Barb, poet priest

From Anxiety to Wisdom

From Anxiety to Wisdom
Pentecost 16, Proverbs 1:20-33; Mark 8:27-38
I have heard them describing this time
as an Age of Anxiety.
It would take a conversion of soul
to become Wisdom’s Century.
There are plenty alive who display
technological mastery.
Do you know of some sages revered
for insightful integrity?

Yet the manifest perils we face
which induce such anxiety
on occasions are known to call forth
a serene equanimity.
Can we find a philosopher’s stone,
making gold from base substances?
Could it be that we need to accept
that as creatures we’re vulnerable,
and it’s futile to try to defend
or disguise our fragility?

So though Jesus knew suffering and death
awaited his ministry,
Simon Peter refused to accept
such a harsh ignominity.
Thus already one chosen as rock,
and aware of divinity,
thinks refusal might somehow avert
the Messiah’s dark destiny.
It’s no wonder he later says “No!”
when accused of relationship!
In his fear he can’t come to accept
what his courage demands of him:
to dispense with his daydreams of power
trampling over the enemy.

So he had to be broken and weep
at the lapse in his faithfulness,
and forgiven, surrender to love,
face an ultimate helplessness.
Peter learnt how to carry his cross
when he saw that through tragedy
all must walk at the last, even God
come to share our humanity.

So if weakness accepted might stand
with no need to retaliate,
and the pain of the cheek that we turn
shames the violence of tyranny,
then perhaps we find meaning that brings
us close to divinity.
Our humility grows as we come
to the source of self-emptying,
who is also the way to fulfil
our authentic identity,
as we let ourselves grow into truth
universal and merciful.
Then at last though we suffer and die
we emerge into joyfulness,
and God’s wisdom is fully revealed,
displacing anxiety.

The Syrophoenician Woman

The Syrophoenician Woman
Pentecost 15, Mark 7:24-37
Celebrate with me this woman,
this bold Syrophoenician woman,
facing prejudice and limits,
walking out alone in public,
daring to accost this stranger
who was hiding in seclusion.
Those offended sneered and muttered
slurs that mocked her race and gender,
called her “prostitute”, rejecting
such impertinent intrusion.

Courtesan perhaps she might be,
scholars say now who examine
her sophisticated language
and the skill of her rebuttal,
begging with undaunted purpose
for the sake of her own daughter,
and the daughter generations
held in thrall by unclean spirits –
paralyzed by race and gender
stereotypes and baseless slander.

What to make of one we cherish,
Son of God and Son of Mary,
choosing images so hurtful,
adding insult to rejection?
Could he think one race entitled,
others fit to be belittled?
Was it neediness turned hurtful
from the depths of his depletion?
Was he pushed beyond his limits
by importunate demanding
and the bitter strains of conflict?
Did he grasp at ethnic branding,
human in acculturation,
pressured by his incarnation
and his aching need for refuge?

Some excuse his words as testing
power of faith to rise to challenge.
Or was this a test of women
to reveal their wit and courage
and the truth of their potential,
once unshackled from supression?
We still claim from her responses
proof of women’s faith and reason
long denied by patriarchy.
Were the words of their encounter
parable of liberation
overturning expectation?

“Even dogs eat crumbs from children!”
Deft rebuke in humble answer!
We are wrong to use her image
in a claim we are unworthy!
Jesus gave rare affirmation
to her intellect and power:
“You speak Logos; you bring healing!”
She had healed more than her daughter.
Women generations after
are empowered by her example.
Did the Lord himself find healing
in enacting new creation?

My Song of Songs

My Song of Songs
Pentecost 14, Song of Songs 2:8-13
What if
God who loves is also lover
and I and every living thing
and even rocks and suns
are the Beloved
and longing and belonging is our song.

And what if
Eros and “I AM” are one
and I-Thou runs deep in every atom
and relationship is all there is
and the sacred craving to come into relationship
is the stuff of body and soul
of gravity and magnetism
of one dark woman with one shepherd-king
of I myself with (my god!) My God.

And what if
a community struggling for unity
and a mystic embracing emptiness
and a lover desiring consummation
and an ascetic straining for chastity
and a people wrestling with covenant
and a carpenter facing crucifixion
are truly all united in the one metaphor
show forth their meanings in the one parable:
the Kingdom of Heaven is like this:
the knowing that embraces all
the singing of a song of love
the Song of Songs.

Temples Come Temples Go

Temples Come, Temples Go
Pentecost 13, 1 Kings 8:1,6,10-11,22-30,41-43; John 6:56-69
King David imagined a house for the Lord:
it would have been visible gift and reward.
The prophet came back with God’s word of delay:
“Let Solomon take up this dream in his day!”

Stone walls lined with cedar encrusted with gold
would stand as four centuries’ stories unfold.
The beauty created for that time and place
was broken by Babylon, leaving no trace.

When Jesus predicted their temple would fall,
those leaders decided to silence his call,
but forty years later, a litter of stones
was all that remained, like some dinosaur’s bones.

So let us imagine, and when time is right
it may be a dream will take flesh in our sight,
but can we let go of the forms of the past
when God calls us on to a new age at last?

