I would praise you

I would praise you
but in times like these, 
praise is hard.
I would praise you
but all around, politicians lie, cronyism is rife,
and those in power care little for the least of these.
I would praise you
but worldwide, oil spills kill,
ice caps melt, temperatures rise,
and apathy and greed are killing our planet.
I would praise you
but everywhere, COVID creates fear,
the poor are still poor,
and refugees flee their homes,
looking for safe harbours to take them in.

I would praise you
for in times so hard,
 praise is all I have.
I would praise you for all around, leaders fail and fall
and only you are faithful, and reign forever.
I would praise you
for worldwide, even marred,
 creation bears your imprint
and your sheer will holds and heals it still.
I would praise you
for everywhere you watch over widows,
 strangers, orphans
and feed the hungry,
and lift the ones bowed down. 

I would praise you
because in times so hard,
times like these,
praise is both call to faith and call to action.
I would praise you
because all around mortal plans crumble into dust
and your promise lasts for all generations.
I would praise you
because worldwide, you sustain all that is
and lives, and moves, and has its being.
I would praise you
because everywhere, you champion the oppressed
and bring the light of hope into the darkest places.
I would praise you
even when, at times, the offering of praise is made
through gritted teeth.
I would praise you. 
       Nik Macdonald 2021

'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]

'Have yourself an edgy little Christmas': a memory

Remembering a Christmas from long ago...  

She had wanted to be edgy, a wee bit trendy;
to deconstruct tired Christmas tree traditions.
Day by day, she walked the beach
eyes scanning shells and sand,
dismissing plastic bottles with peeling, faded labels,
ignoring soft pink jellyfish splayed out in hot summer sun.
Among the seaweed hummocks
she found what she was looking for,
felt the smoothness of sea-washed wood in her hand.
She nodded, pleased, gave a ‘this will do nicely’ smile.
Once dried and cleaned,
rustic natural charm was replaced –
overlaid by spray of glossy white paint.
Slung between two wall lamps by fishing line,
hung with assorted baubles, shining red,
driftwood that had once been part of something bigger
seemed to make the season strangely small.
There were presents, wrapped and stacked against the wall
but firm: ‘no room for a tree this year.’
It seemed oddly fitting:
in this deconstructed Christmas
there was little room for Jesus.

When the child grew up
and made her own way in the world,
she reconstructed what felt to her like Christmas.
No matter where she lived, 
how big or small her home,
there was always a tree to lay wrapped presents under –
room enough to remind her of that other gift:
of the babe wrapped in bands of cloth and laid within the manger.
   [c.Nik Mac]

Questions to a swift, returning

Just a wee bit of writing practice, emerging from a writing workshop the other day...
Asking a question of a swift, returning to nest - possibly undertones of COVID lockdown at play...

Questions to a swift, returning

Did Sahara's rising heat
thrill you
                        as you
                      soared and spilled above –
blazing a trail
                      tracing the yearly path?
                                     Such grace.
What did you spy
           upon your travels?
                      What smells
                       and sights
            and sounds
                       did you collect
                                  and revel in?
How was the journey,
             little one?
                    And are you happy here
                   nestling in such homely eaves,
           chill Upland winds ruffling such
                                    long-wending feathers?

I long to see and be where you have been.

c. Nik Mac 2020

Imago Dei

Imago Dei 

We bear the marks
of grace upon our face,
carry within us God’s DNA:
God-made.
Sparks of divinity
course through our veins;
our warp and weft,
the stuff of stars.
God shaped...
and so,
we are.

Heaven-made creatures,
birthed from earth,
we dance between the world and universe:
God’s own.
Flesh and blood
and soul and bone
combined in
holy mystery.
God loved...
and we,
God’s mastery.
                    c. Nik Mac 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

Of estuaries and oceans

It must be because I'm by the seaside on holiday and staying in my wee bolt-hole, that I've been thinking of place...

Standing at my front door, I look to road's-end where the beach begins. Marram grass covers the dune, its pale green broken by bugloss blue, yellow ragwort, delicate purple milk vetch. The bushy buddleia continues on its take over mission, pushing up from the ground and spreading out, invading. By the tide-line is a scattering of sea-smooth stones, driftwood, a smattering of shells including the ever-present mussels after which the town was named - though older folk use a different name for this side of the river, remembering their fishing heritage: 'we're no' Musselburgh, we're Fisherrow.' High tide is mid-afternoon and the sun is beginning to peek out from dour clouds and lighten the mood. So close to the river-mouth the water is mixed up and muddied, never clear. This is not a beach where waves come crashing in; open sea is further out and here, although the Forth is broad, the tidal ebb and flow moves in a more kindly manner.

