Lectionary leanings - Pentecost 18C: 'Boundaries'

Boundaries
a meditation on Luke 17:11-19

Crossing boundaries:
Galilee and Samaria,
Jew and Gentile,
clean and unclean.

Blurry boundaries
when those who were ‘in’
became those thrown out.
Expendable through disease,
they formed a bond
beyond culture,
out of need.
A community on the edge,
survival focused unity.
It was...
mutually beneficial.

Beyond boundaries
of time and space,
both divine and human,
he walked into the margins
of their lives.
Mercy transforming them,
nine hurried away
to move from 'out'
to ‘in’ again.

Boundaries broken
by love,
the one who would never be ‘in’
with those former comrades in crisis
returned,
thankful to be taken in
by the greater company
of God.
            c.Nik Mac 2022

Lectionary leanings - Pentecost 17C: 'Faith is...'

 Faith is...
a meditation on Luke 17:5-10

Faith is not believing six impossible things before breakfast.
Faith is not competing for a gold medal in the spiritual Olympics.
Faith is not about quantity, but quality:
less vast sea, and more, small seed.

Faith is a leap, or sometimes a foot planted hesitantly on the floor.
Faith is relational, a life-long process of learning how to be.
Faith is a growing knowing
into the heart of God.

Faith feels its way forward, tho’ sometimes falls flat on its face.
Faith feels wild, and free – moves mulberry trees; tho’ sometimes it’s shy and timid too.
Faith feels organic, authentic, real...
which, in the end, is all that we’re truly called to be.
                                               c.Nik Mac 2022

Lectionary leanings - Pentecost 16C: Purple

Purple
A meditation on the rich man and Lazarus - Luke 16:19-31 

Purple,
the colour of power, prestige.
Fine linen;
lush and lovely –
luxurious.
The daily feasting –
food piled high;
dainty and delicate,
exotic, enticing:
spices and sherbets;
tidbits to tempt the trickiest palate.
A good life, this,
wanting for nothing,
eyes dazzled by the glory
and colour and sumptuousness of it all:
so accustomed to privilege
that he cannot see anything
or anyone other than his own.
Nothing exists beyond his bubble.

Pale:
poverty’s power stunts all.
Rags and sores,
barely cover
his flesh.
Cold saps his energy –   
little strength
to keep the dogs at bay,
nipping, yapping:
ready to devour;  
while his own while hunger gnaws within.
A living death, this,
having nothing, always wanting –
eyes made sharp by serious lack.
So accustomed to invisibility
that he does not have the luxury
of choosing not to see.
Beyond the bubble, he is nothing.
                c.Nik Mac 2022

Easter 2 reflection: Thomas

Thomas based on Jn 20:19-31
Not for you 

the hiding behind locked doors:

Thomas, the doer;

practical, shrewd.

Even in grief –

especially in grief –

people have to eat

and food doesn’t just

appear as if by magic, 

does it?

Do you smile at the thought,

remembering a hill,

some loaves and fishes,

an unexpected, very large picnic?

Not for you

hemming yourself in from fear:

Thomas, the daring;

pragmatic, brave.

Even when risk –

especially when risk –

is looming,

you square your shoulders

and walk with him to Jerusalem

to die.

Do you wince at the thought,

remembering a hill,

a cross of wood and nails,

an unexpected, yet expected ending?

Not for you

closing yourself away:

Thomas, the anything but doubting;

prophetic, wise.

Even when faced –

especially when faced –

with the unthinkable.

Unlike the others, you worship,

for you see him as he is:

divine.

Do you laugh at the thought,

remembering the upper room,

his side, his hands,

an unexpected, yet predicted beginning?
     c.Nik Mac 2022

Easter Sunday - Mary - from John 20:1-18

Mary...

Entirely possessed –

bedevilled.

Your steps much lighter

since he met you

where you were.

You turned your face

toward the Son

and flourished.

Possessed now by grief –

a withering.

Your steps, are heavy

as you go to

where he is.

He turned his face

toward Jerusalem

and perished.

Self-possessed –

blossoming.

He blooms with life

in all its fullness

as he meets you

where you are.

You turn again

toward the Son...

astonished.
            c.Nik Mac 2022

Holy Week reflections - Thursday: 'The usual, unusual story'

It is the usual story, 

accompanied by the usual food.

It is the usual rabbi, 

accompanied by the usual group of disciples.

It is the usual conversation, 

accompanied by the usual jests 

and theological point-scoring.

That is, it is the usual, until the unusual happens.