Wise Solomon knew that the house they had made
with all of its beauty and meaning displayed
could never contain and define the divine –
God’s Spirit might take flesh in bread and in wine,

or come to fruition in one precious life
laid down as a gift when oppression was rife,
to rise like a temple rebuilt in three days,
the one who gives form to all meaning and praise.
	Barbara Messner 18/08/2021

Two Sonnets, one new, one old

Two Sonnets – one new, one old
Pentecost 12, John 6: 51-58


Flesh to Eat
How can this man give us his flesh to eat?
Not cannibals, communicants are we!
To give his flesh as bread subverts defeat,
forgiving our betrayals yet to be.
So often he disturbs our literal sense,
upsets convention, challenges what’s right,
and then must bear the brunt of our offence,
flesh broken, blood poured out, the looming night.
His body swallowed whole by death and tomb
is by his rising free for all to share:
to eat this bread will make in us the room
for flesh to mate with Spirit if we dare.
Then we will bear the Christ. Our hands and feet
will do his work, creation made complete.
	Barbara Messner 11/08/2021

I am, you are
I am, you are – such insight wisdom seeks,
and being meets with knowing in this Word.
Polemic, fact or fiction, vision, myth –
beyond these masks the Word of truth is heard:
I AM – beyond all matter’s bland disguise.
We see God’s face through Christ’s unflinching eyes,
and Christ through those that give his Spirit room
to breathe that vision, lit with Love’s surprise.
“I am the light,” – our darkness lightens there.
“I am the way,” and life becomes that walk.
“I am the bread,” and so our hungry hearts
are fed abundance far beyond the talk.
“I AM,” he says, and at the end, “I thirst!”
Out of the rock of death, life’s waters burst!
	Barbara Messner circa 2000

Living Bread

Living Bread
Pentecost 11, John 6:35;41-51
O bread of life, teach me to wait and rise,
for I am flat beneath these leaden skies.
The words I write are stodgy from the start –
no Spirit effervescence of true art.
I come to you, but hunger has grown dull;
I write of you, but know not what to cull.
My thoughts I judge parochial at best –
but you they thought too local to be blessed,
and what has come from heaven must find flesh
that looks like someone’s offspring, not made fresh.
Though we are drawn to God, we may not see
a splendour more complete than we can be,
and though you nurture us to live, not die,
we know not what that means, or how or why.

Praying My Age

When shadows lengthen,
and things that hide in shadows lurk,
be to me the shaft of light
that gilds me in surprise.
Colour my sky.

When evening darkens,
and landmarks blur within the murk,
be to me the eyes of owl,
that guide a seeking glide.
Charm me to fly.

When fog confuses,
and every move is heavy work,
be to me a well-known voice
that clearly calls my name.
Let me know why.

Offering

Offering 
John 6:1-15  (written c. 2005)
His heart went out to them
and he fed them,
hoping they would recognize:

that the satisfaction of hunger
lies in leaving accustomed
sustenance, and waiting for him
to come amongst them, waiting
in the open, in emptiness,
needing to meet him and share
whatever may be on offer.

People were fed,
but grew greedy
to depend on such providing.
They would have made him king
so they need never hunger again,
although need had brought them
there, where abundance was possible.

His heart went out to them
and he fed them,
offering self-emptying openness,         
offering his very being, and hoping.


His heart went out to them
and he healed them,
hoping they would recognize:

that awareness of weakness
is the only strength required –
to desire enough to reach out
to the hem of his garments,
or call out to him by the wayside,
to be lowered to him through a crowd,
or singled out by him in the synagogue.

People were healed,
but grew greedy
to claim the power of restoration.
They would have made him king
so they need never hurt again,
although pain had brought them
there, where wholeness was possible.

His heart went out to them
and he healed them,
offering suffering compassion, 
offering his very being, and hoping.


His heart went out to them
and he taught them,
hoping they would recognize:

that space is needed for growth,
and hollowness for listening,
inwardly, for the word, proclaimed
or silent, for the hallowed name
above every name, which is
unpronounceable, and yet a word
on every baby’s babbling lips.

People were taught,
but grew greedy
to possess and regulate the word.
They would have made him king
so they need never wander again,
although wondering had brought them
there, where wisdom was possible.

His heart went out to them
and he taught them,
offering receptive silence,
offering his very being, and hoping.


His heart went out to them
and he died for them,
hoping they would recognize:

that life rises up, reborn
from the tomb of emptiness,
from the space of utter abandonment,
where blood is poured out
and flesh broken open,
and the seeds of life thrown down
where the harvest might well be lost.

People were saved,
but grew greedy
to be spared the loss of dying.
They would have made him king
so they need never fail again,
although surrender had brought them
there, where resurrection was possible.

His heart went out to them
and he died for them,
offering body and blood,
offering his very being, and hoping.

Feeding Those Who May Not Gather

Feeding Those Who May Not Gather
Pentecost 9, John 6:1-21
Confined to quarters by a covid scare
no crowd can gather to be taught or fed –
not that they would, for pews are partly bare
on any Sunday, and though Jesus bled 
for all, not many hear that read.

And yet a hunger lurks despite our meals
which tempt our taste buds with a world of spice.
We’re overfed, and yet it sometimes feels
like emptiness prevails. What foods suffice
to satisfy? What condiments entice?

Though Jesus came to heal, we need to name
the fevered state that threatens life on Earth.
Pursuit of profit cannot be the game
that dominates all sources of true worth,
and sets aside potential of new birth.

Now what have I to share to meet this need
that few acknowledge even in this hour
when illness spreads abroad with frightening speed
despite all these restrictions? Luck can sour
as swiftly as new strains of virus flower.

I try to offer what I have to share –
not loaves or fish – I write for him each word
upon this page. What sustenance is there?
A poem cannot even feed a bird,
yet in his hands it might not be absurd.

Such morsels he might turn to living bread.
He suffers with us, changing us, like wine
from trampled grapes. Now we are fed
by worship shared at home with friends online –
a virtual feast, still sign of the divine.