On coming back to this place, when I've been away for a wee stretch of time, it's the noise of the birds that always surprises - not quite Hitchcockian, but there are echoes of it as they flap and bicker overhead. Fierce creatures. Yesterday, a herring gull, presumably fallen in battle, lay dead beside the old wash-house in the courtyard. Still body gathered up, it was carried gently to the dune and buried, becoming part of the landscape more literally. Low tide then; the uncovered mussel beds the province of oyster catchers, black-faced terns, black-bellied dunlins, kittiwakes, the ever-present herring gulls, and two middle-aged wellied lug wormers searching for bait.

This morning, as the gulls pierced through sleep, in my half-dream state there were glimpses of another beach in a much wilder place; no gentle Scottish estuary. The sand was bleached white by a stronger sun and finely ground from free-rolling waves crashing on the shore. Blue-green transparent waves curled, glistening in the brightness of the light, then broke, surging into shore before pulling back out again into the deep. Somewhere, there was a hint of coconut oil in the sea-salty air....

It's been many years since I lived by the Pacific Ocean and yet, there it was in sight and sound and smell, and more so in the waves: there's something about the shape of a wave that marks its place in the world. Now, at the end of this day, the brightness and the vivid colours are still at play in my mind's eye, but it's the shape of waves that hold my thoughts. I look across to near where the kettle rests on the bench. Nestling nearby there's a jar of Vegemite and a box of Tunnock's wafers, symbols of the land of my birth, and the land I now call home. I wonder about the shape of my life, and how that marks my particular place in the world.

sitting with the words: Didion and a grief observed

 

“I could not give away the rest of his shoes. I stood there for a moment, then realized why: 

he would need shoes if he was to return. The recognition of this thought by no means eradicated the thought. 

I have still not tried to determine (say, by giving away the shoes) if the thought has lost its power.” 

― Joan Didion, 'The Year of Magical Thinking'

Very occasionally, a piece of writing manages to lodge itself somewhere deep within soul, flesh, bones, and sinews; takes up residence in a quiet corner and settles in for the long-term. I've been sitting with one particular piece of writing for several years now and keep returning to it, wandering in, wondering, and very occasionally, weeping. Each time I make the journey to the dwelling place where these well-considered, well-crafted words live, there's a sense of silent ritual; a physical nod as I pick up the book and realise that it's time once more. The ritual - blink, and in a moment, it's passed - involves a cleansing, a paring away. Sloughing off assorted encrustations of white noise and distraction. There's a baring of the heart, this to create that sacred space for honesty, a little like shoes being taken off in acknowledgement that, to be here is to stand on holy ground. These words are good; worthy of attention. These words refresh; a well of cold, pure water to drink long and deep. Time spent in their presence requires the patience of the goldpanner - to read slowly is to find those small shining specks that stand out, shimmer, call you to reach back in to the stream for more. The writing nourishes, is cathartic - tears, silent wonder, and deep yearning interweave - leaving gratitude and hope, clarity of mind and purpose, calmness of soul. With a nod to life, and a  satisfied sigh born of doing useful work, the return journey is made, and shoes put back on ready for the world once more.

So it is for me, with Joan Didion's 'The Year of Magical Thinking'.
What is it to grieve? Didion's unrelenting gaze, so often focused on others, is directed upon herself, examining her grief in the wake of husband John's death. It is astonishing, powerful, and written in her singular style: cool, crisp, and observing the small details, the marginal - people, reactions, items such as shoes, that elsewhere would go unremarked. Didion tells us this is how grief was, and is, for her filled with 'magical thinking.' Items don't get thrown away because they may be needed; they sit, waiting patiently, symbol of hope for the beloved's return. To remove them is to walk in unfamiliar territory, to let in the possibility of no return at all. Surely this present is just a strange dark dream that will end, and all shall be well once more? The shoes will be worn again, glimpsed under the table while the loved one sits on the old, wooden chair, engaging in the ease of old, familiar conversation. Grief is the place that unites mind and heart, who work together in disbelief and denial of death, creating magical thinking: keep the shoes and you might just cheat death itself.

