Ruach

    

   

before light and life

the Spirit hovered over the waters

hovered over Mary

hovered over me

when cells began to knit together

fearfully, wonderfully

 

and then, the breath of life

eyes to see a light

ears to hear a voice

and,

touch of mother skin

 

sudden shock of water

words ringing, singing in my ear

an unseen dove?

an unheard voice above?

“mine, mine, mine”

 

wind, air blowing hair

stirring something strange within

a tongue of fire

burning, turning

feet back to the House

to say I do, I do, I do

 

beyond,

the sometime killing fields

valleys of dry bones

vales of tears

hollowed lives

and from among the ruins

the cry of “why, why, why”

 

but then, but there

in the midst of rubble

the wind blows

a flower grows

a bird is heard

and

oh glory

the cry

of a new-born child

 

nearby

the Spirit hovers still

 

 

 

"Puddle-wonderful"

if you made us for reveling in the sheer force of life
that has exploded all around
for shouting and dancing at the boldness of the first daffodil
and gasping in wonder at the delicate temerity of the early trillium
for the soul’s inhaling of the smell of fresh-mown grass
and the pungent fragrance of the lilac bush…

then we give glory, glory, glory to your all-creating power!

to be awake and wholly alive
to the jubilant rites of spring
when the first robin tunes nature’s orchestra
when nature’s first green turns gold
when spring breezes unglue the artfully folded buds
and “the world is puddle-wonderful”

then, with wide-eyed wonder of infancy still within
to the Giver of new flowers and the songs of birds
and the good green earth ever renewing
world without end -
we give thanks
for this our Father’s world…

                                            -adapted from Talking with God

After Easter

A small group of confused disciples, huddled behind locked doors somewhere in Jerusalem, stunned by the sudden appearance of their living Rabboni.
And then those words: “As the Father sent me, so send I you.” (John 20:21)
Simple words, but fearful in meaning.

For the Father sent his Son as a sheep among wolves, sent his Son into the valley of death, sent his Son from heaven to hell.
An earthly father would sacrifice nearly everything to save his son.
The heavenly Father sacrificed his Son to save nearly everything.

Simple words that could hardly sink in all at once.
For their Lord was sending them out into the dangers and death of true discipleship
.

To be in the center of the curious crowds had often been exhilarating.
To distribute the baskets of fish to the hungry thousands had been positively heady.
To sit at his feet and be the privileged of the inner circle had been deeply satisfying.
They had been called to follow, and they had.

But now they were being sent, and they trembled at this new calling.
For now began the real test of their faith: danger, scorn, rejection, betrayal, torture, death – the way of their Lord.
And that Lord said: “…so send I you.”

They could’ve turned a deaf ear. 
They could’ve run. 
They could’ve looked at each other and said, “You do it.”
But they didn’t. 
As the Son had obeyed the Father, so they obeyed the Son.

The doubting Thomas presumably took the Good News to Parthia, Persia, and India.
Mark established the Christian church in Alexandria.
James became a martyr under Herod Agrippa I,
Peter under Nero.
Matthew is said to have suffered martyrdom in Ethiopia,
Bartholomew in Armenia,
Thomas in India,
Andrew in Achaia,
Matthias stoned and then beheaded.
And thousands who came after them, for the cost of discipleship is high.

The willingness to sacrifice a throne in exchange for a cross is incomprehensible to us, or safety in exchange for suffering..
Incomprehensible, unless the Lord of new life breaks through the barred gates of our lives;
unless the risen Christ breathes on us the power of the Holy Spirit.
For when that happens, the called become the sent.

To the far ends of the earth?

Maybe.
But the place surely includes our community, our workplace, our church, our school, our home.
That may not lead to a martyr’s death, but it constitutes as real a test of our true discipleship,
as it did for Andrew, Peter, James, and all the others.
For Jesus said: “So send I you.”

Does that really mean me?

Beyond Expectation

Now that he has risen,
our eyes can conquer
fear.

Raise heads
and with the trees
reach out a hand.

It will come soon:
in windlessness and fire,
birds over land,
an almighty Dove.

Wait, and your voice
will be understood..

                         -Jan Dotinga
                          transl. from Frisian - hjb

A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

We’re back from the land where God appeared and spoke to men.
We were in the country of Abraham and Samuel and Isaiah and Jeremiah.
We were in the place where God became Man.
And we stood near the place where that God-Man was nailed to the cross, died, was buried, and arose.
We’re back, but we’re not the same.

