship events, entitled ‘Prodigals’, and thought it worth re-posting;

Prodigals, coming home

A liturgy for one voice with congregational response, examining our relationship with our Father God.

 

Our fathering arises from human brokenness

And so is easily broken

We are your prodigals, coming home

Our fathering arises in a place where we struggle for power and control

And so it can become oppressive

Or even abusive

We are your prodigals, coming home

Our fathering finds the limits of our patience, our tolerance and our finances

It can be conditional

And we can be easily angered

We are your prodigals, coming home

Our fathering can be decayed by divorce and marital disharmony

It can become distant and removed

We are your prodigals, coming home

Our fathering can be stolen by death, leaving us in desperate grief

And terribly alone

We are your prodigals, coming home

Yet even we, who are so human

Know how to love

It is shaped within us

Waiting

We know how to give the best for our children

We do not give a stone when they ask for bread

Or a razor blade

When they ask for a plastic toy

Or a used syringe

When they ask for expensive shoes

How much more…

How much more will we encounter

When we meet you-

Heavenly father?

We are your prodigals, coming home

 

There is no Father

Unless there is also a son

Or a daughter

We were made for relationship

All of us- with no exceptions

Every one of God’s children

From the star pupil,

To the remedial

Poorly clothed

Last-to-be-picked

Back-of-the-classroom loser

Who becomes the favourite

The Chosen One

The last-

Now made first

There is no Father

Without us

 

The sons and daughters-

The beloved

Of the most high God

A flash of the old Charismania…

I have just been reading a review of Greenbelt 2012 by Tony Cummings on Cross Rhythms.  Suffice it to say that Tony was not overly impressed. He thought it only a matter of time before GB announced itself no longer a ‘Christian’ festival, and records how he chastised openly gay C of E minister (and former Communard) Richard Coles. He compliments Bruce Cockburn on his music, but regrets lacking an opportunity to correct his theology.

Tony clearly comes from a particular theological position;

The Scriptures have been a light unto my feet wherever I’ve clumsily put them. Put simply, the Bible, all the Bible, is God-breathed. Over the years I’ve had informal chats, often at Greenbelt, with people who’ve called my attitude to the Bible “legalistic” or in more recent times “literalist”. They’ve been hard conversations to conduct in an atmosphere of love. It’s not easy to be gentle and loving when someone’s calling you names and it’s harder still when you’ve come to prayerfully believe that pejorative words like literalist or fundamentalist truly don’t bear any resemblance to what I believe or how I live my life. It seems to me all this theological name-calling, whether it emanates from Bruce Cockburn, Pat Robertson, Martyn Joseph, Dave Tomlinson or thousands more who call Christians deluded charismaniacs, liberal backsliders or post evangelical heretics, are continuing to slander the Church. The love the Bible tells us the Church should have one for another is still elusively far off.

This is an opinion piece and I do not intend to dwell on it too much, apart from an interesting exchange between Tony and Robin Vincent. I missed it, but Robin was part of an event at GB entitled Molten Meditation & Soul Circus’ Sacramental Charismania and Tony Cummings had a bit of a go at it all in his article.

Robin responded via his blog. I liked this;

What I find interesting is that the term “charismatic” used to describe a style of worship is increasingly a red herring. I’ve found the use of the gifts, the move of the holy spirit in every expression of church I’ve come across. This years Greenbelt programme actually had the word “charismatic” all over it describing things like the Blesséd Mass and the Accord Evensong and was ever present in the Rend Collective and Andy Flanagan. There’s a real desire to step up and reclaim the term and demonstrate how my video needs to become an archaic curiosity, a snapshot of what once was – so we can move forward without the baggage. To do that we have to lay the baggage at Jesus’ feet – that’s what I tried to do last Sunday night.

It all comes flooding back.

Me on a stage with a guitar and a sense of confused excitement. Something is stirring, there is a crackle in the air like electricity.

I try to find the wavelength with music, reaching out into what for me is mystery, but into which others all around me are claiming to be directly plugged into- wired in to the God-current.

And I hope. I try not to notice all the contradictions. The so called transformational charismatic events that seem to have no lasting significance in people lives. The selective mundanities pasted together to make clear ‘instruction’ from God. The power given to people who claim special gifting, despite their tendency to abuse and wound others.

For me and many others, it became impossible to dwell within all the contradictions of this experience and to this day, I struggle to understand what of my experience could be regarded as genuine, spiritual, God-related and how much just manipulated hot air.

My working conclusion is that both were present, but in what percentages I could not say.

Tony Cummings differentiates between the ‘Charismatic’ and ‘Charismania’. In my many years of immersion within Charismatic churches, I find this distinction very difficult to define. This might be because of my ‘lack of discernment’ (this being one of the spiritual gifts highly valued in Charismatic circles, but totally subjective in application) but also might be simply because these things will always contain both. To be an active participant in the excesses of Charismatic worship has to involve a setting aside of any kind of defensive reserves and going with the movement of the crowd. Whether the crowd is being shaped by Spirit of God, or the effect of a few charismatic individuals on the many is always difficult to say, particularly when being swept up in the moment.

