Altar to an Unknown God
Easter 6; Acts 17:22-31
Perhaps an altar to an unknown god
would not be solid slabs of stone or wood
that brute force wrestled from the gaping sod
and carved with symbols little understood.
Perhaps some legs of driftwood, bare and white,
would hold a sheath of woven bark and grass,
or panel rescued from a ruined site,
with stubs of candles in discarded glass.
There one like Paul might find the linking word
to reach these devotees of all things new,
show them their truth, disguised in the absurd;
in the unknown, reveal what’s always true:
Creator who transcends each human shrine,
the Human One whose life is shared like wine.
Barbara Messner May 2017 (altered 2020)
Resilience
Resilience When trees are wounded, torn by shearing wind or saw, their trunks bulge round the break, in time encompassing all but a rough dry scar. Trees pruned beneath the wires will sculpt themselves as signs of arbitrary loss, slow healing and regrowth, their new leaves reaching high. A flood might wash away a major clump of roots: tree falls, becomes a bridge, still shoots, while on the bank new upright trunks emerge. When heat gives way to cold, some massive branches drop from towering eucalypts. Harsh change can strip us too, with ragged tearing crash. Can we, when broken, grow resilient as a tree that stretches wood to heal, undaunted, reaches high, delighting in the sky? Do trees in truth delight? Among the fringed pink cups of honey-scented flowers the parrots pirouette, their colours neon bright. Look! Gold of setting sun is caught on rain-wet leaves, a spangled dance of light. Let us, when torn by loss, dare forge renewed delight. Barbara Messner 8/05/2023
Many Dwelling Places
Many Dwelling Places
Easter 5; John 14:1-14
Creator of diversity,
you value all that’s odd and wild;
at home in vast infinity,
you house creation as your child.
Your home has multitudes of rooms
with space most generously to spare
for different ways to be expressed,
and guests to be unique yet share.
Your home is open when I knock:
the fires are burning, beds are made.
The brightness draws me to the door;
inside I find the table laid.
Can I who long for inner space
that seems to shrink at every turn
find room for you, unbounded God?
You give me space, let me discern.
You wait with wounded arms stretched wide
until I see that home is you,
and you can be at home in me
when I know life can be made new,
and see that truth takes many forms
to be at home to different eyes.
Walk through my walls and eat with me,
so I give room to love’s surprise.
Barbara Messner May 2020
Two Shepherd Poems
He Calls by Name and Leads
Easter 4; Psalm 23, John 10:1-10
Jesus used figures of speech:
“I am the good shepherd; I am the gate.”
Part of me resists those images.
Sheep in this land are business;
it was said Australia rode on their backs,
a heavy weight for a small animal.
The care of the flock is practical,
to maximize their productivity;
the sheep are not led but driven.
I have lived in sheep country:
pasture there is not green for long;
still water dries to treacherous mud,
a trap for thirsty animals.
The flocks in huge paddocks
are many and anonymous,
herded tightly into tiered trucks
to go to market and the abattoir.
So I’d rather not be a sheep,
or Jesus a shepherd or a gate.
He came that we might have life,
and have it abundantly,
but much of this over-used country
has lost its rightful abundance.
Is it because of business and practicality
that the pastures and waterholes dry out?
Shepherding shown in romanticized paintings
is now reserved for Maremma dogs
who live in the paddocks with sheep,
as shepherds did in Jesus’ time.
Is it that commitment and relationship
Jesus pictures in the good shepherd,
as he lives and dies “God with us”?
I have heard him call me by name,
and I recognized his voice and followed.
Through him I go out and in,
finding sustenance and rest;
in him, my soul is refreshed.
I know how he calls me and guides me
onto paths that are right for me.
Day by day he walks ahead of me,
leading me to abundance of life,
and through the valley of the shadow of death.
Barbara Messner 26/04/2023
A Sheepish Nursery Rhyme
Easter 4; John 10:1-11
If he’s a good shepherd, am I a good sheep?
I like to feel safe when it’s time to sleep.
He’s shepherd and gate, for he gives us the choice:
“Come in or go out, but still hear my voice.”
One time at high noon on a warm sunny day,
my legs became restless to slip away:
I wandered in search of the greenest of hills.
and slippery slopes to roll down for a thrill.
Alas! I was caught in that old briar patch
where thorns and my tangles conspired to snatch.
I called and he heard and reached out for me,
and though the thorns pierced him, he set me free.
He tended the places where I had been hurt,
and pulled out the prickles and cleaned up the dirt,
and carried me back to the safe sleeping ground,
and told all the others: “The missing one’s found!”
He’s shepherd and gate: we come in and go out.
I think I might stay within reach of his shout.
It’s all very well to be free as a bird.
but I am his sheep, and I’m glad he heard.