We’re not the same, for we were at Ibillin where we witnessed the power of a faith vision, where Father Chacour, now Archbishop of Galilee, built from nothing a set of first-rate educational institutions that hold hope for the 3000 Palestinian children and adults who attend.
We’re not the same for we heard him tell us that surely Israel needs our friendship and should continue to receive it, but also to remember that Palestinians are paying the bill for what others have done against his beloved Jewish brothers and sisters in the Holocaust and Auschwitz and other death camps.  We were painfully reminded of those words when we heard the stories of our Palestinian Christian tour guide and saw the disturbing contrasts within the West Bank and the obscene wall in Bethlehem.  With Christ we weep over Jerusalem and this divided people.

We’re not the same, for we were at the Al Basma Center in Bethlehem and danced with a smiling group of disabled Palestinian youth and adults whose lives are being transformed through vocational training  where they grow pride in the products they learn to make and skills they master.
The Center receives no support from the State of Israel, and we were deeply moved by the loving spirit that gives rise to this place within a community of meager means.

We’re not the same, for we walked the rocky ground where the “father of all believers” walked, where Saul lived and died in battle, where David hid in caves, where Hezekiah built his tunnel, where Herod designed and planted his many opulent palaces and where he was buried in a magnificent tomb that had been years in the making, now as reduced to ruin as was his worm-eaten body.

We’re not the same, for the baby Herod thought he had killed grew into the Messiah. 
We stood in the rushing waters of the Jordan, remembering his baptism, held hands, prayed, and sang “When Peace like a River.” 
On a high rocky hill that looked down on the Sea of Galilee, we sat in the grass around Pastor Bill who recited from memory Jesus’ most memorable sermon.  The power of our Savior’s words in Matthew 5 moved us deeply; we will never read that chapter in the same way again. 

We’re not the same, for we walked the Son of Man’s final journey, the journey of Holy Week.  
Each of us found a quiet place in the Garden of Gethsemane for meditation and prayer.
Then we descended into the noisy, narrow streets of Jerusalem and followed the Via Dolorosa along the Stations of the Cross and remembered that the Lord of lords stumbled here under the weight of a sin-laden cross on which he would be crucified as the most despised of criminals.
And when at last we approached the Place of the Skull, we remembered the words we had sung in the Jordan: “My sin – oh, the bliss of this glorious thought! – my sin, not in part, but the whole, is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more, praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul.”
Then, our pilgrimage ending in the Garden Tomb, we commemorated in Holy Communion the Savior’s body broken and blood shed for our eternal healing.  Each of us took a small stone from the “altar” as a permanent reminder of this holy moment, the words of the hymn welling up in our soul:
“What language shall I borrow to thank you dearest Friend,
for this your dying sorrow, your mercy without end? 
Lord, make me yours forever, a loyal servant true,
and let me never, never outlive my love for you.”
                                                                                                                                      

[Note: for a detailed account of our pilgrimage, see the excellent blog Mike VanDenend kept: calvinalumniassociation.blogspot.com]

Dona nobis pacem

 

In the world’s most memorable sermon, the Man of Galilee said to a world haunted by violence: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.”
                                                                           *~*

It’s a moonless night in a small, poor village in Galilee, not far from Nazareth.
In a dimly lit cinder block home, a woman lies dying.
A priest sits with her, holding her cold, tremulous hand.
Toward the dark morning hours, her breathing stops.
The priest offers to deliver the news to the grieving son’s three brothers.
But the son stiffens, scowls, and says: “If they set foot in this house, we will kill each other.”
For the truth is that the brothers have such hate in their hearts for each other that even the death of their mother cannot bring them together.

These brothers are believers, once active in their village church.  Their vicious hostility toward each other has infected others, like an invisible toxic fog seeping through the walls of souls and spreading its evil poison.  Fathers won’t speak to sons, mothers and daughters spread false rumors about each other. 
Most of the Christians in this village no longer show up in church.

Except for Holy Week.  On Palm Sunday every seat is taken, though the hostility is palpable.  The feuding brothers are there also, but sitting widely apart from each other.