It is not as if there have not been many warnings of how things can go wrong. Check out this list of Evangelical/Charismatic scandals.

The fact that Greenbelt is allowing a debate about this seems to me to be important.

As for Mr Cummings, I hope that he remains part of the debate- but hatchet jobs written with Evangelical goggles firmly in place really help no one.

Poems of love…

(I am writing this sitting in one of the great British wayside institutions- a Little Chef- somewhere near Skipton.)

We have been away on holiday for a week- more on this later- but today we attend our friends Stacey and Bob’s wedding at Beeston Manor, near Preston. Emily and I will be playing some fiddle/guitar music, and they kindly asked me to write a poem for the ceremony.

It is a humanist ceremony, and so I spent some time trying to come up with some way of saying something new about love. Not an easy thing to do without stumbling into a morass of sticky clichés. Also, my main poetic voice tends towards melancholic introspection, not quite the right tone for a wedding!

So, with every best wish to the happy couple- here is my poem of love;

The shared unknown

 

What more can be said of love that has not been said before?

I could sing to you of roses

I could scratch our names on trunks of trees

Or shower you with diamonds

We could walk through moonlight holding hands

Throw coins in Italian fountains

 

Or I could tell you of how, as a child

Someone sprinkled perfume on my pillow

And it smelled of you

Of how the sound of your voice is a flute

Blown by a desert wind

From some distant spice-filled oasis

 

But love is not captured in words

It also does the dishes

It takes the cold side of the bed

And knows all our guilty secrets

Love grows fat and grey and old

It gets sick and needs protection

 

So walk with me into this shared unknown

Love is a far horizon

Wherever you go is fine with me

These miles we’ll make together

For love is home when you are there

And will be so for ever

The silence of God…

The silence of God

 

Here I am God

Speaking again into your vast unknown

Straining for resonance in space you left wide open

Waiting

 

They say you speak through sunsets

That you voice the throat of sparrows

That I should look for you in the least of these

And that you also speak in silence

They say you are a jealous God

Who calls us from beyond the periphery of our understanding

 

But I am weary of mixing portents from selective mundanity

I hope for so much more than God-in-abstract

Who is unmoved by weeping

 

Perhaps the problem is all mine

Some deficiency of listening making holes in my audial spectrum

Perhaps I am too used to snowing my head with white noise

Or maybe my ears are all plugged up with sin-wax

 

But then again, can this really be a matter of technique?

An accident of genetics gifting some with God-ears?

Do you require some holy smoke-filled sanctuary?

Or a flagellated enlightenment?

Can a loving God be so capricious?

 

So I decided to stop sending all those wish lists

All the pleadings for success and significance

I will even intercede reluctantly

More out of habitual hope

And a desire to carry the shape of you to others

 

I mean in this no lack of respect Lord

What rights have I to command your attention?

Neither is this related to my lack of faith

Even when I forget where I planted my mustard seed

 

It is just honesty

In the face

Of silence

 

But still I am listening

 

Singing of songs…

I have been playing with a melody that popped into my head- a burst of folk music that I walked home with the other day and hummed into a recorder so I would not forget it.

It somehow connected with Song of Songs;

Listen! My beloved!
Look! Here he comes,
leaping across the mountains,
bounding over the hills.
My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag.
Look! There he stands behind our wall,
gazing through the windows,
peering through the lattice.
10 My beloved spoke and said to me,
“Arise, my darling,
my beautiful one, come with me.
11 See! The winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.
12 Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.
13 The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me.”

This is one of those passages that when we read it (and ignore all those lurid sexual images that Song of Songs is full of) we have been accustomed to sanctify and imbue with foresight, as clearly the writer must have been alluding to the coming of Jesus. It is in the Bible after all.

And this may well be true, or perhaps we can read it in a much more earthy way- the man and his lover, fully alive, turned on like a spring morning. Humanity at the centre of a Creation re created through sexual electro chemistry.

I wrote a tamer Scottish version, to my own love-

The winter rains are almost done

The birds now sweetly singing

The woods alive in every limb

Each leaf new life is bringing

The ancient hills are green again

The valleys now are bleating

The forest floor slumbers no more

Bluebells will soon be ringing

Arise my love, and come away, come away

Arise my love and come away

 

The days are long those shadows gone

Light here around is falling

The humming hive is now alive

Lark into sky is soaring

So rise up hope and dance anew

On this your bright new morning

Come fly away my love with me

Our summer days are calling

Arise my love, and come away, come away

Arise my love and come away

The trees of the field shall clap their hands…

Part of some poetry I am working on for Greenbelt festival

The air is harrowed by the song of birds

Each note a spore

Lighting upon the curl of some fertile ear

And the trees of the field clap their hands

 

The earth exhales

No longer held in the clamp of winter

Breath misting the day into rainbows of light

And the trees of the field clap their hands

 

Last year’s leaves fell not in vain

Digested as they are by a subterranean stomach

Burping out it’s appreciation

And the trees of the field clap their hands

Raw…


I am sometimes so sick of the me

I wish I would just go away

I wish that the skin that I’m in would fall off

And the bones would go somewhere and stay

 

I should stay far from the you

It really is better that way

The sight of me stripped of my skin and my bones

Is a gruesome revolting display

 

 

The good death…

I have been thinking about death recently.