Didion, in studying her process of grief, holds it out, arms-length so as to examine it more clearly. She refuses to give in to mawkish sentimentality: the years of disciplined observation of others now in full clinical sweep even while her heart and world is breaking. The disorder of grief is made orderly as she calmly recalls, examines, processes. Through the writing, Didion gives herself permission not to feel that societal pressure which tries to rush us out of the awkwardness and embarrassment of grief so as not to feel a bother to others; it is well-measured, there is space. Be. Breathe. Recollect. Release. This is what makes it an extraordinary book; it is defiantly counter-cultural - Didion doesn't shy away from doing the work of grieving, and as she does, provides a way for others to quietly do that work in their own time, in their own space.

There are many kinds of loss. Didion marks the loss of a loved one. When working through change, and loss of various kinds, I come back to her book, looking for traces of magical thinking within the particular situation. It helps to declutter my mind, reorient, and refocus it. Currently I'm pondering institutions, particularly the mainline church in which I serve, and which is undergoing a profound sense of loss: the glory days of 'empire' and establishment fading, the default norms of ecclesiastical power no longer automatic, the language now of 'managing decline' underlining a quiet hopelessness. There is magical thinking a-plenty within a structure and pattern that has seen better days. The thrawn resistance to change - the determined keeping to ways of doing and being that echo keeping shoes, just in case they're needed. I'm not convinced the Church was ever meant for power within the earthly framework of empire, so perhaps am less inclined to keep those particular shoes. How do we move forward, however, regroup, and do so that isn't a panic-induced rush, but allows breathing space for reflection? I wonder not what kind of shoes, but whether we need them at all?
If we want to stand on holy ground, we have to let go of the shoes.

heading home: Mary Oliver

'Meanwhile the wild geese...are heading home again.'

photo by Steve Gardner, Scottish Wildlife Trust

Safe home, beloved poet, with so much gratitude and heartfelt thanks 
for paying attention and for your one wild and precious life.

And while I love 'The Summer Day', it's to 'Wild Geese' I turn today...

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Comma Butterflies, and other grammatical beasts

Messing about with a wee writing game, which was to take a news headline
and run with it in some form or other.
So, a little silliness after a long blog silence...*
Couldn't resist the following headline on the BBC news website as I began to think of twitchy friends and grammar obsessions:

‘Extraordinary Comma Butterfly Colonises Scotland’ [web BBC headline 31 July, 2017]

It started with the apostrophes. In some places, they gathered like the plague; shop signage seemed a particular favourite for this intrusive wee beastie.  The humble tomato, when in company, soon found itself attacked and submissively turned into ‘tomatoe’s’ in greengrocer displays the length and breadth of the land. ‘Courgette’s’ soon followed, and later, the unmitigated horror that was ‘banana’s’. The apostrophe mite spread, moving out from the serried racks of assorted fruit and veg and into charity shops along the High Street: ‘book’s – 5 for a £1’ declared an Oxfam store, arrogantly.

As the egregious profusion of apostrophes began to dominate, a challenger came forth. Commas came and went; flying in when unwanted, and skulkily flitting even though needed. Determined to dominate Scotland, the Comma Butterflies bred and flourished and settled on signage, in a flurry of academic papers, in tabloid and broadsheet alike. The blighters were here to stay. Apostrophes were alarmed and the semi-colon no longer existed, wiped off the grammatical landscape. The profusion of loose-use commas saw sentences lengthen at an horrific rate. The lack of clarity was disturbing. Reaching beyond Scotland’s shores, the Comma Butterflies sought nothing less than world domination, infecting news reports. Shorter, punchier headlines began to create confusion as to character, or number. Was:
‘Trump, a Nazi and a fascist’ or, were there several people in the statement: ‘Trump, a Nazi, and a fascist’? Meanwhile, in a quiet, dusty, neglected section of the grammar garden, adverbs wept at the thought of their own futility, made powerless by their sheer invisibility.

In these dark times, however, one small group made a stand: quietly, passive-aggressive resistance created chinks of light in the bleakness. Grammar guerrillas armed with Sharpies, Tip-ex, and other correctional materials, began to fight back. ‘Tomatoe’s’ changed, overnight to ‘Tomatoes’. Adverbs were inserted into advertising billboards: the car promising ‘a real smooth ride’ now ‘really’ meant it. Daringly correct insertions of the Oxford comma brought clarity, relief, and stability to sentences. The Comma Butterflies cowered and twitched, sensing rebellion.

