Saturday, 20 December 2008

Blessings to the High Low Places

I know I know your thinking you never write you never call and here you are in the last few days posting like a woman unleashed. It is as much I suppose about a search for meaning, context and understanding.

As I write today I am again in work (I know it is a Saturday) I have icon class soon yet here I am just getting the last service sheets together for tomorrows recreated Christingle come Nativity service I have got together.
Okay todays context, outside of my window I am watching the rain bucket down on Christmas Shopers. On the headphones is a bazar mix of old Mary Mary renditions of 'Shackles" and all blessings be to Spanky who yesterday introduced me to Sufjan Stevens Holy Holy Holy. And yes I think you could do much worse than hook into YouTube and have a listen http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-liS9e2IY8 .

And Christchurch being Christchurch we have sadly another murder of a young woman . I used to resist saying another prostitute is murdered because the sensationalism of her occupation made the reality of her humanity invisable. So between the creation of Nativity services I have been searching the net to see if there is a photo of her incase she is one of the sex workers I say hello to in the morning on my way to work. I recall the memorial of Suzie Sutherland of the letter her parents sent that was read out to this church full of prostitues, dealers, pimps, street people, her lovers and her friends. How many of them will be gathering again for Ngatai's funeral?

Seems a sad yet appropriate context to introduce my last meditation for Advent. Today if the rain would not wash it away I would write in chalk on the pathments of Manchester Street. To you who work on these streets please please be take care of yourselves you are important. You are loved.

I am here again Lord.
No matter how much I tell myself this year it will be different I still find myself on this night frequenting these High low places.
Not that you ever try to stop me, “We all have our way of sitting Shiva with those who wait for the light” you say.
For me it is to be pulled to the edge places.
To bear witness to humanities yearning for the new dawn.
When I was younger I frequented the Great Cathedrals of the world, circled spires and lay across great arches. At other times I would find myself in the belfries of humble worship, in houses no bigger than the stable in which Christ came forth clothed in a woman’s blood.

Be it a mega church or humble house - as on this night as in the very first night, I come to watch over the prayers of those drawn to the light.
To see their prayers as smoke curl from their lips carried high into the arms of the creator.

On this night I come down low, hover over those in prayer and finally settle next to a pillar I watch as the everyday drama of prayer- humanities hymns to the silence unfold.

Few see me, the occassional babe in arms - fingers reaching out - faces alight, the old blind priest still going after all these years.
He pauses beside me “So unearthly thing” he says “Have you come today to take me to my creator?”.
I smile it is the same question he asks of me every year “Not tonight old man”, he is after all not mine to take.
“This night I come to hear the prayers of the faithful and the lost”, he humphs and shuffles along.

Tonight there are prayers both sublime and rediculous.
To the side sits a woman hands clasps tight she prays for patience, that her fear for the future not be spat out at her husband recently laid off. In the front sits the old man begging to be taken, so he may be reuntited with his beloved wife gone long before.
For the out of place woman with three toned hair the prayer is for a friend found facedown in the river, while the eight year old one seat back practices looking unimpressed as she prays that tomorrow she wont be made to sit next to her aunt that dribbles at dinner.
As the numbers gather there voices build

Lord make me pretty,
Stop me from drinking,
Give me pajamas with feet in them,
Help my son in prison,
Give us enough money for presents for the Children,
God I hope it was quick,
Take away my grandsons asthma,
Give us the contract at work,
Don’t let my husband find out what I have done,
Give me one more day I know I can win back the rent,
Take my daughters cancer away,
Let me know if you exsist,
Tell me is this all there is?
Help me tell my mother I am pregnant again,
Make the news happy today,
Find my boy a job,
Remind me why I stay,
Just take all this away,
What should I make for Christmas dinner,
Im so tired,
Just do something,
Thank you…

That stops me

Thank you! It is not just the words but the intent that pulls me close,
so heart felt, so full... ripe.
Ah but the intent... that spins me back to the night in the stable when we kept vigil. For that moment when our bodies shuddered at the cries of birthing , and we angels in the rafters clung together praying with the same need heard again here tonight.
Please let the child king would be born with breath.

