Bearing Fruit

It had been a while since I was last at Poetry Club in the Sunset Cafe.  I had fallen into the “Strictly” hole with all its sequins and sevens.  I wasn’t greeted like the prodigal son.  My absence wasn’t even mentioned. 

Marcin, the man that managed the café was pleased to see me.  He had, he told me, sold one of my poetry books just before Christmas and handed me my share of the booty. 

I spent some of my booty on a pot of tea puzzling over the information that he had sold one of my books.  I didn’t remember giving him any of my books to sell in the café.  There were other poets in the group whose books vied for attention on the shelf.  Maybe he had got them directly through the publisher, or sold his own copy bought the night of the book launch.  Yes, it’s called clutching at straws.

“If you have any more of your books…” Marcin was quite happy to add them to the pile.  Being Poetry Club I happened to toss in a few copies into my rucksack – on the off chance someone might ask.

Marcin frowned at the book.  It didn’t look familiar.

“New cover?” he asked.

I couldn’t keep living in denial.  The book Marcin had sold wasn’t my book.  I wanted badly to hold on to “my” part of the earnings – which were not mine at all.  It wasn’t huge sum.  It probably wouldn’t be missed.  And it just felt so good thinking that someone had bought my book. Except they hadn’t bought my book at all. 

Marcin rifled through the books on the shelf finding a copy of the book he had sold.   I handed back the booty.  The other poet was short, like me; she had dark hair like me; she wore glasses like me; but she wasn’t me.

So what about the book?  My nephew thinks I am raking in royalties and now that I am rich, I am like the queen and don’t worry about mundane things like money.  Both he and I wish that to be the case but it isn’t.

So what about the book?  Let me just say that I think it is a marvellous book.  I am proud to have my name attached to it. My biggest concern when it was launched into the world was that it was a second class collection of less that great poetry.  It is first class!  It is wonderful stuff. 

Quite a few books were bought as Christmas presents for mums and grandmothers, aunties, sisters and friends.  I have unintentionally identified a specific market demand.  The poems seem to have found their own prescription – one before breakfast and one at the end of the day.  My own copy sits beside my Bible on the coffee table.

So what about the book? Waterstones in Inverness never took up my offer of selling them in their store.  Although they might have a policy of promoting local authors, a clearly Christian poetry book – poetry not being so easy to sell, or religion for that matter – they never really got back to me.  My husband boycotted the store for a week or two, but his Waterstones card lured him back.  I shall become like the persistent widow to Watertsone’s unjust judge in time for Easter!

Two Christian bookshops, one in Inverness and one in Rugby, were supplied with books.  They have certainly sold some of them.  I could have cut out the middle man or woman, and sold the book directly to friends of friends, collecting the whole booty instead of sharing it.  But I wanted the bookshops to be able to sell them and ask for more.  It is a book that is amazing and not just because I think so.

Feedback from those that received the book for a Christmas present is filtering through to me.  So far it is all positive.  It is unsolicited positive. Mothers and grandmothers, aunties, sisters and friends all across the country are being blessed by the poems and finding encouragement in them.  

We were reading and praying through some of the opening verses of Paul’s letter to the Colossians.  The phrase “bearing fruit in every good work” v10, caused me to look back over those closing months of last year.  I may not yet have convinced Waterstones that they want my book; I may have a relatively full box of the books under my stairs still to sell; both Christian bookshops in Inverness and Rugby may not yet be making repeat requests for new stock – but I am convinced that the book is bearing fruit in the lives of those that read it.

Poverty Perspectives

I was ironing – yes, it really happens – I iron things.  The TV channel was locked into back to back episodes featuring each and every Dr Who incarnation in the right order.  I joined in somewhere towards the end of their journey.  Christopher Eccleston was throwing a shower of tiny twinkling nano-bots at a crowd in wartime England with gasmasks and yelling “Everyone lives!”

“Everybody lives!”

That might have been Dr Who’s declaration but had he watched the adverts he might have had a different perspective.  Charities were drumming up support, promising to help a catalogue of people dealing with very distressing situations. My one pound given each month could provide a child with a blanket in a refugee camp.  My two pounds could give a child a vaccination against a disease we have long conquered in the UK.  I could help an autistic child say he loves his mother. 

