Category: Theology / Spirituality

The Gospel of the Wild Messiah

On By robertalanrifeIn Theology / Spirituality, Words...always wordsLeave a comment

Mark’s gospel reveals an interesting exchange between Jesus and his disciples. This is how he writes it:

“Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi, and on the way he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” 28 And they answered him, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” 29 He asked them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” (Mark 8:27-29).

“Who do the people say that I am?” It seems a rather benign question on the surface. I mean, it’s not as though Jesus hasn’t explained it, lived it, preached and taught it, performed it. Dig a little deeper though and I think we get to the purpose for his question. Anyone could ask a similar question and receive all manner of different responses.

“Oh, he’s so reliable.”

“She’s the sweetest person we know.”

“He’s not to be trusted.”

Jesus was hip to the notion that we are all deeply kaleidoscopic in our essence. Multi-faceted and gloriously chaotic. He was also deeply aware of how easy it is to build a picture of someone on the basis of preconceived ideas, expectations, hopes and dreams, and, especially, one’s personal-cultural lens.

Perhaps the most coopted, controlled, coordinated, compared, and quieted person in history is Jesus of Nazareth. Hang around social media and almost any news source for very long and it becomes immediately apparent that Jesus is everyone’s mascot, lap-dog, meme; he’s the picture on everyone’s individual flag of identity. “We have the real Jesus. They do not.” All of which fail miserably to actually answer Jesus’ question.

Knowing this and with an interest to dig into Jesus more rigorously, more honestly, St James Scottish Episcopal Church in Leith, where we attend and serve, has adopted as its Lenten theme this year: The Gospel of the Wild Messiah. Our aim is to seek out and walk alongside the Jesus we encounter in scripture, in the marketplace, on the margins, in our lives. A wild and prophetic character perfectly embodying love, truth and power.

The following poem by Reverend Jon Swales is our shared meditation. Will you join us as we pursue the untamed, undomesticated Jesus?

The Gospel of the Wild Messiah

He did not come
robed in safety.

He did not come
crowned in gold.

He came
with dust on his sandals,
blood in his future,
and fire in his bones.

Not to keep the peace—
but to break it open.

The penniless preacher
from Nazareth
walks towards the pain,
kneels
where no king kneels,
calls friends
what the world calls waste.

The mission
of the wild messiah
is
madness to the market
and
mercy to the margins.

Here is a man.
Exiled flesh.
Olive skin
cracked
like parched land.

No one hugs lepers.
But he does.
No ritual.
Just reach.

Let the church be like this—
touching
what others avoid.

Body of Christ,
move your hands.

Here is a man.
Dropped
through a broken roof.

They say
his legs are cursed,
but Jesus says,
“Friend.”

Forgiveness
before healing.
Wholeness
before walking.

Let the church be like this—
tearing open ceilings
so mercy
can get in.

Here is a man.
Sworn to Caesar.
A soldier’s posture,
a servant’s pain.

Faith speaks
from strange lips.
Jesus listens.
Heals.

Let the church be like this—
wide-lunged enough
to breathe in
foreign hope.

Here is a woman.
Tears on feet,
perfume in air,
shame in the room.

They call her sinner.
He calls her forgiven.

Let the church be like this—
welcoming the shamed.
Less pointing.
More tears.
Less tally.

Here is a man.
Naked in tombs.
Self-harm
scrawled across skin.

Unclean,
unkempt,
unloved.

Jesus asks one thing:
What’s your name?

And the demons
tremble.

Let the church be like this—
naming the silenced,
holding the haunted.

Here is a woman.
Twelve years of blood.
Invisible
in a crowd.

She dares a touch—
and it stops him.

He says:
“Daughter.”

A word that heals
more
than wounds.

Let the church be like this—
interruptible.
Alive to power
in the unnoticed.

Here is a man.
Short in stature,
tall in corruption.

Collaboration money
stacked
in a crooked house.

Jesus invites himself in.
No lecture.
Just presence.

And something
changes.

Let the church be like this—
hosting grace
before repentance,
feasting
with the fallen.

Here is a man.
Blind
and begging.

Shouting louder
than the crowd’s comfort.

Jesus halts.
Sees
what others pass by.
And lets light in.

Let the church be like this—
attentive
to inconvenient cries.

This is not
a clean gospel.

It smells
of spit and soil,
rupture
and resistance.

It weeps
in alleyways
and whispers
beside beds.

It eats
with the wrong people
and sings
in the dark.

The kingdom
is not far.

It is falling
like a tear
from the face of God.

And still
he walks.

Still
he calls.

Still
he touches
the untouchable
and invites
the forgotten home.

Let the church
be like this.

Let us be
wounded,
wild,
and faithful.

Amen.
And amen again.

