And Jesus Will be Born

Christ Child by Mike Chapman | Outside St Martins-in-the-Fields

This poem was taken from the December 2014 letter by British author Adrian Plass.It can be found in full on his website.

".... Crucially, there always was, always is, always will be Jesus, not just at Christmas time, but at every time and in every place where shadows threaten and sadness falls like a cloak, and failure seems inevitable. Over and over again, from now until the end of time, Jesus will be born...."

On Christmas day, the world will turn again towards its end

But Jesus will be born

A woman who has tried once more in vain to re-create the morning

Will find her spirit crushed at last by failures and defeats

Her grief will trail like tattered ribbons

Through apocalyptic streets

And Jesus will be born

A little child who cannot waste his tiny reservoir of moisture

On a thing as purely pointless as a tear

Will puzzle at the burning skies

Blank and empty as his mother's eyes

And wish beyond the point of fear

That darkness would descend

And Jesus will be born

And in some cold, sad cell a man will dream of blessed ordinariness

A walk, a meal, a smile, a book, the chance to feel

A trusting hand in his

Small and soft and folded like a flower in the night

Devastating innocence that promises redemption and has never lied

But will not save him from the morning and the hour

When heavy boots come marching down the corridor outside

And Jesus will be born

And in a hollow church a hollow priest

Dry and dusty as some jeweled chalice locked away for safety and for ever

Will sit and sigh and gather oddments, scraps of truth

Remnants of an old, forgotten dream

Ideas and words like autumn leaves made brittle by a year of death

And by the scorching summer sun

And feel once more so glad, and oh, so very, very sad

That those who delicately brush his sprinkled fragments from their Sunday-best

Will never hear the distant, panic-stricken scream

And Jesus will be born

At the corner of the street the image of the living God

Will hug herself against the cold

And smoke a friendly cigarette

And be prepared to greet success with weary resignation

Feebly lit by one of yesterday's recycled smiles

And struggle to forget what she was told

When someone was in charge and choices could be made

And there was hope

And Jesus will be born

Jesus will be born, yes he will

Though the night enfolds like a black shroud

And the liar's lies drive us from our peace

And take us from our beds

And bring us to our knees

On the cold stone tiles of the kitchen floor

Jesus will be born, yes he will

Yes, though the skies crack

And the heavens sway

And the heat dies in the earth's core

And the last stitch in the last ditch appears

When all is lost

A child's hand will reach out from the manger

A wounded hand will catch our tears and hold them safe

For Jesus will be born for evermore on Christmas day

“Worry” by Adrian Plass

No burglars came again last night

Just as they failed to come the night before,

and for all the nights I can remember

No burglars yet again although I listened, 

as I always do, for them 

Once more they did not oil and ease 

the rusty bolt that holds the garden gate

Behind the shed beside the house 

Nor did I hear them moving in the yard

at some hear-sobbing wretched hour.

It was the ticking of a clock upon my wall. 

That sounded like the pad of evil steps a hundred feet away. 

They did not creep inside, their blind-from-birth brutality 

reduced to stealth and whispers

They did not stand above me. 

Were not there with threats and ugly promises, 

intoxicated by the scent of fear incontinent 

Nor did they then, with weapons 

that I meekly placed into their hands, 

proceed to sever from my chilled insides the screaming child 

who has evaded birth for so long now. 

They did not not come

They were not there again last night.

And what if they should never come?

Such a waste of nights

I might have slept

But if I had, I feel quite sure

They would have come

Those burglars – oh, yes, they would have come. 

From “Silences and Nonsenses – Collected Poetry, Doggerel, and Whimsy” by Adrian Plass. Published 2010 by Authentic Media

What do we do about Death?

What do we do about Death?

by Adrian Plass

What do we do about death? 

We don’t -
The monster is hidden away.
It's not in the zoo for the public to view
The look on its face would empty the place.
We don’t want to die, the people would cry
Death is the curse in the back of the hearse
We don’t need to see it today.

What do we do about death?
We don’t -
We shovel it under the ground
Under the sod and hope there’s a God
Whose principles bend at the bitterest end
Or we burn it away, and whispering say
Death is the scream at the end of the dream
There isn’t a lonelier sound.

What do we do about death?
We don’t -
We don’t even give it a name
He’s gone before to a distant shore
She’s passed away, we gloomily say,
He’s fallen asleep in a terminal heap.
Death is the spear that is poisoned with fear
It pierces the heart of the game.

What do we do about death?
We don’t -
But once in the angry sun
A winner was slain at the center of pain
When a battle was fought at the final resort
But because of the cross it was fought without loss
And death is knife that will free us for life
Because of what Jesus has done.

Adrian Plass, in An Alien at St Wilfred's, 1992.

It is finished

It is finished.



Finished?



Is it?