One appeal explained that one girl walked two hours each morning to collect water from a spring.  I had thought that water from a spring would be clean water at least, but it didn’t look clean, and there were cattle standing in the water.  The container she was filling was huge – a big yellow plastic container.  She didn’t balance it on her head and gracefully walk off into the afternoon sun.  She carried it on her back, at an awkward angle.  Bent over like a hunchback she began the two hour walk home. 

This morning I read an article in the paper. 

“More than 300,000 of Britain's poorest people live at least 1km from a free-to-use cash machine, raising questions about whether the most disadvantaged can obtain cash without paying a fee, the government's adviser on poverty has said.”

It would seem there are 269 low-income areas lacking a free machine within a 1km radius.  Most of the cash machines in the prosperous places in a city are free-to-use.  The poor, as ever, are being exploited.

“These "cash machine deserts" mean people face a fee ranging from 75p to £10 to retrieve their money via an ATM, consumer groups say.”

I thought about the young girl walking the two miles there, and two miles back, to get clean water.  It seemed so absurd that someone was complaining that someone else has to walk half a mile to get to a cash machine that didn’t charge you.  I suppose that to someone disabled or elderly walking half a mile it might seem like a two hour journey. 

I sometimes think we have lost our perspective on a lot of things.  We have a picture of poverty in our country that pales into insignificance when placed alongside poverty in other places. 

Christopher Eccleston’s shower of tiny twinkling nano-bots re-wrote damaged DNA.  There are no nano-bot showers to re-write our damaged thinking. 

It’s about time we thought clearly and honestly about things and stopped looking at them through skewed and selfish lenses.

When the Strong Man Snarls

Ain't never seen this place so full
The crowd like bees a-hummin’
The word is out, all seats are filled
Cuz Jesus is a-comin’

The synagogue, the Sabbath Day
And all its rules a-tellin’
Every “do” and “don’t” laid out
Exuberance a-quellin

A trap is set, a wounded man
His withered arm a-holdin’
The teachers and the scribes sit back
Their tongues are schooled for scoldin’

They say there are six days for work
Six days to be a-healin’
The Sabbath is a day of rest
Before God’s throne a-kneelin’

Then Jesus comes, a solemn hush
Descends on all a-waitin’
He strides with power and confidence
Authority a-statin’

He spies the teachers, calls the man
And to the crowd a-saying’
An evil deed to leave a man
Your needful aid delayin'

Kindness isn’t shown at all
When someone is a-hurtin’
And you won’t lift a hand to help
Just platitudes a-blurtin’

One gentle touch, one quiet word
No fire and brimstone preachin’
But healing comes, an arm outstretched
Made whole… to heav’n… a-reachin’

Too many people lost in pain
The devil is a-skippin’
Around and through our broken lives
Our dignity a-strippin’

Enough to make the Strong Man snarl
When Satan’s rag’s a-wavin’
The Good News is that Jesus came
A-seekin’ and a-savin’


(Mark 3:1-6)

Bethlehem's Choir

Please don’t ask me whether I have been to Bethlehem before. My answer would not be the one you are expecting. I should have listened when a friend told me that the past should remain firmly in the past and it’s never a good idea to go back to places.

I was in Bethlehem many years ago, long before it became part of the pilgrimage tour. It was just an unknown village nestling in the hills in a turbulent country just about the time when BC became AD. When the eyes of the enemy were focussed on the grand cities, golden palaces and great kings, the event that would have the biggest impact on the world was happening in the shadows.

I wasn’t a major player. I wasn’t the archangel announcing the birth the young girl. I didn’t slip into the troubled dreams of her intended husband bringing reassurance that it was all part of the Plan. I didn’t stir the wise men to travel thousands of miles for the glimpse of a child.

I sang in the choir that night.

There are some events in history that shouldn’t go unmarked. Something so pivotal was about to happen. Maybe it wouldn’t change heaven so much, but life on earth was about to be transformed. How could we not celebrate it?