Before the benediction and dismissal, the priest descends from the pulpit and strides toward the back of the church.  He locks the huge double doors that have been open with a chain and padlock. Returning to the front, he faces his astonished congregation.
The priest now turns prophet: he confronts God’s people who have become lost in their hate and malice. 

“If you can’t love your brother,” he thunders, “whom you see, how can you say you love God who is invisible?  I have failed to unite you, but there is someone who can.  His name is Jesus Christ, who gives you power to forgive.  And if you will not forgive, we will stay locked in here.  You can kill each other and I’ll provide your funerals gratis.” 
Silence.  Tight lips.  Clenched fists.  Stony glares.  But silence, as the minutes crawl by in agonizing slowness.

Then the mysterious power of God invades.
Someone rises.  It is the man who would not let his brothers come to mourn their mother’s death.
Head lowered, voice faltering, the hardness of his heart melting with the irresistible grace of God, he turns to his fellow villagers: “I have hated my brothers enough to want to kill them.  I need forgiveness more than any.”
He turns to the priest now.  “Can you forgive me, too, Father?”
They move toward each other, embrace, give the kiss of peace, and of forgiveness.
The repentant brother now moves down the aisle, where, the wonder of it all, his three brothers rush to meet him.  They hold each other in a long, tearful embrace of forgiveness and long-denied love.

God’s peace that’s beyond understanding descends on the congregation.  People who haven’t spoken to each other for years now weep together.  Repentance and forgiveness mingle in a holy stream of divine grace.
A second service follows, a joyous service of love and reconciliation.
Afterward, the transformed spill into the streets.  Groups move from house to house to ask forgiveness for a certain wrong.  And, amazingly, it’s always freely given.
                                                                                          ~*~

Today, more than 40 years later, that once almost forgotten village of Ibillin in northern Galilee is a pilgrim and tourist destination.  The man from Galilee, Elias Chacour, is now Archbishop, Leader of the Melkite Catholic Church of Akko, Haifa, Nazareth, and all Galilee, the first Palestinian leader of the Palestine Christians in the Holy Land. 

The dilapidated church he came to has been replaced by a beautiful and thriving Church of the Sermon on the Mount located on the campus of the Mar Elias Educational Institutions, named after the prophet Elijah.  Founded by Father Chacour, the eight schools include kindergarten through high school, a gifted student program, technical college, theological school and university, and open to students of all races and religions.  More than half are Muslims.                                                                                           ~*~

We long for peace: within our heart, our family, our church, our land, our world.
But how serious are we about peacemaking?  Is our church and denomination a force for peace?
Are our politics?  Do we know about organizations like Peace Direct, Peace Action, Peace Now, or the Canadian Peace Alliance, and do we offer them our participation and support?
If we are not peacemakers, can we still be the sons of God?

 

 

 

Maundy Thursday

I must follow you, Lord, on this Lenten Journey
I must go where you went
with ears and eyes wide open
if I'm to change.

I follow you to the "holy city,"
and hear the pity and anguish in your words:
"O Jerusalem, how often I have longed
to gather your children, all of them
as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings
but you were unwilling."
I think of Jews, Arabs, all your children
who have not come, but kill each other
and break your heart.
Lord, let me not get lost of hide among
the heedless sons and daughters
of my own Jerusalem.

I follow you to another place
the Upper Room where bread
becomes your body, wine your blood.
I'd much prefer to keep it simply bread and wine
and not remember that for me
your body broke and your blood flowed.
I feel unworthy of such sacrifice.
It's so hard to let go of this guilt of mine
freely receive your pardon and your grace...

Now I must follow you along the Garden path,
but I'm afraid,
for there the Prince of Darkness waits.

Must you go on, dear Lord?
For me?  For me?

                                             -fr. Talking with God

In the Courtyard

Peter too was there in the high priest’s courtyard that late night
when fearful angels high above me hovered around the Father’s throne
when smirking legions pushed and shoved in early celebration
when impulsively he sat down with guards around the fire
to keep his eye on Jesus—

He too was there
he heard and saw vile, scheming, evil men
disguised as priests, elders, and teachers of the law
abuse the God they never knew
for they had not followed him
had not heard his Sermon on the Mount bless
the poor in spirit, the meek, the merciful, the pure in heart
which they were not and never aimed to be
which Peter was not but always longed to be.