With each corrected sign, pedants took heart. It would be a long and vicious struggle but, with Sharpies at the ready, victory would come; Comma Butterflies would eventually take flight and flee, their over-wheening ambitions crushed. Sensing utter defeat, the profusion of unholy and unnecessary apostrophes would follow, heads hung low. The adverbs dared to raise their heads and look to a time when they would be welcome; long-lost friends come home. All would be well, and all restored to order.

*I suspect that I don't want to know how much grammar I've broken in the writing of this practice piece.

New-born: lambs, Julian, and Ps 23

A pair of wee blackie lambs basking in the
Iona sunshine last week,
possibly plotting world domination...

We are coming to the end of lambing time in hill and valley parish. Possibly my most favourite season of the farming year - although I have the luxury of enjoying watching the lambs bouncing and playing without actually doing any of the work. I continue to admire and respect the farmers around the area: while working in beautiful countryside, yet, it's still hard graft.
A nice touch of continuity was had, however, last week when on Iona with a group of RevGals - lots of cute blackie lambs about the place, playing chase before bedtime just as they do down here.
Anyway, have been thinking about lambs...

NEW-BORN/
Musing on lambs, Mother Julian, and Ps 23:

Smell
of hay and sheep
fills barn;
shepherd watches,
waits.
Low ‘baah’ meets
shrill bleat.
New-born,
surprised and stunned
sits still,
unsure.
Exhausted
mother licks him clean,
hears his tiny quick-beat heart.
Then, movement;
shaky.
Fragile limbs
testing,
stretching,
feeling.
Shuggling,
struggling, wriggling;
knees push
white, wiry matchsticks.
Unsteady,
body rising
as hoof finds floor.
Wobble-walking,
muscles memorise movement.
Cautious, curious;
confidence builds
then colllapses
in small, splayed heap.
Wee bleat,
then hay shuffles
as rickety legs rise.
Shepherd nods
a brief smile,
then moves on,
another yow
to tend.
All is well,
all is well.
And all
shall be well.
              c.Nik Macdonald

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.

Poems of the heart: Love's a wizard

Because when the world feels like it's going up in flames,
coping mechanisms kick in, such as rustling up doggerel...
I feel the need for a little nonsense pause,
before heading once more to the breach, my friends.

Love's a wizard

He flourished flowers on demand,
a winning start for any man
and with some charm and with that smile,
well, I was instantly beguiled.
From up his sleeve – or so it seemed –
the rainbow-serpent scarves, in streams
would fight with rabbits,
vie with doves,
all symbols of my wizards love.

My love changed ceiling into sky
and every night, wild geese flew by
and with a wink and wave of wand,
my bathroom turned into a pond.
He conjured goldfish-flowing taps,
and lizards – former shower-caps –
sang songs of life
of love, of art,
reflections from my wizard’s heart.

Though his spells were entertaining,
I soon felt my enchantment waning,
even when, with eerie mutters
dust transformed to diamond clusters;
but diamond pythons aren’t the thing
to give girls as engagement rings
and snakes worn
as accessories
are seen these days as ‘un-PC’.

Plagued by this mesmerising pest,
and with the neighbours so distressed
I wondered how to break his spell –
would my magician take it well?
While black sheep in the lounge-room grazed
and lizards by the pond just lazed,
I ran some gold fish
in the bath
and psyched up for the aftermath

I broke it gently, like one should,
and then I asked him if he could
remove the rabbits, doves, and flowers,
shut my ceiling from the showers.
I kept a scarf for mem’ries sake,
but gave him back the diamond snake.
It’s really not
an easy thing
to date someone in conjuring.
                                                             c. Nik

Book Review: CEB Women's Bible

CEB Women's Bible; Abington Press link

Back in the days when I managed a Christian bookstore, I dreaded the thought of going through certain publisher's catalogues and finding book titles prefaced with 'Women's'.
Invariably, the jackets would be soft pastel pink or bedecked with flowers while, inside, the content felt somehow slightly patronising - as if the intended readers were not particularly bright.  Mostly, the books with 'Women's...' would be cheerfully, relentlessly complementarian in approach, with the aim of squeezing women - in all their wonderful diversity - into a very narrowly proscribed role. As the bookshop I ran was determinedly much broader, these kinds of books were bypassed rather swiftly.
Given that background, I confess I did twitch once or twice when I initially heard about the CEB Women's Bible; I needn't have twitched.