Mid-meal, the usual rabbi suddenly rises 

from the table and starts disrobing.

This unusual action has got their full attention.

Dressed in just his tunic, a towel around his waist,

the usual rabbi looks unusually fragile.

Chatter stopped, they listen as the water falls into the bowl,

watch in silence as he kneels before them: as servant.

The usual meal has become unusually awkward

as the natural order of things is overturned

and feet are washed by the Master.

It is the usual way of things that Peter misunderstands

and then jumps in with both feet first.

The unusual usual rabbi teaches as he washes,

showing them the way of loving service.

All is upturned:

it is the unusual that is to become the usual.

Bread becomes body, wine becomes blood,

power is stripped of ego.

It is an unusual story, 

accompanied by unusual food.

It is an unusual rabbi, 

accompanied by an unusual group named ‘friends’, 

gathered through the ages.

It is an unusual conversation, 

accompanied by unusual love shown in word and action.

That is, it is the unusual, until it becomes the usual...

for, usually, love is a work in progress.

      I give you a new commandment, 
      that you love one another. 

      Just as I have loved you, 

      you also should love one another.

      By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, 

      if you have love for one another

  c.Nik Mac 2022

Holy Week reflections - Tuesday: 'We would see Jesus'

We would see Jesus
based on John 12:20-36

The cheers of Sunday, faded now,
replaced by whispered plotting.
Shadows stretch and linger –
darkness strives to overtake the light.
Time moves towards the hour,
inexorable, unrelenting.
Though even now,
there those who would see Jesus.
No more space for telling stories:
urgency brings forth
stark, unvarnished truths.
To see him
will be to witness
pain and death and grief;
a raising up
and cutting down.
In this defeat
he talks of ‘glory’;
the grain of wheat
upon the ground
bears fruit.
In sacrifice and service –
love is shown
in flesh and blood and bone.
                  c.Nik Mac 2022

Holy Week reflections: Monday - Martha and Mary, revisited

Martha and Mary, revisited.

Martha,
forever the ‘practical one’:
remembers the smell of death,
remembers her brother’s grave,
the Lord’s call to take away the stone
separating the lifeless from the living.
She remembers the sounds –
rock rolling away,
the voice crying
‘Lazarus, come out’,
the stumbled shuffling
of cloth-bound feet
moving from darkness
into light.
Mary,
forever the ‘spiritual one’
feels again the hot tears
on her cheeks,
her brother’s warmth
as she holds him,
not quite daring to let go.

Martha,
forever the ‘practical one’:
prepares the meal they will share,
prepares a celebration of life
for Lazarus, brought back, from tomb to home
with rejoicing and thanksgiving.
She prepares the places –
serves the meal
to hungry guests,
the Lord among them.
Smell of food
replaced by scent of nard;
its fragrance fills
the room.
Mary,
forever the ‘spiritual one’,
now, as priest, anoints then
wipes his feet
with hair unbound
as Judas scolds her
not quite daring to believe.
        c.Nik Mac 2022

Lectionary leanings - Epiphany 3C: 'Good' news?

'Good' news?

So, he’s back,
Mary’s golden child;
carpenter’s son—
at least, he may be,
the birth details were,
shall we say,
a little... sketchy.

The local boy, done well.
He’s made a name for himself
and so, when he stands to read,
then sits to teach,
we listen;
after all, we’re not close-minded folk.

Words of comfort spill forth
from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah.
A good passage, with its promises
of a happy, heavenly hereafter—
where even the ones clearly cursed by God
find welcome relief and restoration.

“The year of the Lord’s favour”
is a nice touch:
time for Jubilee
and resetting the clock,
settling old scores peaceably,
redistributing resources.

Yep, for those who didn’t lift a finger,
those who sat about and didn’t work,
it’s all going to be good news,
in the great by and by.

Of course, of course,
we all want justice,
but this side of heaven,
we do what we need
to get by,
make our mark,
give our children
a good head start,
a wee step up the ladder—
after all, God helps those who help themselves
and I’ve made very sure to help myself.

“Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

What, now??
I don’t think so, son,
some of us have way too much to lose.
How is this ‘good’ news?
Watch yourself:
that sort of talk will get you killed.
                        c.Nik Mac 2022

Lectionary leanings: Epiphany 2C - 'You were ever about joy'

'You were ever about joy'

The first miracle

was turning water into wine –

you were ever hospitable.

Social embarrassment 

ironically saved

by transforming water 

for washing shame away

into heaven’s finest vintage.