They had not followed him
hence they did not know this Son of God
or had they never wanted to
had they not seen the lame man dance in ecstasy
had they not seen the glory in the eyes of him born blind
had they not seen the new skin’s beauty glow on a former leper’s arm
had they not seen the widow’s spirit leap when she got back her son
and if they had, would they have called him Christ, the Son of God?

Peter knows, and so do I.

Yet Peter denies it with an oath; have I too
when it was safer or more convenient to pretend?
The angels cry, while devils dance.

We hear this Holy One condemned to die for being who he was
we see him mocked and struck, we see him turn his face
the filthy spit of spiteful men mingling with his blood
he turns his face and he looks straight at Peter

and at me
at each of us who’ve betrayed whom we’ve professed
and in that look was not his judgment but his love
the love that breaks the sinner’s heart.

Peter went out into the darkness and wept bitterly.
As I weep too.

                                                                -Talking with God

Fatherhood

A few days ago I held a tiny newborn in my arms, all five pounds of her.
No, she was not my child, though she reminded me.
And she was not even my grandchild, though I thought she looked precious enough to qualify.
But she was my great-granddaughter!
And yes, Talia reminded me.

Reminded me of many years ago, when our own came in what seemed a somewhat hurried succession, a bit faster than I thought reasonable at the time, though I did not reflect long on our own implication.
But admittedly, it sometimes made it hard to be always equally fascinated by each of them, especially when one needed burping, the other tried to pull the third one’s few silky strands of hair, and the fourth was trying, without permission, to get a dangerously unsteady bead on the whole scene through Dad’s new camera.

Ah, but they grew up, too soon of course, though more or less in order.  Still, the growing up hardly diminished the fascination, fondness, and love.
Oh, there was the usual dosage of frustration, fretting, and fear even.
It’s after all no small matter to see a frolicsome family of four through many changes: changes of diapers, of height and weight, of schools, of preferences, of moods, of voice, of friends and enemies.
Not that our family was particularly fickle, I think. As a matter of fact, it was a fun bunch of young’uns.
But as the Frisians say, “time stands not still,” and one gets a little winded sometimes trying to keep a firm grip on Time’s coattails.

I was beginning to relax a bit, though.  Almost finished with an exciting, sometimes exhausting, and often challenging task, I’d venture to think to myself.
And so far so good, thank God.  Nobody ran away in those fifteen years, nobody refused to go to school or church, nobody even had a cavity in all those years (though the first one appeared soon thereafter)!
They had been good years, and the years ahead promised to be good too – a little quieter and a little more independent.

Well, I didn’t know then that parenthood doesn’t end when children eventually go it alone.
But least of all did I know that our parenthood was about to begin anew: an unexpected expecting!
We were flabbergasted, and that’s not saying all of it.
Our thinking had been a grandchild, some future day maybe.
But to start all over again with another of our own??
Bibs again, and a crib and a playpen and a highchair and little booties and baby blankies, and then toys and teething rings and snowsuits, and a trike and – oh my goodness, all this all over again?
And what about the population explosion!  I always had a fear of explosions, and now I was causing one of my own?  I could feel the accusing eyes of zero-populationists smite my conscience.
I cringed a little.  And I tightened my coattails grip again: I’d be raising a child toward the dawn of the 21^st century.

The truth is that it did sort of take my breath away; it did for the whole family, in fact, and Mama not least among them.  But not just because of the sheer shock of the surprise.
Also and especially because of being in the presence of an unfolding miracle.

When I held little Talia, I was reminded again of what a miracle it is!
The growth of a single cell to an almost fully formed embryo in little more than two months’ time!
The fluttering development of a soft bulging piece of tissue into a tiny but complete human being.
What a wonder of God’s creation it really is!
And we celebrated that miracle together, for this time the kids were old enough to appreciate the wonder of it all.  We researched medical books, felt the baby’s lively movements, made cutesy baby things, gathered the necessary baby stuff from everywhere, proposed names, anticipated the actual arrival, prayed for a safe delivery and a healthy child – all this and more became a big part of the family’s excitement during the last several months.

Yes, I was reminded.
And I prayed that the parents of little Talia will be blessed as they rise to the challenge of raising a new human being, as they experience the joy of watching her grow, of eliciting the magic of the first smile, hearing the first word, the first phrase, the first original sentence, the first prayer.

What a privilege it was to have and to love another child.
What a blessing to still have all our children; and grandchildren.
What a privilege now to have a great grandchild!

Thank you, God.