Triduum Words – Good Friday

On By robertalanrifeIn Sanctus, Theology / Spirituality, Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

Before God’s last laugh of resurrection, in order to lean more deeply into the narrative of these three days (tri-duum) of promises, communion, mandates of love, betrayal, miscarriage of justice, ignoble death, hollow silence, and dashed hopes, I’ll be posting poetry for each day: Maundy Thursday, “Good” Friday, and Holy Saturday.

Today is called, ironically, “Good” Friday. Obviously, a name given well after-the-fact since no one alive during those days would likely have called it such. Even a quick Google search produced this: “The earliest known use of the term “Good Friday” is found in the South English Legendary, a text from around 1290, where it is written as “guode friday”. While the exact origin is debated, the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) cites this as the earliest evidence.”

However, we have the benefit now of two thousand years of hindsight and written accounts from which to backwards engineer the stunning events of that day. What was macabre became for us something much, much more. Something…good. 

What sounds are these…?

What sounds are these I hear

of sobs and sighing, seering pain of doubt.

If leaves could talk what might they say

of a crying God, a hopeful hopelessness wrapped in trust?

* * *

Raked across an endless heart,

the bursting bastions of familial love

come couched in terms of unsteady prayers, yearning, yet wavering.

One, two, three faltering steps toward full submission to…what?

* * *

“Must it be this way? Must this broken sentence require my full stop?

Let it be but a misstep, a simple error in divine judgment, and a world

hurled into disarray is called back again.

Must you kiss away their pain with my blood on your lips?”

* * *

Daylight friends become nighttime strangers.

Eyelids, heavy with grief, fear and confusion

flutter and fail. Closed and unseeing they become

when sharp and sure is needed most.

* * *

Gruff and groping they march,

crashing through grass, garden and grove,

sniffing and snorting with dark and heavy purpose.

A poisoned kiss stops cold their treading, hateful boots.

* * *

Two cold lips meet two warm cheeks.

Foe, one time friend, greets friend of all foes

and the world holds its breath –

pausing hell’s raucous revelry and heaven’s sonorous singing.

* * *

Ponderous parade of an army and shackled lamb

whisks down backroads to audience with puppets and clowns,

whose dirty, back-room deals deal out kangaroo justice,

promising the untimely sham of caustic, casual connivances.

* * *

Spewing, spitting, spluttering out lies,

the venom of their dalliance denies all place for truth.

And a king receives a pauper’s sentence.

And a pauper refuses a king’s ransom.

* * *

The dam of reason well collapsed

and the hammer of hate posing as justice

falls as teeth, claws and fangs bite deep

tearing open his back. Men flay the skin of God.

* * *

He is dressed in the accoutrements of power

the punch-line of sparring, jousting jokes

fit for fools, bullies and frightened little boys

with big fists and a caged bird.

* * *

His walk of shame, will soon regale his fame

and repeal the petty finagling of men, insane with lust

for blood, and bone and sating their angry palettes

on the sight of sorry sacrifice.

* * *

Bones meant for healing and holding faces in tender embrace

part for fiercer spikes, a government’s answer

to the unanswerable questions posed by a hated God,

whose broken feet stay secured to the place of their forgiveness.

* * *

Now begins, indeed, a most sinister work.

An only child, spurned by a doting Father scorns

the unsearchable pain of eternal loneliness that supercedes

a lesser pain: political torture by tiny men.

* * *

The uncertain winter sky belches forth

her mystifying darkness and the once joyous birdsong

succumbs to a silence, infinitely louder,

dripping with the shame of what shouldn’t have needed to happen.

* * *

Time’s bullseye is set in its fitting of that heaving breast,

gasping for breath, groping for a sorry excuse for waning life.

But oh, what shines forth from such battered spirit:

the alchemy of grace, a gavel strikes with love.

* * *

“It is finished” – such words, by heaven hitherto unspoken,

hang in the air like molecules of exhaled proclamation:

a deed done means another can begin,

and in 3 words, the world is forever changed.

* * *

Carrion collective circles high above,

the smell of death and forbidden dinner ripe in the air.

They, whoring, hope for bits of flesh, hair and bone,

meal of mangy wing-ed mongrels bent on the efforts of others.

* * *

Not so for this diamond, bloodied, limp and alone.

A poor man’s corpse blesses a rich man’s tomb

and scented linens shroud the face of passion

that, for now at least, lie pristine and still.

* * *

Why should such a tale, so swift, so sorrowful

twist itself into our earthly fabric?

How could such shameful chaos perpetrated by pawns

undo the fickle fate of cowards and kings?

* * *

What sounds are these I hear?

They are the mournful sobs of a Mother,

the shameful cries of deserters,

the longing sighs of the dead…

Triduum Words – Maundy Thursday

On By robertalanrifeIn RobsLitBits, Sanctus, Theology / SpiritualityLeave a comment

Before God’s last laugh of resurrection, in order to lean more deeply into the narrative of these three days (tri-duum) of promises, communion, mandates of love, betrayal, miscarriage of justice, ignoble death, hollow silence, and dashed hopes, I’ll be posting poetry for each day: Maundy Thursday, “Good” Friday, and Holy Saturday.