Barbara Messner 01/05/2020
The Road to Emmaus
The Road to Emmaus (sing to tune Christe Sanctorum, Christ is the world’s light TiS246) Easter 3; Luke 24:13-35 We know that weary way, burdened, walking, talking, thinking returning might relieve our grieving. Though Jesus does come near, eyes are kept from seeing Christ risen, God with us. When someone walks with us, asks to hear our story, listens in silence while our feelings flow free, shows us we’re truly heard, then we see what might be: God hears us, God is love. Then Scripture comes alive, works as revelation. What once was distant, less than information, then glows and resonates, brings us transformation. Hearts burn within us then. When Jesus enters in, bread is blessed and broken. We see and know him: eyes are fully open. Then, though he vanishes, dreams and hopes awaken. We are Christ’s body now. Barbara Messner 18/04/2023
Thomas and Jesus
Thomas and Jesus Easter 2; John 20:19-31 “Then let us go that we may die with him.” Brave words of love were these that Thomas spoke. Could such commitment suddenly grow dim, or hope destroyed make love a bitter joke? Why was he absent when Christ first appeared? Had grief and anger kept him from that sight, or had the cross become the fate he feared, and robbed of self-esteem, he turned to flight? He longed for faith restored, but feared they lied: their talk of resurrection seemed absurd. He had to touch Christ’s wounded hands and side, not stake his life on someone else’s word. But then Christ came to let him touch and see; his pain reached out to wounds that set him free. Barbara Messner April 2020 Image address: https://barbpoetpriest.blog/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/pexels-photo-10499700.jpeg?w=683
With Fear and Great Joy
With Fear and Great Joy Easter Day; Matthew 28:1-10; Colossians 3:1-4 Come in, stranger! Be welcome among us, though I fear you will shrink in discomfort from uncomfortable seats and page turning, and from songs about dying and rising in the old-fashioned words of our hymn book. I fear scorn as I try to imagine how communion might seem to a stranger: wine and bread as Christ’s blood and his body. It’s no wonder historical gossip talked of cannibal rites among Christians. Though perhaps your attendance at Easter counts with Gran as a sign of your caring, still you hold yourself tight, at a distance, eyes averted and crossed arms defensive, as though fearing that faith might be catching. Can you see in my face real thanksgiving, though traditional words may not reach you? I say, “Lift up your hearts!” and I’m lifted to rejoice in his words, consecrating bread and wine and these people for service. Celebrating, communing, connected, I enact once again Jesus with us. Bread and wine are the gift of his loving, broken body entombed and then rising to include us in his living presence. The communicants slowly move forward. If you dare to look up, you might see them, faces lit by a shared expectation. At the altar, they swallow the wafer, thin and dry as a circle of cardboard. Then the people return to their places, calm and thankful, or glowing and dreamy. Can you sense they’ve done something with meaning? Wafer dotted with wine seems a token, but for us it embodies the sacred. We commune in our grief and our sharing, in our prayer for the world and creation. Broken bread and wine poured in the chalice become more than remembrance of Jesus. Bread and wine are transformed and transforming. We commune in the stirring of Spirit as each Sunday affirms love is risen, and we know that the tomb is left empty. Here we share in his wholeness and wisdom, his compassion and fervour for justice. Stranger, look, let your sight turn to vision! Stranger, listen, as words turn to singing! Then like bread that is changed in the oven, or like wine that matures to enliven, this communion might feed and delight you. Barbara Messner 4/04/2023 Image address: https://barbpoetpriest.blog/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/pexels-photo-13422648.jpeg?w=681
The Path from Palms to Cross
The Path from Palms to Cross Palm Sunday; Matthew 21:1-11; Matthew 26:14-27:66 Short is the path linking palms to cross: mockery waits for the fall of fame; hope of gain turns at the threat of loss; those who would idolize him now blame. God seems reluctant to do our will; we need a hero who’ll help us win. Then if the Chosen won’t fit the bill, make him a scapegoat to bear our sin. They think they’re paying us to betray; we hope to motivate his attack. When he’s condemned, we throw down our pay; by then, that silver can’t buy him back. We might despair at the wrong we’ve done, seeing him go to the cross and grave, but he forgives, and we see what’s won by one who dies that new life might save. Barbara Messner 28/03/2023 image address: https://barbpoetpriest.blog/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/pexels-photo-13252193.jpeg?w=1024
The Poet’s Call to Connect
The Poet’s Call to Connect Lent 5; Ezekiel 37:1-14; John 11;1-45 To seek connection is the poet’s art. In metaphor the meaning is revealed to souls responding with a joyous start, with ardent breath and spring of tears that yield an opening into mystery’s large heart. Then stories stir like bones at prophet’s word, connecting, standing up to meet us now, alive with Spirit breath that word has stirred. Oh, do not ask for proof of when or how, but recognize that somehow God is heard. Can that dead brother, bound and in the tomb, be likened to the soul of Western world, awaiting calling out from that closed room? Let stones be rolled aside and limbs unfurled, and Spirit breathe new hope in place of doom. Now women here might wait to greet the One whose word can heal, and call soul out of death. Let us, like Martha, recognize God’s Son, and speak of the Messiah with Spirit breath that stirs the dead and leaves the grave undone. Barbara Messner 22/03/2023
A Man Born Blind
A Man Born Blind
Lent 4; John 9:1-41
A man born blind finds more to see than those
who choose to set aside the gift of sight
for fear of what may face them in the light:
the chasms gaping in the path they chose,
the pools of darkness that their shadow throws;
for these, without awareness of their plight,
refuse the vision which might set them right,
and miss the hope which light might yet disclose.
The man born blind found light enough to see
the healing offered in the spit and dirt,
to find the pool to which he had been sent,
to wash away the darkness and be free,
and then despite rejection, scorn and hurt,
proclaim the truth of what his healing meant.
Barbara Messner (date?)
Image adress: https://barbpoetpriest.blog/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/pexels-photo-12813248.jpeg?w=768
Barb, poet priest 