The Birthing Prayer of Mary rang in our ears as she called out...
"May it be your will, Adonai my God and God of my ancestors, that you will ease these pains for me,
Make me strong,
increase the strength of my baby boy.
Ease my birth,
Birth me to motherhood Abba as I birth our babe,
Bring him out into the air without harm.
Make him be of good fortune bought into this life,
Fill him with peace,
Make him healthly and grow him to be an honourable man, as is the father you have provided on earth,
May my child find grace in Your eyes and in the eyes of all your creations.
May this child's life fulfill the verse:
"God sets the childless woman among her household as a happy mother of children. Hallelujah."
May my husband and I raise this child to serve You.
May we merit to teach this child your holy Torah,
to have peace and comfort, honour and rest.
Guard us, my baby and I, that we will not come to harm.
May You strengthen my courage, my strength, and my might, as it says:
"My Lord, my life-breath is revived.
You have restored me to health and revived me." Amen."

And then in the midst of this panting prayer there came the moment when
tears and prayers were released and fulfilled. When pain before us was transformed into sobs, then gulps, to gasps…and then all three at once all overarched with such sweet delight and thanks that we could not help but call out to the world in glory and light up the sky.

Not that they noticed. For them it was not the wonder that woke the neighbour and turned wise men towards Bethlehem, it was the miracle of a babe taken in his fathers arms and held up to Yahweh in blessing.
It was the tiny curled fist and the widest yawn that transfixed a mothers eyes, calling each movement to the attention of his earthly father.

And to the world a King was born that night, the fulfillment of joy and prophecy.

Thousands of years past and here in a down town church I am reminded of that moment in a prayer of thanks by a lone woman in prayer.
The baby in her belly is a gift unexpected, joy personified.
Perfect even in its imprerfection?
But they know this already, she still clasps the brochure in her hand, down syndrome…

Yet even in this reality her prayer turns not to ‘please God fix my baby’,
but to thanks for the gift of life inside her.
Many will walk away from a baby not perfect in their sight even though all are perfect in the sight of their creator.
Some will stare at one who does not look like the others.
Others will see sorrow and punishment for Gods perfect gift seen through the eyes as imperfection.
But in this place, on this day, in the midst the prayers of demanding
The pleases,
And the shoulds,
And the makes,
And the whys,
And the help,
And the do God,
And the don’t.
In humanities imperfection, the timeless miracle continues to unfold, seen once more in the face of a new babe in arms reminder of the coming of a new day.

As witnessed by an angel on this night and in a woman consumed by the thankfulness and blessed by the love of God

Blessings Megan

Friday, 19 December 2008

To the Outskirts of Bethlehem

Today looking out of my office window on the forth floor the rain splashes down (my favourite weather) and I am listening to a nostalgia trip with Faith No More's rendition of Easy, Jeff Buckley's version of Hallelujah and the Wellington International Ukulele Orchestra.

Yesterday I posted one of the meditations from my Advent Series. One of things I have thought about is what it was like for Mary and Joseph on the way to Bethlehem. What they said to each other, how well they knew each other. Any way the follow piece came from those ponderings.
I try not to say too much - to be annoying.
After all we don’t know each other that well… not as husband and wife.

Although in someway he has always been around, be it fixing our roof, or laughing out loud with the other men at a wedding feast.
Not ours though.

When the match was made I would peak from behind the curtain to see what he ate, how he prayed and provided, to imprint on my heart what it was that made him smile.

Just as my mother did before her wedding, I would look to his callused hands to see how soft they became when he cradled a child.
These are the things a woman in my village look for in a man.

Now though in this place - at this time, I am no longer sure of this stoic man who walks beside me.
Away from my mothers arms I am unsure how angry he may really be,
Yet no harsh words has he aimed in my direction.
No doubt has he cast on my claims out loud.
And for that gracious God …
I am most grateful in your choice of husband for me.

Last night we camped along the road side with some of his cousins, I heard them joke about how lucky he was to have such a pretty young wife.
But then I guess they don’t know what the rest of his family think of me.

Today I find myself even more grateful for the presence of my silent saviour. For without his care of me, and belief in our sacred charge, my fate would be that of the women we pass on our way.