Today is, of course, Maundy (or “mandate”) Thursday and we find ourselves hidden among the twelve with Jesus at table with freshly-washed feet, the command of love still thick in the air, and imminent threat of betrayal.

Hints in a meal of trouble come

Hints in a meal of trouble come,

while bread, still warm, newly broken

abides, hidden securely between teeth

in mouths hungry for more.

Hunger assuaged, 24 clean feet and a single, haunted table.

–

Only crumbs remain,

mixed up and jumbled in pools of spilled wine.

A rumpled table top, tussled

with detritus of a meal, but laughing, flaunting its revelry

through unknowing smiles and the heavy eyelids of sleepy friends.

–

They restfully recline, sashes loosened,

bits of meat trapped in beards,

but not without gnawing whispers of

“what now?” “What next?” “When?” And in their shared memory

of goodness sense not the coming bad; the storm clouds of betrayal.

–

An ominous, stealthy breeze sneaks through the room,

slithering past befuddled hearts

and blows its dark breath from one

whose riskless love cannot match he whose riskily painted love,

soon full-flayed and dying, cannot be matched.

November – A Poem a Day Challenge (4, Day 9)

On By robertalanrifeIn Prayers & Liturgy, Theology / Spirituality, Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

Day 9 –

Lament – A Psalm About Faces

O Lord, God of faces, where now is your face?

And why have you hidden from us your gaze?

Where once we walked together,

now we thrash and reel and hack.

Darkness has become our only ally;

and hopelessness our truest friend.

For those of insolence and hatred rule over us;

the ruthless and ragged become our destroyer.

Therefore, falsehood and lies bind us;

and the absence of truth shackles us.

We have become party with wolves and savages,

those without conscience or care for the poor.

They lash out from behind empty eyes

to oppress the widow and orphan,

the immigrant and the voiceless.

All that is good, pleasing, and right is set aside;

truth and love are traded for lies and hate,

victim to the victimizers.

And through their shame have we become a byword,

a cause for mockery among the nations.

We hear them cry out in the streets,

and moan among the people of injustice against them.

But it is they who are unjust,

with lies have they clothed themselves.

How long, O Lord? How long must we watch our children caged,

and our future torn apart?

How much more treachery must we endure at their hands?

Save us, O God, from their filth;

release us from their grotesque machinations.

Turn your eyes toward us for we are weary and broken;

tearful and confused.

Find a place again among us where all that was good

can again be good; where the darkness again is dark.

Rise up, once more, gracious Lord, and be our protector;

the light behind our eyes,

the light behind our faces;

the face behind all faces.

For we are your people,

and you are our God.

Islands of the Evening – A Review

On By robertalanrifeIn Book Reviews, Theology / Spirituality2 Comments

What follows is my Goodreads review of this book. The amount of eclectic material that crosses my desk and ultimately finds its way to my GR ‘to-read’ pile can feel overwhelming at times, dizzying even. So much of it follows the same old patterns, character and story arcs both predictable and tired, tropes emerging like prairie calf-ruts can leave one wanting more.

In this case, my spirit just drank heaven from a garden hose. This post-evangelical, Celtic mystic sits in dust and ashes akin to a post-coital haze after mounting this treasure of a book (sorry, too much?).

Islands of the Evening: Journeys to the Edge of the World by Alistair Moffat

My rating: 5 of 5 stars (6, but I was only given the option of 5)

I read a lot of books. Fewer than some. More than others. I’ve come to expect certain things – peaks and troughs, mounting action and denouement, savages routed, heroes touted, love lost and regained, bad guys, good guys, undetermined guys; sometimes cliché, sometimes quaint, tropes and gropes and the like all tumbling together to form what eclectic fare has become my Goodreads history.

I’m no literary expert, nor do I pretend to have anything more than a reasonable grasp of specificities or requirements of genre. But I know what I like.

From time to time comes a book so beautifully crafted, so nuanced and unashamed to go to those deeper, unexplainable places of angst and ache, anger and anxiety, passion and purity. Alistair Moffat’s “Islands of the Evening” was, for me, that book. Part memoir, part travel blog, part history and hagiography, Moffat takes one on a truly remarkable journey into Scotland’s distant past. It is carved equally in stone and moss as it is blood and devotion of those “white-martyr” saints intent on braving the elements in pursuit of union with their God.

Perhaps most notable is how powerfully a man who claims no discernible faith or even belief in any God can write about the God he claims not to embrace. I leave this here where you can decide for yourself.

