Showing posts from June, 2015

On Sunday Next: 5 July - coming home

our stories on Sunday next: 2 Sam 5:1–5, 9–10 | Psalm 48 | 2 Cor 12:2–10 | Mark 6:1–13

pondering 2 Sam 5:1–5, 9–10 I read a bit before this, to remember the flow of David's story. He has lamented the death of Saul and his son Jonathan; Judah and Israel have been at war; here, Israel asks David to be their King, as he has been King in Judah for seven years. The divided kingdom is united. God is praised, God is understood to be the reason for David's greatness as King.

I wonder about the places in our world today that are at war. I wonder about divided realms. I wonder about the courage and humility it takes to approach the King of your opposition and seek reconciliation, because, after all, we are one.

While earlier in the story, David's feelings of generosity and respect towards his opponents, rage at injustice, sorrow at Saul and Jonathan's deaths, are shown to the audience, he is quite passive here. I wonder what that says about a King, actually, his role as servant o…

on the bus : 1

matching black tops,
trousers, her nails,
specs, boots and piercings
a deeper commitment
to the theme; behind
her blue hair and tartan
scarf, his clean
business cut, their front
seat for the view, suddenly
I miss my dad, who looks
beyond my earrings and blue
feather tattoo.

Café Voices : (in)humanity

The Scottish Storytelling Centre's Café Voices : (in)humanity Thursday 9 July  7pm ~ £5
We tell stories in order to keep moving from fear towards love, from inhumanity towards humanity. Join storyteller Sarah Agnew for stories of courage in the face of persecution, execution and war. The Centre's monthly storytelling session, with an open-floor section for storytellers to tell their own tales, all in the relaxed surroundings of the Storytelling Court.
Click here to book your ticket. see you there! 
Read reflections on the (in)humanity stories in development here.

if one falls in the Forest of Dreams

would it be like a tree
falling in an unpeopled forest,
no one to bear witness but
the ground from which the roots
tear, to which the branches
smash without ceremony,
so that the tree wonders
if it really fell at all?

but the trees, the fellow trees
surely notice the air touch
roots through the broken earth,
the sun warm leaves through
gaping canopy, their branches
slapped in falling passing tumble?

Surely the trees bear witness
to the falling, the passing
life from their midst, do not
remain unchanged? It is so?

the call of a dream: at what cost?

It is true that one cannot pursue one's dreams and calling – the core task of my present season –  without such resources as money provides.

It is also true that the seeking of that money, the completing of application forms and job applications and interviews, the roller coaster ride of effort and waiting and rejection uses up energy and time meant for the core task of this current season.

Further, it is true that the working for that money (if the calling itself receives no investors so that it may become the work one does for the living one receives) takes time and energy away from the work one is meant to be undertaking, following the call that lays claim to one's life.

So it is that, nearing the end of the first year of this season of research and reflective practice, a season of work that has the potential to enrich the Christian community's engagement with its sacred texts by bringing the whole human person to that encounter, what investments and effort, time and e…

Good morning?

the sun bakes heat on the iron roof
and shoots it up through my
glorious array of windows

is it back so soon for more?

I am dry and dressed – but
for one drop
caressing the back's contours

three days' dishes drip their suds:
the chosen few detour through breakfast
back to the other side

squirting avocado juice into bleary eye,
dropping muffin crumbs anywhere but
the plastic target
and letting egg white run wild
and uncontained across the crooked pan

Into One Spirit - new poem

This morning at Greyfriars, Richard invited us to remember our baptism, recall our calling from the Holy One to be our truest, fullest selves for the completeness of the woven tapestry of life.

This evening at Greyfriars, the stations, the silence, the poetry of NiteKirk invited us to enter joy.

And so this poem flowed from the contemplation of the day.

Into One Spirit
on baptism 

it runs, it frolics, it drives a path
into the earth
slowly deeper
quickening keeper of the roots
furrowed alongside
from the profligate scattering
of seeds some time ago
                   it runs
a way both following
and beckoning, responding
and calling
                    it runs
yours alone
       and yet
                   it joins
a river running far beneath all rivers
earth and ocean
                   it joins
to the source of all running
water makes you daughter
of the mother of us all
it runs
           and catches you up
for …

To Be Read at My Funeral

New recording of an old poem.