It was just a small choir. The hosts of heaven yearned to be witnesses, but just a few were chosen. How like the Father not to exclude those that didn’t possess the best voices. I love to sing, but I don’t always hit a pure note.

Singing on earth is so different from singing in heaven. Eternity paints a backdrop that no earthly brush strokes can replicate. The light in heaven seems to catch the music as it floats in the air, bouncing off sound in a prism of colours. The earth with its borrowed light catches nothing. In heaven there is the unity off all the angels joined together in a celebration of worship. On earth no one really hears. Their ears may pick up a sound, but their hearts are deaf.

Tiny pinpricks of light were stapled on a black sky. I have never seen the stars from so far away. We sang the opening phrase.

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favour rests."

Had you been there that night you would have thought earth was silent. Your ears would have heard no response. No loud “Amen’s”. But we could hear creation joining in. There was a melody in the wind that breathed through the trees and laughter in the water gurgling from the spring. The moon softly murmured and joy rippled through the grass. We heard it all. Creation was stirring, as realisation was dawning that soon captivity would be taken captive and freedom was close enough to smell.

A huddle of shepherds and a smattering of sheep were our audience that night. They stared at us, open mouthed, eyes pulled wide in their sockets. They had never seen the likes of us before, or heard the song that we were singing. Such a distance between them and the created world there was that for all their eyes, they could not see, and for all their ears, they could not hear. They couldn’t join in…not yet.

How many songs did we sing? Just the one. The words spelled out an ancient truth. The melody echoed the song of the stars as creation was made in the beginning.

This was a new beginning.

After a thousand years or more why do I return to the same place? My fingers trace the scars of war in the dust and I smell the lingering fragrance of gunpowder in the air. I read headstone after headstone in the cemeteries. I hear the sobbing of families robbed of a father or a brother. There is no laughter in the trees and the spring has long dried up. Disappointment on my tongue has a bitter sting. The world is still enslaved.

Just as I am about to leave, I hear it. Faintly. There is another choir singing our song of peace. Not inside a church, surrounded by stained glass windows and marbled columns, they stand on the corner of a street, a small choir of the Father’s children singing a song of peace to their Muslim neighbours.

I add my voice to theirs and, slowly, ever so slowly, creation joins in.

More Than Mere Dust

“For He knows how we are formed, He remembers that we are dust.”  Psalm 103:14

I have been doing more than a little dabbling in discovering new ways to spend time with God.  They are not really new ways at all, I suppose.  They are old ways that the old saints used that some of us newer saints are finding to be valuable. 

Take for instance the “rhythm of prayer” – choosing to pray at specific times of the day – morning, midday, evening and night, and focusing on particular Bible passages from the Psalms, the gospels or the epistles. It’s not a legalistic thing, but more of a discipline thing.  It doesn’t replace a continual communion between God and me, but it puts into place some times when God can guarantee that I will be listening!

Discipline and I are casual acquaintances.  We have bumped into each other on many occasions.  We are not quite best friends. Someone once told me that if I make “discipline” my friend, one day I will turn around and discover “delight” has joined us. 

Today’s prescribed reading is Psalm 103:1-14.  The aim is to read through the words slowly and allow them to sink in and give the Spirit room to highlight a word, a phrase or a sentence.  I am trying hard not to treat the exercise like an old fashioned Promise Box – picking something out consciously and try to fit it to whatever circumstances I face. 

Psalm 103 is a familiar Psalm.  I can finish off many of the lines without reading.  Some of the lines come with music attached.  There is a plethora of words and phrases for the Spirit to highlight, but He waited till the end sentence.

“He remembers that we are dust.”

“The trouble is,” said God to me, “I remember that you are dust…but all too often you don’t! You think that you are something better than dust.”

Dust doesn’t climb any corporate ladders.  It’s not interested in how much money is in the bank account.  Dust doesn’t wear designer labels or have to have the latest gadgets.  Dust doesn’t compare itself with anyone.  It has no ambition to win or at least not come last in the game of life.

“I remember that you are dust,” said God to me, “and I’m very good with dust…”

“Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” Genesis 2:7

Dust in God’s hand is something more than mere dust.