No holding back,

no half-measures,

jars full to overflowing

meant for celebration.

The first miracle

was a celebration of abundance –

you were ever about joy.

In a feast

lately flowing with wine

the glory of the kingdom

danced in,

singing merrily of 

life in all its fulness.
               c.Nik Mac 2022

Lectionary leanings for Easter 5B

 A wee reflection I wrote for a project that I'm a part of.

This, picking up the 'vine and branches' theme for Sunday's RCL 
reading of John 15:1-8...

‘I am’, you said,
‘the true vine.’
And I...
am connected:
a branch.

At times,
firm and strong,
flourishing and fruiting
with kindness and care;
peaceful, patient.
Rooted in love,
watered with grace,
tended with tenderness.

But Lord, at times,
I’m barely clinging on,
faltering and flailing,
wondering if you’re there;
rattled and restless.
Wretched, alone –
withered, joy gone,
heavy with helplessness.

In the green times
and the dry,
still, you remain
and so, connected,
help me abide.
  c.Nik Mac 11/2020

Maundy Thursday, in a time of pandemic...

Maundy Thursday, in a time of pandemic...  

This Maundy Thursday,
there’ll be no shared meal around a table
for there’d be more
than two households who’d gather;
no washing of feet,
nor a beloved disciple coorying in;
no touching, no hugging—
and where a kiss is a betrayal
on a variety of levels.

In a time of pandemic,
when simple touch
can lead to death,
how then to show God’s love,
to do as Jesus has done for us?

Loving one another is:
a facemask worn;
the skoosh of sanitiser,
falling cool upon hands
when making entries and exits;
making space—
at least two metres.

There are other ways to practice love—
to touch hearts without touching:
be deliverers of medicines,
of food,
of news,
or, stay home—
for that, too, is an act of loving service.

Support the local food bank.
Phone a friend,
ask them how they really are—
and give the gift of listening
when, timidly, they tiptoe past ‘fine’
and move into harder honesty.

This Maundy Thursday,
we follow the command to love
by touching other’s lives...
without touching.
                    c.Nik Mac 2021

Transfigured

original painting by Dominic Martinelli - see:
https://www.dominicmartinelli.com/blog/the-transfiguration/

A wee reflection for this upcoming Transfiguration Sunday...

Transfigured                                              

Scrambling and scrabbling over scree, 

snaking their way along ridges 

on the barest of trails, 

they climb,

leaving earthly things behind. 

Clambering with effort around crags, 

avoiding cliff edges, 

looking up occasionally, and feeling dizzy, 

still they follow him. 

He ascends the heights 

like Moses did so long ago, 

he, who wrote the Law on stone. 

They pause awhile upon the mountaintop, 

almost, but not quite, the roof of the world, 

and suddenly, the light is blinding, 

bright, white; 

searing the scales from disciples’ eyes. 

And for a moment, here, closer to the heavens, 

they see him for who he truly is: 

magnificent and glorious, 

majestic. 

Shining amid rocky pinnacles 

the humble rabbi 

is transfigured – 

shot through with shafts of 

burning brilliant white, 

exalted, 

conversing in illustrious company. 

Moses, the Law maker, 

Elijah, the prophet, 

return to the mountaintop 

to meet with the Messiah – 

transcendent anointing. 

Senses ravished by unearthly beauty, 

desperate to stay, 

Peter babbles of pitching tents, 

unable to understand 

the mystery and glory of the moment. 

It passes. 

They slope back down from the summit, 

subdued, and told to keep the secret: 

a truth that they cannot comprehend 

when they descend 

and are more earthly-minded. 

And only after pain and grief, 

execution, 

and a resurrection 

will they truly see him for who he is once more. 

            c.Nik Mac

'Launching out' - a reflection on the baptism of Jesus

Launching out

They grow so fast. 

The new-born duly celebrated,
decorations are quickly packed away.
The hidden years flow by
until we see him,
a man of thirty,
standing by the River Jordan.

 
A new birth:
he will take the plunge,
immerse himself into his calling.

 
Having been the source
of good tidings so long ago,
the time has come
for spreading comfort and joy,
and speaking God’s freedom
in a time of oppression.

 
There will be upsets,
and noses put firmly out of joint.

 
The ending will be...
unexpected –
even though he’d tell his friends
to expect his imminent return.

 
But...
this first new day
must be marked.

 
He will slough off the sawdust
of a carpenter’s workshop,
follow his destiny.