The outcast, the lost, and the dead.

He has saved my life, - and aside from being kind of old, I know I am in the safest place possible out here on the road to Bethlehem, and away from the rising ire of those who once held me dear.

He says little - speaks more encouragement to the donkey on which I sit than to me!
At first I tried to make conversation, but what is there to say that can encompass that which is both too big and so small.

In the every day do I say “Excuse me husband but my butt has cramp and I am wondering if you can have a look at my toes and tell me if they indeed exist it has been so long since we met”

I sigh, and for a brief moment my stone faced husband smiles “My Miriam who would have ever thought I had married such a quiet wife, if you keep this up I will be the envy of all the men of Nazareth!”
We laugh for a moment and as night comes it is with relief and affection that I let such strong hands lift me down. Such a man you have given me to father our son on earth dear Lord.

Camping on the outskirts of Bethlehem surrounded by the cooking fires of fellow travellers we pull back the tent flap so the stars and the moon may shine down upon us, Joseph knows the stars by name.

Peace at last.
On the edge of sleep feel his hand on my belly “Sleep Miriam mine, God has gifted me you both to care for, and tonight at least all is well in the world.


Blessings on the Journey

Megan

Thursday, 18 December 2008

I like this place on the hill

Here is the meditation I wrote that was published in the Advent Christmas resource Hands of Light. I was imaging what it was like to sit on a hill and watch the story of Joseph and Mary unfold.

I like this place here on the hill.
This crevice in the rock carved out by thee and me has been my shelter from heat and rain all the days of my life.
From here I can see all my sheep.

My people in the village try to beg me to come down in winter,
but more than a night by the fire and I am restless for my place in the rock.
You gave it to me so that I may watch over them.
So I may provide meat for worship and feast days,
so I may witness dramas and miracles.

It is not lonely up here on the hillside,
both people and sheep I know and address by name.
But when it comes to conversation, it is the sheep that make more sense to me.

For two cycles of the moon there has been trickery swirling over the sleeping folk below. Yahweh’s work it is sure, strange and wondrous dabblings true - the outcome uncertain.

What is known to us all, is that soft moments
between the house of Joachim and the house of Joseph
have become sharp and distant.
My father always told me
“When women pass each other without pause for conversation,
turn and run for the hills for the very earth itself may split open and swallow you up!”

Three times this night I have watched Joseph-the-tree, gentle up to the door of his betrothed only to walk away without seeking entrance, shoulders bowed.
On such nights the sounds of a prayer so soft, so full of aching, that only the angels themselves could decipher the words is whispered against the rock.


Few may know the reason for such pain,
but not one person in the neighborhood sleeps undisturbed,
as prayers rich with questions too raw to be spoken loudly,
make their way through the night.

Yes there is trouble in the houses of Joachim and Joseph,
and that means trouble for us all.

In light of this it takes a long time before Joseph-the-tree makes his way up the track to my place in the rock. A man without stealth or guile, he stumbles and grunts, announcing his presence before he appears at my fire.
I sooth my now restless sheep “It is just Joseph-the-tree disturbing your sleep. Rest all will be well with the world”.
There is anger in his eyes at my words,
yet split open it gives way to the sorrow I have witnessed bend this upright man.

Such conversations as with sheep are demeaned by speaking,
and so we sit and watch over the restlessness of those below.

When such emotions do form into speech, they sit in his mouth for a long time.
“But I still love her”

It is said.

So that is what Yahweh has been up to!
‘But I still love her’
In the defeat is shown the way forward, there is still love.
Who in rightness with God, can not find in his heart, forgiveness for one so blessed.

As we sit I recall to Joseph how it was when I was first called up here to care for the flock.
It was not the life I had planned, yet “the needs of all were important” said my grandfather “sacrifices had to be made”.
I spoke of how I had rebelled and in anger struck out at these dumb creatures. This was a story new to Joseph; to him I had never been anything but old and bent.

“There was one sheep in particular that goaded me. A ewe stubborn and wild. She was one of my uncle’s prized animals. Prized or not, all I saw was a stubborn sheep that ran me all over these hills for no better reason than she thought I needed the exercise. When a storm would come she would force me out into the rain to search for her, when wild beasties came close she would run towards them until I was sure she wanted nothing more than to see me dead!”. That raised a smile.