The jacket is mercifully flower-free and is a solid, reliable rust-brown, conveying the impression that this is no light and fluffy number but is meant to be taken seriously. Inside, it doesn't disappoint. This work makes women visible. The editorial team, and all of the contributors, are a diverse group of women; a good mix of serious scholars, pastors, a variety of community practitioners, writers, and speakers. It is very refreshing, and encouraging, to see such a collaborative project, and the all-woman list does much to dispel the feeling that there are no women 'out there' in the fields of biblical studies and theology especially - I say this as someone who, when undertaking my PhD, was the only female candidate in my year group. Perhaps the only quibble I might have, would be the actual translation itself - although maybe I'm too wedded to the way the NRSV reads. Personal taste: your mileage may vary...

The visibility of women continues throughout the CEB Women's Bible. Every reference in the text to a woman, named or unnamed is carefully indexed in the appendices at the back of this edition. An entry in bold font indicates that the person concerned has had a brief portrait written about her, and a page number is also, helpfully, included. These portraits include not only the more well-known women, but shine a light on the overlooked such as those known only as 'greeters at the Meeting Tent' [Exod. 38:8]. The preface to the CEB Women's Bible observes: 'when you open a Bible, you see that a variety of voices have always been part of God's good creation.' The joy of this edition of the Bible is that a variety of women have been given their place, their voice.

There is a strong emphasis upon encouraging a lively engagement with scripture. This can be seen within some of the other features that the CEB Women's Bible has on offer. Introductions to each book of the Bible are provided, giving background context and themes. At the beginning of each chapter a very brief one or two sentence summary is also given. There are reflections scattered throughout which invite the reader to engage more deeply with the text, and are a helpful tool for personal study. To further encourage study and reflection, over 200 sidebar articles ranging from social issues, to theology, through to personal relationships [e.g. adolescence, body image, creation, divorce, grief, immigrants, women/gender and violence] have been written and placed alongside the biblical texts.

Appendices at the back include:

• an index of all sidebar articles, listed alphabetically, giving the themes;
• discussion and reflection questions based around the Revised Common Lectionary. These could easily be used as a 'take away' to put on pew sheets to encourage further reflection
  at home during the week, or as material for a weekly study group. For ongoing discipling, and as a Christian ed. resource, this is a great wee feature;
• several Bible reading plans: a one month plan, the New Testament in 90 days, the Bible in a year;
• and, for this unashamed map geek, there are glorious full-colour maps at the back which are preceded by a map index - happy day!

The layout, overall is well arranged, and easy to navigate. While I like the idea of the portraits of women being placed close to the appropriate biblical text, occasionally it got in the way of reading the text itself. On the other hand, the sidebars were clearly defined, on a different coloured background, which made it easier to distinguish between article and actual biblical text. As to the fonts: the main headers were nicely informal brush-stroke in style, and elsewhere the text was easy to read. A personal taste thing, really, but I prefer the less formal, not too fussy, approach.

Back in the day when I managed my wee bookstore, this particular book with the word 'Women's'

would not have been bypassed; it would have found a very welcome home among the shelves of

my biblical studies/ bibles section. I'm pleased that a copy is now on my desk, and suspect it won't often be left sitting in my bookcase. It's a great resource, doing a very necessary task: making those who were invisible, visible. 

*Just to note: this Bible was sent to me free, for an honest review. While I've tried to be critical, 

it's mere quibbles here and there. I'm thoroughly enjoying exploring this edition of the Bible, and 

already think the variety of features helps to make it an exceptionally useful tool on multiple levels.

Poems of the heart: 'The peace of wild things'

Last week, I was pondering things 'wild'... 

Today I was reminded of a poem by Wendell Berry - 'The peace of wild things'.

It's a tonic for the soul. 

                                                              When despair grows in me   

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting for their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. 

                                                           Wendell Berry

'First Coming': poems for Advent/ Christmas

So out of kilter with blog posting these days...

I suspect the following, glorious poem by one of my favourite writers
will be heard over Christmas.