“Even though churches are emptying and prohibitions are being dismantled, there is an enduring consensus across Europe, in the Americas and elsewhere about decency, good behaviour, about what constitutes right and wrong. Overwhelmingly that consensus was formed by the centuries of Christianity. As doctrine and belief evolved, and as far too much blood was spilled, the Church largely formed our morality…the teachings of the Church have been enormously determinant in the operation of a generally accepted code of conduct both in private and public life.”

An atheist wrote this. So, for God’s sake (or yours, whatever), read this beautiful book.

View all my reviews

Thank you, Mr. Lawrence

On By robertalanrifeIn Sanctus, Theology / Spirituality1 Comment

I have a new spiritual director. Her name is Lynn. She is a most perceptive lady, especially given how much I adore poetry. After our most recent spiritual direction session, she was compelled to send me this by way of follow up. Two things: find yourself an anam cara; a professional spiritual director or at least someone you trust to walk with you as you both walk with God. Secondly, look for the sacred in narrative and poetry. Next to creation and sacred writ, it is often the most meaningful manner by which the God of creation speaks to our souls.

So then, Lynn, thanks for listening so attentively.

Thank you, Mr. Lawrence for this poem which has always been a favourite.

Lord, thank you for both!

Adventia – Day 1

On By robertalanrifeIn Adventia Series, 2021, Theology / Spirituality, Waxing Poetic1 Comment

No, the above is not meant as some cheap attempt at a New Joizy accent with the word adventure. I see it more as the amalgamation of Advent and Fragmentia: a place where the illumination of God’s in-breaking into our world found in the Advent narratives unites with the fragments of literature and faith and life seeking to bring us to deeper understanding of it all.

Advent is upon us once more. With it comes a barrage of books and practices all aimed at helping us get the most from the experience. My choice this year is to ride someone else’s coattails. Am I just too lazy to think of anything original? Maybe. To be honest, I just like the approach taken by someone I follow on Instagram – #realpoetsdaily 

So then, that is what I am doing for Advent…what they’re doing. I’ll post here but redirect you always back to their site. I give you, Advent, day 1.

“It’s the first Sunday in Advent, and like last year I plan on posting a poem for every day of Advent, and then for ever day of Christmas. Here is “First Sunday” by Sally Thomas (@sallytnnc).

8

On By robertalanrifeIn Theology / Spirituality, Waxing Poetic, Words...always words3 Comments

Some of my favourite poetry is that which wrestles, dances with the rich imagery at work in the Bible. It doesn’t preach. It simply tells a story. It helps us picture what the original authors might have been aiming for. This is a poem written as part of a homework assignment for a theology course I’m taking.

It plays around a bit with Psalm 8. Let’s dance. It’s always God’s idea.

8

God, you have scattered your way

among stars, heaped about in the easy

wonders of your winking eye.

Our small and stuttered stance, hands

perched on brows, we squint against

the brilliance and tuck our ignorance

inside curiosity, piqu’d at your

grand and noble gesture.

We shine bright inside your shadow.

From there, at your behest, we are noblesse oblige.

It is in the suppler clay of faces you

do your best work –

the weary eyes of fawning mothers,

the stretching yawns of nipple-fed wains,

tossed high by fathers and friends,

and high school herds, stalwart tribes

trumpeting tales of borrowed conquest.

Foe, fallow-field, and fission –

all made from the same stuff.

What careless shrug dares dismiss so noble a kiss?

Who would think it wise to cork this wine

so ably poured from heaven’s fire?

God, you have scattered

my way among stars.

February 14, 2021 ©Robert A. Rife

Viral Dailies, Day 20

On By robertalanrifeIn Guest Bloggers, National Poetry Month, Theology / Spirituality, Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

Our National Poetry Month/#poetryinisolation initiative continues apace. Today belongs to Christine Valters-Paintner. Christine is our online abbess at Abbey of the Arts. 

On the Abbey website (which you are hitherto strongly urged to frequent and muck about in!) we read the following:

“The Abbey is a virtual global online monastery offering pilgrimages, online classes & retreats, reflections, and resources which integrate contemplative spiritual practice and creative expression with monastic spirituality. We support you in becoming a monk in the world and an artist in everyday life. We believe in nourishing an earth-cherishing consciousness. We are an open and affirming community and strive to be radically inclusive.”

What follows is a most encouraging piece that gives full-throated praise to those who deserve it most, those who have stood in the gap, and the God whose expansive grace envelopes all, especially during suffering.

Watch. Listen. Pause. Pray. Rinse. Repeat…

Praise Song for the Pandemic

_____________________________________________________________________________

Get to know Christine through the many rich spiritual resources available on her virtual monastery page, including prayer resources for the pandemic.

She has two books out this year. This one.

41yF1SlUxFL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And a collection of poems.

Wisdom-of-Wild-Grace-COVER.jpg

Thanks for all you do among us, Christine, to help shape the artist monk within!