The Things I See in You

I see in you what I am looking for

A faith convinced that God is there

He turns His ear to every whispered prayer

And you - his name and nature bear

I see in you what I am looking for

A faith that fills your heart with song

To celebrate that you to Him belong

And in your weakness He is strong

I see in you what I am looking for

A faith that laughs at trying days

That thumbs the nose at come-what-mays

And in the battle always, always stays

I see in you what I am looking for

A faith that anchors in the storm

That sings for joy amid the locust swarm

And surrenders to God’s Spirit to transform

I see in you what I am looking for

A faith that lays before God’s mighty throne

All crowns and works of great renown

Content to ever be the Saviour’s own

I see in you what I am looking for

In all your scenes that play across life’s stage

The narrative God writes upon the page

With life in light and shadow you engage

εὐχαριστήσας

“Deep joy is found only at the table of thanksgiving.” Anne Voskamp

Yesterday I was told that Jehovah Witnesses have Communion just once a year.  Even then, most of the congregation don’t take part.  It is something that is reserved for those who are part of the 144,000. 

Communion is a kind of re-enactment of the Last Supper.  The words and actions of Jesus are remembered as the bread and the wine are shared among believers.

“He took some bread and gave thanks to God for it. Then he broke it in pieces and gave it to the disciples, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this to remember me.” Luke 22:19

καὶ λαβὼν ἄρτον εὐχαριστήσας ἔκλασεν καὶ ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς λέγων· Τοῦτό ἐστιν τὸ σῶμά μου τὸ ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν διδόμενον· τοῦτο ποιεῖτε εἰς τὴν ἐμὴν ἀνάμνησιν.

Once upon a time, in my dim and distant past, I knew and spoke a little Greek. The letters were as familiar to me as any other set of letters.  I can even boast that once upon a time, in that same dim and distant past, I had also learned a little Arabic.  I don’t claim to have a gift for languages.  I swiftly forgot both languages when I stopped using them.

I remember enough to know εὐχαριστήσας has something to do with the word we translate as Eucharist.  I grew up in the Roman Catholic Church. Where other churches might celebrate Holy Communion, we celebrated the Eucharist.   The Greek word “Eucharist” means “thanksgiving”.  The “Charis” bit of the word translates as “grace”.

If you are not allowed to participate in communion does that mean that you don’t have the opportunity to give thanks?  Does it also mean that you don’t have the opportunity to receive grace? From what was said by my friend sharing her experience as a Jehovah Witness, before someone introduced her to Jesus, there’s nothing to be thankful about and there is no grace needed. It’s all about how many doors you knock on, how many magazines you hand out and how many Bible studies you initiate.  It’s about meeting a quota.

My friend talked about two boxes in the Kingdom Hall.  One was for offerings.  The other was for service reports – the amount of doors knocked and the conversations you’d had.  40 hours a month minimum was required by the organisation to prove you were a committed member.  How different might our churches be if we committed ourselves to 40 hours witnessing and evangelism a month – not to prove anything, but because the love of God was so strong in us that we just couldn’t help ourselves!

I have been convicted about this thanksgiving and grace thing – this Eucharist thing.  In some churches perhaps they are so worried about communion becoming an empty tradition if done too often that they fall into the trap of not celebrating it often enough!  I am not sure if the early church kept count of times they broke bread together.  Remembering Jesus and expressing their thanks to Him for their salvation was always at the centre of their fellowship.  I think they probably didn’t allow themselves to fall into familiarity with celebrating the Eucharist.  I think they took great care to keep things fresh and vibrant.  They never got tired of saying “Thank you!”

I realised yesterday that I am having a hard time being thankful.  I appear to have fallen into a pattern of picking fault.  I have put myself into the centre of my universe and if things do not fall the way I want them too, I scowl! 

I scowled because a salad I had asked for came with more than half a plate of coleslaw.  I don’t like coleslaw.  I spent my mealtime scraping the mayonnaise off the ham and off the tomatoes.  I’d even said grace before the meal!

The absence of thanksgiving and gratitude robs us of joy. Without joy we are robbed of our capacity to see the things we should be grateful for.

How differently we would all live if we saw the things we should be grateful for and never get tired of saying “Thank you!”