First Coming     

He did not wait till the world was ready,
till men and nations were at peace.
He came when the Heavens were unsteady,
and prisoners cried out for release.

He did not wait for the perfect time.
He came when the need was deep and great.
He died with sinners in all their grime,
turned water into wine. He did not wait

till hearts were pure. In joy he came
to a tarnished world of sin and doubt.
To a world like ours, of anguished shame
he came, and his Light would not go out.

He came to a world which did not mesh,
to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.
In the mystery of the Word made Flesh
the Maker of the stars was born.

We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share our grief, to touch our pain,
He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice! 
                        -Madeleine L’Engle

Music for the soul: Be Thou my Vision

Going a little off the point for NaBloPoMo, but still on a theme of hymns...

It may take a moment to get to the point, re. the title of this blog entry:
do bear with me...
Several years ago, in conversation with a pal, we were talking about funerals we'd been to.  Having put the world to rights about why this or that was perhaps not very good, or why such and such was really rather excellent, we moved on to our own funerals: what would we like when the day came?
While it ended up becoming one of the funniest conversations I've had, it was eminently practical as well. Said friend, normally a pretty quiet and
self-composed person, declared in the end:
'No! I want to go in style - I want the full works! I want a horse-drawn hearse; the horses -
with black feather headdress, a man to lead the hearse in front,
walking slowly and seriously. I want to be taken to the church that way,
with the beat of a slow drum to keep time. And then, the total pomp
and ceremony of a funeral Mass - with clouds of incense.'
We talked on, of readings, and hymns, and giggled our way through
the thought of hiring professional mourners, as they did, back in the day.
As an aside, said friend is a Pisky, with a seriously well-developed sense of
humour, and so high up the liturgical candle that you're in danger of nose-bleed...

The practical and pragmatic outcome of the conversation was, however,
a prod to go to the solicitor and get the will sorted. In said will, there's
also a funeral arrangements file. Dull Presbyterian that I am, and knowing
I'd never compete with friend, I've noted who I'd like to conduct the thing -
if they happen to still be shuffling about this mortal coil,
and also noted a bible reading and hymn.
The reading? The Prologue of John.
I am nothing, if not an incarnation nut - that text goes deep.
It's almost the best thing about Christmas worship for me:
God's 'yes' to the world.
The surprise of expected, yet wholly unexpected love.
And the hymn?
Always, always, 'Be Thou my Vision'
Text and hymn meeting in beautiful symmetry.
The version I like the best has the line:
'be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight'
It's a comfort, especially on my more numptyish of days,
for this 8 on the Enneagram.
A reminder that in the end, it's actually going to work out fine -
that when I've lost all shred of dignity,
I stand in God's dignity.
That, in a job that's about being real,
which calls me to strip away the pretence,
God's dignity suffices.
There's the reminder to, about delight.
Delight is good.
Delighting in God, better.

NaBloPoMo 7: 'You had me at "hello"'

The film 'Jerry Maguire' spawned a thousand parodies and memes with the line:
'You had me at "hello"'.

The opening line/s of a book can do that: grab you, and hook you in.
Today's NaBloPoMo prompt was to 'post the opening sentence of your
favourite book. How long has it been in your life?'

No. Can't play the game quite in that way.
There have been too many - are too many - friends in paper format
that have stood the test of time. Instead, I've decided to post opening gambits
to several companions in print instead - mostly from my childhood, up until
the age of 30. There may be another post to fill in blanks up until the present
at another point! In the meantime, I've loved journeying down memory lane!

''Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy.'
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe; C. S. Lewis
Ahhh, but I wanted so very much to live in Narnia. I was 8 when I went through
the wardrobe and discovered this world.

'“There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.'
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader; C. S. Lewis
This, of all the Narnia books, was my favourite - sea adventures!

'One spring morning at four o'clock the first cuckoo arrived in the Valley of the Moomins.'
Finn Family Moomintroll; Tove Jansson
The lovely Moomins - entirely other. Loved them. c.8 or 9yrs

Before you fairly start this story I should like to give you just a word of warning. If you imagine you are going to read of model children, with perhaps; a naughtily inclined one to point a moral, you had better lay down the book immediately and betake yourself to 'Sandford and Merton' or similar standard juvenile works. Not one of the seven is really good, for the very excellent reason that Australian children never are. In England, and America, and Africa, and Asia, the little folks may be paragons of virtue, I know little about them. But in Australia a model child is—I say it not without thankfulness—an unknown quantity.'
Seven Little Australians; Ethel Turner'
I think I was 10 or 11 when I came across this great Australian classic.
Ah, Judy and the picnic at Yarrahappini - I wept.