 
As he stands dripping,
drenched in holy affirmation,
he trusts the One
he has followed
since before he can even remember.

 
Diving from high heaven,
a dove confirms
that all is well.

   c.Nik Mac

'Wrapped warm in love' - a wee poem

I enjoy trying to rise to the challenge of a villanelle - the form and structure can be a little maddening, but it's fun.

Here's one I wrote for Christmas:

Wrapped warm in love
The new-born child in her embrace
Sleeps softly now this first Yuletide,
Wrapped warm in love: God’s act of grace.

Born to save the human race,
In wholly humble dwelling bides
The new-born child in her embrace.

And angel-song fills heavenly space,
And God, on earth, is glorified,
Wrapped warm in love: God’s act of grace.

Shocked shepherds leave their flocks, make haste,
To see the One long-prophesied:
The new-born child in her embrace.

The holy in the commonplace –
The Word with humans now resides
Wrapped warm in love: God’s act of grace.

All gathered, look upon the face;
Enfleshed, God’s love is signified -
The new-born child in her embrace,
Wrapped warm in love: God’s act of grace.
   [c.Nik Mac]

'This year of cancelled things...' - Advent 1, yrB

Based on Isaiah 64:1-9; Mark 13:24-37
'This year of cancelled things...'

Watching and waiting,
wary,
and weary with it.
Even so:
'Keep awake!'
comes the prophet's cry,
ringing out 
this year of cancelled things:
concerts and carnivals,
chit-chat and dreams crushed;
losses, collected like unwanted trophies.
Time, suspended,
turns hours into eternities
of fretful forgetfulness;
blue regret
paints our days.
'Stay alert,'
the prophet whispers,
as if we were not already in a state of hyper-vigilance.
Yet, beneath the whispered warning,
something else:
a sliver of light,
a shiver of encouragement 
in one small, wondered 'why?'
To keep awake,
to stay alert 
means
that there is more.
These are watchwords of hopefulness.
Dawn follows dark.
All will fade, and all will be made new.
In starlight's glimmer we glimpse
a pathway to a stable
full of promise
and hear, in the near,
footsteps
pregnant with possibility.
     c.Nik Mac 11/2020

Labels

Noodling about with the idea of identity in this week's reading from the RCL:

Matt 16:13-20, I was reminded of an old sketch by Rikki Fulton, in his persona of the 

Rev. I. M. Jolly, commenting on a baptism and forgetting the child's name.

'Spindonna Jaiket' comes the reply from the father.

The Rev. is bemused by these strange new names that people feel the need to come up with...

he begins the baptism 'I baptise thee, Spindonna, in the name of...'

and is interrupted hastily by same parent, pointing to the label on the wee one's gown upon

which the child's name has been pinned -

'No you fool, there! There! Spindonna jaiket!'

[which in a good Weegie accent = It's pinned on her jacket]

From that ridiculously silly sketch, I began thinking about labels and identity and the questions 

Jesus poses to his disciples -

'Who do people say I am?'

and

'Who do you say I am?'

Anyway, from my noodling and silly dialect sketches came the following:

Labels/

Labels: 

John, the baptiser;
Elijah, ravens’ friend
(and occasional flame thrower);
weeping Jeremiah, perhaps,
in an echoing well?
A prophet –
just a random
one for any occasion?
The expectations of the people
are pinned on Jesus’ jacket
but cannot
pin him down.

Another label:
the One,
the Son
not just any old son...
this One
is of the Living God.
Not wood,
not stone
but flesh and blood
and bone.

Somehow,
in the mystery,
God has put skin on
trying on ‘human’
for size:
becoming
a waymarker
pointing us
to life
less wooden,
to hearts
less stony;
showing,
in who He is,
whose we are
and what it means
to fully live.

Our expectations of the Promised Messiah
are pinned on Jesus' jacket...
while we

are pinned as Jesus’ own.

c.Nik Mac 2020

The quality of mercy...

Crumbs...

A wee thing I wrote for a resource I'm involved with - which works for this week's RCL gospel passage.

The quality of mercy

Mercy:
doesn’t need to be pristine,
nor need to be huge.
It doesn’t need to be protected,
nor kept in a pot
with a lid
and a lock –
and oh-so-carefully
parcelled out
to those deemed ‘deserving’.
Just
a
crumb
will
do.

Mercy:
is not like pie,
nor is it mealy-mouthed or stingy.
It can’t be measured,
can not help itself
can’t be contained.
No matter how some try,
still, it overspills
the tables of power and privilege,
subversively escaping in
scraps
and crumbs
that are limitless,
boundary-breaking.
Just
a
crumb
will
do.

