The Healing of Women

This poem was written in 2021 for Mark’s version of the story we have this Sunday in Matthew 9. I am repeating it partly to celebrate that the Anglican Diocese of the Murray where I live has finally decided to accept the ordination of women.

The Healing of Women
Pentecost 2; Matthew 9:18-26 (also Pentecost 5 Year B; Mark 5:21-43)
When Jesus heals, he seeks to make us whole:
he healed the flow of blood the woman bore
for twelve long years, but also healed her soul.
Her shame was lifted, she need hide no more.
Did Jesus feel his power go out to all
those women judged unclean who hide in fear
and dare not state their need or voice their call,
yet let their faith in healing draw them near?
The leader’s daughter, twelve years old, had died
while Jesus listened to that woman’s truth.
Despite the scorn of those who wailed and cried,
he raised the girl to walk into her youth,
and there perhaps to find there’s more to life
than bartered, without choice, as someone’s wife.
	Barbara Messner 15/06/2021

Trinity and Me

This poem of mine from 2020 was first published on Maren Tirabassi’s blog giftsinopenhands. Thanks as always to Maren for her encouragement, and her inspiring work.

Trinity and me
Trinity Sunday
God, the Parent Creator, and I
were delighted together one day.
On our deck was a strutting magpie,
boldly stepping as though on display.
Briefly noting we watched behind glass,
it continued to search for its prey,
and then, proud of its black and white class,
rushed towards us to tap on the wall.
Though its beak was still empty, it flew,
and alighted with chest out to call;
like an Indian brave counting coup,
it had boldness to boast of to all.
God and I laughed our praise at the sight
as the bird sang the song of its might.

God the Son met me once on a beach,
as my tears to salt water returned,
when God with us had seemed out of reach,
and my guts with stale anger had burned.
In my mind’s eye, I saw an old cup,
cracked and thrown down as I seemed to be,
and I felt that he picked us both up,
and he washed out the dregs in the sea,
threw the spray into rainbows that flew.
Then transformed in his hands was a bowl,
glazed with pearl and as whole as if new,
and he offered fresh water to all.

God the Spirit has blown in again:
after absence, keeps chanting my name.
Though my weariness tries to refrain,
there are words in my head tipped with flame,
and they’ll haunt me and taunt me until
I sit down with a pencil and write.
I resist, having now had my fill,
but they lurk in my mind out of sight.
I can’t settle to work more mundane
when these words are still waiting to share,
so I write, knowing how I complain
when the Spirit seems gone, and I’m bare.
	Barbara Messner June 2020

Variations on Pentecost

Variations on Pentecost
Day of Pentecost; John 20:19-23, Acts 2:1-21
To some the Spirit comes as breath to breath
that wakens us to risen life in Christ.
We know him and rejoice, receive his peace.
Assured that we are sent as he was sent,
we venture forth, commissioned to forgive.

Our Pentecost may be a bolder scene:
the Spirit like a wind that fills our space,
or tongues like flame that flare within our heads.
This sending out is full of drama too,
as different ethnic groups can hear the Word
in languages they know (Babel reversed),
and someone who denied finds he can preach.

Contrasting tales do not negate the truth,
but prism-like draw rainbows out of light.
The Spirit that can animate the words
and send us forth empowered to speak or hear
is known in ways diverse as rainbow hues,
communicates beyond all cultures’ bounds,
and Spirit gifts can lead beyond what’s said.

Let those who feel the stir of Spirit breath
be moved like branches dancing in the wind.
Let sparks ignite their dreaming and their song,
though words fall short of what was felt in awe,
and metaphors, though many, only trace
vague shapes suggesting some transforming power.

I have experienced Spirit like a flame,
a radiant energy of warmth and light.
Sometimes a violent wind will shape my growth,
or breath will stir me, intimate as kiss.
There’s peace and joy but also risk and fear
in daring to believe that we are sent
with words from hidden depths that touch the deep
beyond what we can try to know or say.

We wait and pray; sometimes our doors are locked,
but still he comes among us with his wounds,
and breathes upon us with the breath of life;
no safety in his promise, but there’s peace.
The Spirit comes as advocate and guide
so we are never orphaned or alone.
	Barbara Messner 22/05/2023

Ascension?

Ascension?
Ascension Day; Acts 1:1-11; Matthew 28: 16-20
He vanished from their sight, but did he rise
to lofty palaces above the skies
to sit in gloried state at God’s right hand?
Or did he slip among them where they stand?
The angels laughed: “Why do you seek afar
the one who’s always with you where you are?”
To visions bringing insight, it seems odd
when we in worship set apart our God,
who comes among us as a baby curled
within the welcome womb of every world,
and lives and dies and rises, seen or not,
in all the grime and muddle of our lot;
yet we persist in seeing Christ ascend,
although he said he’s with us to the end.
           Barbara Messner 20 May 2020

Altar to an Unknown God

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
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