This was no blinding flash of my own mortality, more something glimpsed through the eyes of friends and their families.

Firstly, three of my Aoradh chums lost their mothers. All women of deep faith, gone to meet their maker. To watch close friends go through the pain of losing a parent so unexpectedly, and to watch them mourn with grace, has been an honour. Blessed are those who mourn.

Then today I spent a while talking to another friend, whose 88 year old mother also died a couple of days ago.  My friend is not a person who openly celebrates her faith, but her mother was a devout believer. This is the story of her death;

My friend rushed down to be at her mother’s bedside after an unexpected call about an admission to hospital. This involved several hours of anxious driving, but her mother was still very much alive and alert   to greet her daughter.

So it was that my friend was able to spend several hours sitting at her mothers bedside. Her mother faded visibly however and as she weakened the words were fewer, until behind her oxygen mask my friend heard her mother mouthing some words. All she could make out were ‘glory’ and ‘God’.

My friend and her brother called the hospital chaplain, who administered last rites.

As the Priest uttered his final words, she died.

This was no fairy tale- after her passing there was an all too familiar eruption of family disputes about the funeral plans, the will, and who was to blame for what.

Death waits for us all.

Yet most of us still regard it as some distant foreign country – Botswana perhaps – we are aware of it’s existence, but have no plans to go there.

Typified by another story from the week gone by. Another friend – a fantastically vibrant and active 80 year old, recently back from her travels in the far East – had a mild stroke. She is home now, a little weaker down one side, but making a good recovery. Michaela called to see her and she was on good form, but appeared very glad to have a visitor.

She said something rather interesting- that it was mostly her younger friends that have been in touch. Those in an older age range almost seem traumatised by the imminence of death, brought closer by the frailty of a peer.

She is an atheist, a signed up member of Exit but she has strong views of dying well.

Because there is such a thing as a good death. 

Mine might be near or far, but I pray that either way I will meet it with courage and hope for the next adventure.

I am reminded of this post, and this poem;

Life still flickers

.

I have heard it said that

Dead men walking

We are

Corporeal

Tenderised

Like veal

Blown by flies

.

But life still flickers

Faint but strong

Vibrating these hollow veins

And the voltage you make

Is a current

Wired to the nape

Of my neck

.

Because this thing we are

Is more than just

A bottle

For blood

So much more than just

Shapes

Mixed from mud

.

Beautiful creature

Sing, spirit-

Sing

A time to gather stones, and then to scatter them…

I received a lovely thing today. One of our guests over the weekend left behind a gift for both Michaela and I.

Mine was a little bag full of tiny black stones, each one with a word in tiny writing.

When you put the sentence together, it read

…a time to gather stones and a time to scatter them…

The words of course, are from Ecclesiastes chapter 3. This is a special chapter for me, as I spent a very creative time writing a series of poems based around it, which became part of ‘Listing’.

At present, I am wondering whether I am gathering stones, or scattering them.

In some ways, I am building- all the plans we have for different ways of making a living. In other ways, it feels as if I am taking hold of a handful of stones and throwing them in the air, waiting to see where they all land.

It made me return to those old poems I had written. It is a strange thing to do, as they arise very much in the moment, and so to consider them anew is difficult. The one that impacted me was this one;

A time to gather

There is a time for all things under heaven…

There’s a murmur and mutter of holy unrest
They’re coming
So look to the north, the east and the west
They’re coming

Fools now wise in the way of the One
Captives unchained, once more on the run
Broken people splinted and cast
Winners now all prepared to be last

Sick folk nursed and discharged
Narrow people with lives now enlarged
Bitterness sweetened and ready to serve
Unworthy who get more than they deserve

Useless people ready to be used
The inexcusable being excused
The unstable stop up-and-downing
Depressives learn to start clowning

Sensitive souls softened to others
Orphans find fathers and mothers
The outsiders will sit by the fire
The lazybones now never tire

The tuneless will learn how to sing
The lame will dance Highland fling
The childless will learn how to mother
The selfish will favour the other

The talentless learn brand new skills
Megalomaniacs surrender their wills
Soldiers lay down the gun
The miserable start to have fun

~

Angry folk fit a long fuse
Drinkers will give up the booze
Sinners like me will no longer be
And the faithless will spiritually see

The becoming of God are flowing together
For now is the time
To gather

When I wrote this, it was a poem of yearning. A few years down the line, despite the battering taken from the ups and downs of community it is still there.

One of the challenges for sensitive damaged souls like me is the tendency towards isolation. I believe that community should be our goal and our aim, in spite of our experience of community.

I was grateful for the gift, and for the little slice of community- thanks Raine!