Poetry and Meditations for Worship


These poems and meditations were written for use in worship - you may use any part of these - but please acknowledge where they came from.

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Choose Christ


Choose Sunday mornings

Choose once a month Wednesdays

Choose a house group where you feel comfortable

Choose direct debit for your giving

 

Choose tea and biscuits

            bring and share lunches

            socials

            circuit services

and Local Ecumenical Partnerships

Choose sitting in the same pew for 37 years

            and only feeling stirred

            by the swell of your favourite hymns

 

Choose to accept that this is everything

            that your faith can be

 

                        Or maybe not ...

 

Choose something else

Choose something more

Choose the thrill of reading the gospels

Choose Holy Communion

            raising the hairs on the back of your neck

Choose to be a disciple

            a rebel                 a worker

Choose to put others before yourself

            to give more

            to love more

Choose to tell people  when their hatred is wrong

            when their prejudice hurts

            and when their ignorance turns them into fools

 

Choose to stand up for what your faith really means

Choose refugees

            the homeless

            the battered and bruised

Choose poverty and illness and death

Choose the light that you can shine into the darkest places

Choose to be the only voice of reason

            against a cacophony of tabloid bigotry

 

Choose to walk the extra mile

            to give everything you have

Choose mercy       kindness       and to walk humbly

 

Choose to make all the difference you can

            in all the ways and places and times you can

 

Choose to live an extraordinary life

            following an extraordinary Messiah

Choose holiness

 

Choose Christ

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Potter's Field

 


The coins jangled

  in the goatskin bag

    He considered the discord of their uneven stamping

      and felt the heft of their insignificance

 

They swung from his belt

  heavier and more pendulous

    than would be expected

      for just thirty thin silver pieces

 

He didn't think about choices made

  or why he had been called

    firstly to join the itinerant twelve

      and then by the whispers stabbing into his nightmares

 

                                    *

 

The veil of darkness that drew down

  as he entered the garden

    was more than that of a starless night

      and closed his mind to all but his task

 

He saw only what lay before him

  the surrender that had to be given

    the love that would be pared down to its core

      and a knowing trust twisted into its own providence

 

When it came

  the kiss had been expected and the hand clasping his

    had forced their eyes to meet

      so  the words he hadn't wanted to say

                                                             tumbled out

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Pontius

     ("What I have written, I have written." ) 

 

 

He doesn't often see the dawn

                         or  the mist swathing the hills

         in the way a veil glosses the contours

                         of a dancing girl's

       rarely perfect features

 

Today

         the ebony iridescence

                         unhurriedly turns to gold as the sun

throws its first spikes along the valley

 

He feels the cold terracotta under his feet

       rests his palms on the balustrade

                          and listens to the first calls of the traders

preparing for a busy Passover

 

   He doesn't know

                         to which of his gods

he should offer up the votive

                         in exchange for the guidance he craves

      because the new day has not brought

                                       a clarity to his turbulence

 

but instead

                         has made the demands

       of those midnight dealings

                         with furious Pharisees

weigh heavier

                         against the stillness of the man

       who was the focus

of their seemingly unfounded ire

                        

                         Cock-crow

 

and there is only one place to find his answer

                         and it is not amid the acolytes and advisers

   but is down inside the labyrinth of cells

 

where

        amongst the thieves and insurrectionists

                                       he must look into the quiet-fire eyes

                         of the one they insist

 

he finds  a reason to condemn