Mercy:
is subversive,
spilling out for all,
even those deemed (by some) as:
‘undeserving’,
‘different’,
‘not one of us’.
It re draws the circle
wider than the edges
of our imagination.
Just
a
crumb
contains
more grace and love
than we
will ever need...
so:
just
a
crumb
will
do.

c.Nik Macdonald, 2020

'She cannot throw his shoes away' - Martha and Lazarus

As a wee writing challenge to myself, I'm exploring different forms of poetry.
Earlier in the year, at writing group, we discussed the 'villanelle' -
think 'Do not go gentle into that good night', by Dylan Thomas, as an example.
One of our number had raised the subject, and then shared an attempt [brilliant]
that she'd written. It planted a seed. Now on holiday by the seaside, I've a little
time to write. In having a go at this form, I really enjoyed the winding thread of
rhyme and the pattern.

Below, my first attempt.
The subject matter is grief - with a nod to Joan Didion's 'shoes' in her superb
'The year of magical thinking.'  
Here, we have Martha, sister of Lazarus.
Perhaps this may come in handy over Holy Week, or at a bereavement service over Advent/Christmas.

Martha, on the death of Lazarus
She cannot throw his shoes away
and runs her thumb along the grooves -
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?

She feels the hollows toes have made,
and feels his presence in the room -
she cannot throw his shoes away.

She sits and holds her tears at bay
looks at his clothes, smells death’s perfume -
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?

She stumbles in her grief, feels rage,
feels numb, feels sad; how grief consumes -
she cannot throw his shoes away.

She rises, at the Rabbi’s gaze
and, shoes in hand, a small hope blooms -
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?

‘Come out!’ she hears the Rabbi say
and signs of life sound from the tomb:
she cannot throw his shoes away
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?
                                            ©Nik Macdonald, 19 Nov. 2019

Gone fishin', and other thoughts

Currently procrastin...er, pondering and reflecting upon the sermon for tomorrow.
*ahem*
It's been a different space, over the year since the end of August 2016, as I've moved from making use of the Revised Common Lectionary, to working through Brian McClaren's book 'We Make the Road by Walking' with the congregation. It's been fun encountering texts I've not necessarily preached on before, as well as finding other texts in quite different places in the church liturgical calendar than I've been used to.
Enjoyable.
Challenging.
Refreshing.
Engaging with story/stories.
Making me think in a slightly different way.
All good stuff.
Hopefully, the folk who've bought the book and aimed to follow along as they could, have also found it a helpful approach.
Currently wondering where we might go from 'Making the Road'...
Always the big question, really:
how to help folk engage with God a little more - new ways, and old ways, creative ways and more structured ways, in the mystery and the everyday.
And, following on, through that engagement, how to work out that engagement
in a context wider than just a 'me and my God' way.
I'm still passionate on the 'called to be in community' thing - a challenge in a world where
we seem to champion the individual over all, forgetting that none of us ever gets 'there'
completely by our own efforts.
Anti-Hayek bias coming to the fore: there is such a thing as society...darn it.

In the meanwhile, I've recently come across Steve Garnaas-Holmes' site Unfolding Light.
Some really lovely reflections in there, and I'm looking forward to gently working my way through some of his posts while I'm on a wee break.
Given that I'm off-lectionary at the moment, and meeting fish, rather than walking along the road to Emmaus, I'll be borrowing the following during worship tomorrow, for a short reflection:

Fish

Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach;

                  but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus.

         Jesus said to them, “Dear children, you have no fish, have you?”

                  They answered him, “No.”

         He said to them, “Cast the net to the right side of the boat,

                  and you will find some.”

                           —John 21.4-5

The surface is always blank.

The real, submerged.

Look down into that sky,

where beneath a vague cloud flashes,

—is it above or below?—

created, given, waiting.

There is another way,

another side of your little boat.

Beneath your dreary, fruitless nights

something graced awaits,

abundance exceeding your capacity, blessing

at which you laugh in wonder and fright,

a gift that bears you to the breaking point,

a net swelled with light and glory,

and not by luck, but given in love: a presence,

a companionship you hadn't recognized.

Heaven is offered, hearts are restored

in something as simple as a broiled fish, shared.

But first you learn a new way,

another side, the unrecognized friend.

And then, after the gift, the revelation,

you learn a new way, another side.

The Mystery doesn't leave you.

It leads.