Sunday 1 April 2018

The Gardener


I love the feel of the earth in my hands, the warm crumbly texture of it as it sifts through my fingers. It is full of life, teeming with the promise of new growth, dancing with the joy of creation. In the soil is the hope, the past and the future of life. In its primeval promise it embraces the love of the creator.

I worked at the first in the creator’s garden, a fertile area where we could always hear the bubbling, laughing voice of the four rivers carrying the living water to the soil. It was joyful work; innovative and exciting. We watched the first flowers grow and named them according to their colour or their scent. The trees were tall and strong, their roots reaching down into the heart of things and drawing sustenance from the source. The fruit on those trees was voluptuous in shape and taste, juices ran down your face as you ate, anointing and nourishing.

My favourite flowers, and his, were the poppies. Their prodigality never ceased to amaze me; carpets of fragile red blooms, extravagant in colour, delicate to touch and fleeting in bloom. They were so beautiful, regally clothed, exulting in the joy of life.

We had to leave, of course. I suppose it was inevitable that we would be unable to resist that fruit, the forbidden fruit. We had so much that we could eat, an abundance of beauty and taste but we had to have it all. ‘All or nothing’ we said and, as it turned out they were the same thing. We didn’t look back as we left but the brightness of the garden shone from behind us and sometimes, when I look towards the sun, I think I see the place again.

There were many gardens after that and my joy in the soil never left me but it was harder now to release its promise. The flowers still grew and with them the persistent weeds. Weeds that threatened to strangle the delicate shoots, to suck the goodness from the soil, to prevent new life and darken hope.
Weeds that would pull the flowers up if you attacked them too soon, weeds of synthetic beauty, sculpted to deceive, subtle in subversion.

The poppies still bloomed, nothing could stop them, so persistent and generous in their flowering are those lilies of the field. They always remind me of his love and care, his delight in his creation. But I was surprised to see them that morning.

It had been a dark week-end, not good for growing. I went to the garden expecting the earth to be weeping, weeping like women, in need of anointing. It began softly at first, a familiar grief, well known and appropriate. Then the shock of emptiness led to despair, to absence and uncertainty, to loneliness.

..............

The weeping drew me across the waking earth. The grass was wet with dew, springing up at every step, quenching thirst, inviting new life. Gossamer threads, spider sculpted, reflected the promise of morning light. Still she wept. I spoke her name, She turned, hope dawning in her eyes. Around our feet the poppies danced in jubilation and, bathed in brightness, we celebrated our homecoming.


For since by man came death, by Man also came the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ all shall be made alive.’ (1 Corinthians 15:21-22)

©Ruth M Gee 2011

Saturday 31 March 2018

Harrowing of Hell

Crucified Christ today I pray:

For those imprisoned by pain,
where physical torment prevents fullness of life
and for the watching ones enduring agony
held in helplessness when they would offer all;
Harrow their hell.

For those who are not heard,
whose voices are silenced by the powerful,
whose whispers fall on deaf ears;
Harrow their hell.

For those whose horizon is diminished,
those held in despair
in the pit of depression,
hearing too many voices claim their allegiance;
Harrow their hell.

For those who sleep in the day
because the night is too dangerous,
seeking shelter in closed doorways;
Harrow their hell.

For those whose love is deemed unworthy
by those who cannot love beyond themselves,
excluded and derided,
unheard, unseen unnamed;
Harrow their hell.

For those who are ever hungry,
denied food, education, health and dignity,
praised for their resilience
not naming the inequality;
Harrow their hell.

Watching and waiting,
Lord we pray
Harrow the hells of your people today.

Saturday 6 January 2018

Mystery of Epiphany

Today is the feast of the Epiphany, a day when we remember especially the visit of the magi, wise men or kings to the baby Jesus. We know the carols about the kings of orient who bear their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. We have given them names: Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar. Children have put on crowns and carried gifts in nativity plays. We see them riding or leading their camels on our Christmas cards. We allow them to arrive early and mingle with shepherds from another story.

The visitors from lands afar, those who followed the star, remind us of the obligation to welcome the stranger as one from whom we can learn and receive. They remind us not to underestimate the significance of the strangers who knock on our door but to welcome them in for we may be entertaining angels unaware.

The gifts that the strangers bring are gloriously inappropriate, extravagant and unexpected. The message carried in the gifts is no less a surprise - that this baby will be honoured as king and God and that his death is foreshadowed even in his birth.

The magi came, they brought their gifts, they followed their star and then returned another way avoiding Herod and perhaps delaying his response to the birth of a son to Mary and Joseph, ordinary folk blessed by God in God's complicated way.

The magi left, the family fled - I wonder what happened to the gold and the frankincense?

The myrrh could have been used many times over in the aftermath of that visit. As Herod's troops massacred the children, breaking their fragile, precious bodies, finding in their innocence a threat to grasped, snatched power. There were many small bodies to be anointed, many fathers and mothers left in despair, many children left alone as their young siblings died. The myrrh was useful all too soon, the gold and frankincense would have to wait their turn.

Epiphany, like Christmas, is a time when we can meet with God in our encounter with the baby whose birth brought joy, angel songs and extravagant gifts along with homelessness, flight and the slaughter of children.

In all these things God is with us.
This is a great mystery.