'They were not railway children to begin with.'
The Railway Children; Edith Nesbit
'Daddy! Oh my daddy!' - As the steam cleared from the station platform,
another weepy child turned the pages as Bobby ran to meet her father.
Still brings a wee lump to the throat, so it does. I was 12.

' 'Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place.'
Anne of Green Gables; L. M. Montgomery
An avid reader of all the Anne books. One day I will manage to visit PE Island...

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way — in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.'
A Tale of Two Cities; Charles Dickens
A tan hardback, slightly worn. It fell into my 13yr old palms, was opened,
and was not put down until I'd finished by the end of the day. Stunning. Moving. Wonderful.

'When Mr Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.'
The Fellowship of the Ring; J. R. R. Tolkien
I was 13-14yrs old when I entered Middle Earth. And every year,
I return and find new things.

'When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.'
To Kill a Mockingbird; Harper Lee
I was either in Grade 11 or 12 - 17 or 18yrs old. A set book for English.
Who'da thunk a compulsory book read would become an enduring love.
I have not yet been able to read the recently published Harper Lee -
Atticus is still too precious to lose.

'I was born in the year 1894 at Maidstone in Victoria. My father left for Western Australia just after this, taking with him my two older brothers, Joseph and Vernon. The discovery of gold in the West had been booming and thousands believed that a fortune was to be made.' A Fortunate Life; A. B. Facey
Bert Facey - the heroic in the ordinary. Another Aussie classic and his life is primary
source material for the Gallipoli story. Extraordinary and inspiring.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.' Pride and Prejudice; Jane Austen
Oh, love the wit and sparkle of Austen at her best. Stumbled happily into the world
of Lizzy and Darcy back in my early 20's. The book's a keeper and I regularly re-visit.

'High in the Australian Alps a little stream, just born, moves invisibly beneath the snow or can be glimpsed through a blue-shadowed hole between the melting snow bridges.'
All the Rivers Run; Nancy Cato
Delie Gordon still has my heart. Riverboats and the sea. Belonging
and finding your heart's true home.

'The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette.'
The Princess Bride; William Goldman
Just because it's possibly the best story ever.

'Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.'
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy; Douglas Adams
I was late in discovering mice and dolphins, petunias and whales.
A German pal introduced me to this nutty, funny, clever stuff when I was 30.
I try to keep a towel nearby me, wherever I am.

Picture prayers: Sieger Köder - Peter, Jesus, waves...

painting by Sieger Köder 

Sometimes, when there are no words, other ways of communicating can speak the more profoundly. The art work of Sieger Köder has often been that wordless well from which to drink in my own life. There's a deceptive simplicity to his paintings, but, I've found as I've sat awhile, reflecting on one or other of his works, that they both draw me in - deeper - and draw me out. Over the years, different paintings have provided a window through which to regain perspective, given a gentle reminder of where comfort and consolation can be found, or made me smile and be at peace. Father Köder's paintings have been a real gift, as well as helping me continually widen my understanding of how wide a word 'ministry' is; here, a ministry with brush, canvas, paint.

The painting here is very possibly my favourite of all Köder's art work. Peter has stepped out of the boat. 
One. 
Two. 
How many steps before the initial enthusiasm that has propelled him above the water wears off, is replaced by a conscious 'oh my word, this can't be possible' thought, that sends him sinking below the waves? 
Stepping out in faith, he finds himself very quickly in over his head. 
The hand reaches up out of the water: 'save me'.
Another, stronger hand, reaches down into the water and does just that. 
In the background, the disciples look on.
Sometimes, I'm Peter.
Sometimes, I'm in the boat, looking on.

However, the times when I feel overwhelmed, sinking under, are the times when this particular painting wanders into my head. As I see it in my mind's-eye, I also notice that I'm somehow breathing again - and hear the thought, with a smile, that 'it's always good to breathe.' 
Echoing Ps 23: I find my soul restored. 
Sometimes, a picture prayer is worth a thousand words...