“As my feet got harder and my legs stronger I would look down at you all below less and less with envy. Here I saw things in a new way. I could see who spoke to whom, or who didn’t … I saw the young women of the village laugh together as I never could see when I was amongst it all ... I saw the spirit weave in and out of our lives … and I saw how the villages would wave up to me- there faces reassured that they and the flock were cared for and watched over.”

“The sheep were, well, still sheep, yet more and more I realised how we would come to depend on each other. They warned me, as much as I protected them. Not just my life revolved around their well being, but all our lives.”

“Then one night, on a night very similar to this I returned from the village to discover that that pesky ewe had once more gone missing. It had taken me longer to return than usual as the path I normally took had slipped away. Already I knew that this would be where I would find her. Sure enough as I got closer I saw her she trotted faster and faster in the opposite direction.

I knew the path that she was heading toward was no more, if I chased after her she would fall to her death. Yet if I did nothing it still may happen. What was I to do? After all this sheep had caused me much pain since I had come to care for her”.

Joseph poked at the fire as I paused for effect.

“But you know I could not let her die, in her own way she had become a part of my day... if she died, I may have an easier life, but the whole flock would be diminished”.

“Well what could you do? You’ve said you couldn’t chase after her!”

“Nothing so I fell to my knees and I called to her- angrily at first and then gently...”

“Pesky sheep” I said
“Stop! Come to me,
if you go down there you will die and there are those who will miss you…
if you run that way you will fall down the hill and uncle will be mad…
and I will become lazy…
we need you pesky sheep…
your flock needs you…
I need you!”

“And she came back?”

“No not at first,
she made me wait so long I thought she had died.
And I am not afraid to say that I sat in that sheep track and I sobbed like a babe…
I sobbed for what I had hoped for that was not to be …
for the sense of responsibility that caring for these blasted sheep placed upon me…
and for the fear that sat inside me daily that I could not carry it...
most of all I sobbed for a stubborn sheep
that had yet to tell me her name.”

“But she came back …tell me she didn’t die!”

“Yes she came back and I held her tightly and I cried into her fleece”

“And she loved you and let you lead her back?”

“No she ate my breakfast and walked back with me following behind.
Trust my friend takes time to develop”.

The fire crackled as Joseph-the-tree stood and looked out in the night.
“Go to she who is most blessed tree man, you have a journey before you I think”.

All night I stayed awake watching the village as it fell into a peaceful sleep.

Just before dawn Joseph and Mary, the daughter of Joachim headed out with a donkey towards Bethlehem. From my crevice in the rock I saw them pause and wave. I waved back. On this morning all was well with the world.


Monday, 15 December 2008

A mix of here and there

All prayers greatly accepted today. I wait, still not accepted into varsity as institutions quibble over acceptance of marks for courses. This is no easy place to sit in the middle of waiting. I have done all I can but at the last post I feel not pipped but more than a little bound.

The season has hit me, the grief and the joy. Today I am asked to pray for a mother whose baby girl is born with a heart defect and dies. Such grief for a family who had looked so forward to a first baby at Christmas. So much investment, so many prayers now seen as lying fallow.

Then a young girl eight months pregnant is bought to my attention as a father in law demands her marriage now because although she is a sinner the baby deserves to be born 'clean'. I think of her and look over at my Nativity icon on my noticeboard. Some things never change Mary.

As I come to terms with being a hoarder and having to pack up house I can not help but look at the place I have grown up in. Christchurch the dark city of New Zealand home of pilgrims and prostitutes.
And I wonder...
I wonder if the darkness that is this city
Will sit in my blood when I have left this place
If the fierce light of late night scuffles will rise in my eyes
As it has in so many others when pressed against a wall

There is a price to pay for living in a feral place
A payment made at birth
This darkness so familiar so a part of us
Once clearly seen, we can but spend the rest of our lives
trying to outrun it.

Today I put in my resignation for work, next week I will go to the Blue Christmass and weep. Then fortified it will be onward into the light.

Blessings Megan