Mirky Miry Mirth ... or ... M A J E S T Y !

Do I love it?
Should I hate it?
Should I love it?
Do I hate it?

I really have to get over Christmas! Or, just maybe I don't. Maybe there is someplace in between.

What ever the case, I need to come to that settled place of contentment believing that The Lord of the Universe has the birth of his Son in his wise hands, and that he will continue to do so no matter what crap is thrown at it, at Him.

My restrained rant on searching for the meaning of Christmas amid the chaos goes some way in exposing my heart-felt concern about how popular culture (allegedly) celebrates the birth of Jesus the Christ.

My principal concern is that Jesus' birth has been reframed: it happens in Tinsel Town, in the world of Vomitus Maximus. Basically, in my opinion, the broadly recognisable Christmas of today finds its soul more in a rotting after-birth than in the Person. Simply, Jesus is not found there and I shouldn't think he will be found there anytime at all.

In reality, this is nothing new to God and shouldn't be to me. The death knell of the lie that started long ago in The Garden continues to ring unabated, and the stench of the many breaths that continue to breathe that same lie, in its myriad of forms, burns the nostrils of God and of those who reject its adulterations. The cacophonous peel of chrissy bells strips the world of the peace it so desperately needs because the One born the Prince of Peace is kept hidden from view.

I need, indeed we all need, to see Jesus as He is, as he lived, died and rose again. We need to see Him, as He is revealed to us by God, in all His fullness, power and authority. And we need to share with those around us all that he gives us through seeing only Him. To be sure, His robes of glory and majesty will immeasurably out shine anything the world offers in its continuing catatonic state, now seasonally adorned in the red and white vestments of a Christless Christmas.

My task, as I now view it from this Christmas Day 2004, and I hope it will be yours too, is to allow myself to be immersed in and blessed by the heart-truth of Jesus’ coming, and of his eternal omni-presence, and not have my feelings smothered by all the mirth of, what in truth is, a "Very Murky Miry Crass Mess".

For those who worship the Son in Spirit and in Truth may the blessings of the eternal One be your inheritance. For those who do not yet know the Son those same blessings are available to all who believe. Don't delay.

Glory to God in the Highest!
Amen.

Wolfgang - Circular Quay, Sydney

At about 3pm today I had the pleasure of meeting a tourist from Germany, in Starbuck's on Sydney Harbour. It isn't really circular but that's another story.

This story, just a brief one, is to acknowledge a new friend, one whom I may never see again, simply because that is the nature of space and time and other global factors beyond our control. While I was a three-hour drive from home, Wolfgang is world traveler and half-a-world away from his most familiar surroundings and his family. He is also a keeper of journal. Ahhh, a man after my own heart, I thought as I glimpsed him writing while seated alone at a small table lit by an overcast Aussie sky, looking out onto the concourse at Circular Quay.

He graciously welcomed me as I invited myself to the table and sunk back into the 44-gallon lounge seats. We talked about his journal and his life, of 'back home' and more, but only ever so briefly in just 40 minutes. We discussed the importance of good relationships, of those beloved by us but no longer here with us, of tragedy and love, of bubbles and the union of two souls, of hanging-on for the sake of those we love, of kids and family, of what happens next August after he returns to that familiar front door, and of not being a slave to a job.

At a cursory level we had a pick and a poke at traveling across Africa, Mauritius, mathematical formulae and harmony, symmetry and chaos, and other 'light' topics obviously so good for conversation anytime -- try them sometime.

We also spoke about our writing: like how to get what we feel onto the paper; different ways of expression; poetry and prose. I can't read German (except for the word, "Cappuccino", which is universal I suppose), but his travel journal that he showed me was so neatly written. It was a beautiful volume, the second of two covering his journey thus far, the first he had already posted home. They are two, of many I am sure, some family treasures in the making.

Wolfgang is a gentleman and I am honoured to have met him. I only wish we had more time to talk and think about life and the many, many questions that arise.

Thank you, new friend, you have enriched my life. I will be thinking of you and I pray for your safe return to the family you love.

Peter

Where Eagles Soar

After a night of restless sleep I arose early and the dawn greeted me with an amazing rainbow. It was to the north so prominent, standing majestically in the valley about 10 kilometres away. I had always thought you could only ever see a rainbow if you were standing with your back to the sun, more or less, but the Lord, He who created the heavens and the earth, showed me differently.

The blaze of glory was only the start of the bow, yet complete in itself. It stood there as a sentinel of grace, the Lord's very own brilliantly light sign post. For about five minutes I was watching, intently, seeing it grow as it struck higher into the sky and reached down and signed the ground where its fingers touched the soil, just beyond the hill.

In truth, the Lord was greeting me with his rainbow in his dawn. He reminds me of his covenants of preservation and redemption. Who else can see this, I mused? Who else will think of Him and his promises? My hope is that many would and that they would give thanks and praise him for all his works of providence. I am learning for the first time, as he teaches me through this beautiful gift of light, that the rainbow can lead us all to all of his covenants of grace.

Later, still a bit hung-over from that night's sleeplessness, I sat at my usual spot to read and meditate. But my mind was foggy and the best thing I could come up with was, "I just want to love you, Lord." And I lifted my eyes to the hills and the first thing I saw was a hawk soaring in the sky.

And again He greeted me, for He and I have a thing going with hawks, falcons and eagles... and rainbows. Again he reminded me of our relationship and what his desire is for me, and for all those that love him, for all those who are willing to listen and believe that he has promised to give us all life in all its fullness. We simply have to ask and believe who He is, the Lord of the Universe, and he will freely give, just like he did with the rainbow.

And Wear Your Socks Too

Some poems are like splinters
you either get them or you don't.
Some splinters are like poems
you either get them or you don't.
No one invites those splinters;
and but a few invite a poem.

Some poems are like splinters.
They pierce you where
and when you least expect it,
and niggle at your nerve
in that most sensitive place.

Some splinters are like poems.
They poke at your humanity
in their own way,
and let you know you're alive
in your own way;
Yes, even that bit there.

Who ever read a splinter and said
"I liked that, It meant a lot to me"?
Who ever pulled a poem, and said,
"I don't need that in my face"?

Still we keep reading
and finding ourselves,
even just a bit at a time,
even those bits
we never thought we had.

Or perhaps those others
we thought we'd secreted away,
long gone, supposedly
dead and buried.
until they got splinter stuck.

It's so weird walking on bare
unpolished poetry
with just my socks on....
Just like those bare floor boards
the ones that give me the heeby-geebies --
the ones that grab and pull at me
and make me shiver right up my spine
and tingle the back of my head.

Better the splintery boards, I figure,
than to walk on the firey coals
of mindless indifference.
Dead meat knows no pain.
It just stinks; it fouls the air.

Some poems ......
Yes, some poems....
.... some splinters....
and some boards.
Best that I keep reading.
Come, join me,
and wear your socks too.

Oh Really! Is That So?

Doors slamming around me
Feet stomping on floors
Arms flaying about
People in fits of anger
Parade in chariots of hateful bigotry
Greased by misinformed minds
Reigned only by bloody-mindedness.

As they vent their insidious rage
And broadcast their discontent
And spread their insipid bitterness
And spew their venom into wounds
And gather armies of followers
To raise their fists to fight
And draw their guns to kill.

They shatter the peace
And shake the portals
Of a house once at ease.

Why?