I don't think so,


Not until the funny little woman on the Friday bus

Means more to me than I do to myself


Not until I read aright the message in your pain filled eyes


That I must take the ones you loved and left behind


To live with me as my responsibility


Not until I freely place my stock of cherished certainties


Like sad surrended weapons at your injured feet


Not until the public and the private faces 

Of my troubled Christianity


Can meet, and know they recognized each other when they met


Not until I know the names of more than half the people in my street


Finished?


No, I don't think so. 

Not yet.



By Adrian Plass


(Sourced from here)

The Real Problem

This is a poem written by Adrian Plass and it’s called “The Real Problem” and can
be found in his book: "Clearing Away The Rubbish". 

It’s written from a child's point of view of their Christian parents:

Sunday is a funny day,

It starts with lots of noise.

Mummy rushes round with socks,

And Daddy shouts,‘You boys!’

Then Mummy says, ‘Now don’t blame them,

You know you’re just as bad,

You’ve only just got out of bed,

It really makes me mad!’

My mummy is a Christian,

My daddy is as well,

My Mummy says, ‘Oh, heavens!’

My daddy says, ‘Oh, hell!’

And when we get to church at last,

It’s really very strange,

‘Cos Mum and Dad stop arguing,

And suddenly they change.

A PRAYER FOR TIMES OF DESPERATION

Heavenly father, the scaffolding of my faith seems to be collapsing around me.

The person that I find inside does not impress me.

Has it all gone? Have you gone? What am I to do?

The advice from many is that you still love me, and that I must continue to have faith even when everything is falling apart.

Heavenly Father, advice is not the same as relationship.

I cannot pretend that love fills me when it simply does not.

I don’t want to rely on scaffolding any more.

I want you.

I want my life with you to be close and warm and genuine.

I’m reaching out to you now. Meet me in my fear and brokenness.

I need the real you now in a way that I never really understood before.

Thank you for listening.

Thank you for Jesus.

Amen. 

SOURCE: Adrian Plass, 2020 https://adrianplass.com 

“Worry” by Adrian Plass

Worry can devour us because it's all about  tomorrow and tomorrow is outside our control. It's about the 'What if?' that may never come. Worry saps our hope and weakens our resolve. The Bible says: "... Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you...". 1 Peter 5:7

Adrain Plass captures it vividly:

 No burglars came again last night
Just as they failed to come the night before,
and for all the nights I can remember
No burglars yet again although I listened,
as I always do, for them

Once more they did not oil and ease
the rusty bolt that holds the garden gate
Behind the shed beside the house
Nor did I hear them moving in the yard
at some hear-sobbing wretched hour.

It was the ticking of a clock upon my wall.
That sounded like the pad 

of evil steps a hundred feet away.

They did not creep inside, 

their blind-from-birth brutality
reduced to stealth and whispers
They did not stand above me.

Were not there with threats and ugly promises,
intoxicated by the scent of fear incontinent
Nor did they then, with weapons
that I meekly placed into their hands, 

proceed to sever from my chilled insides 

the screaming child
who has evaded birth for so long now.

They did not not come
They were not there again last night.
And what if they should never come?

Such a waste of nights
I might have slept
But if I had, I feel quite sure
They would have come
Those burglars – oh, yes, they would have come.

And Jesus will be Born

On 16 December 2014, six gunmen affiliated with the Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) conducted a terrorist attack on the Army Public School in the northwestern Pakistani city of Peshawar. The militants entered the school and opened fire on school staff and children, killing 149 people including 132 schoolchildren, ranging between eight and eighteen years of age making it the world's fourth deadliest school massacre.

English writer and poet Adrian Plass reflects:

Yes, Christmas is coming, and the hash wind of terrorism has blown no good at all to over a hundred children and teachers in the faraway land of Pakistan. We know some people from Peshawar. Their hearts must be breaking. The people who instigated and planned this atrocity could have spent a very pleasant evening comparing notes with King Herod two thousand years ago.

Yes, you’re right. The only way to solve the problem. Crush it before it becomes even more of a threat. Destroy the children. Make sure they don’t grow up to become heralds of independence and goodwill and equal opportunities and life as it was always meant to be lived. Strew their bleeding bodies around so that the others will get the message. Show them that in the end, we are the ones who are going to win.’

Actually, they are not going to win. Herod failed to destroy Jesus, the heart of love and hope, and, despite hammering that unresisting body to a piece of wood, nor did those who conspired to bring about his destruction.  Love and hope will always be resurrected, no matter how many times mankind tries to crucify them. There will always be another Mulala, standing bravely before the entire world, her only weapons a desire for peace, and a quiet determination that evil can snarl and sneer all it wants, but it will never see victory.   

  Crucially, there always was, always is, always will be Jesus, not just at Christmas time, but at every time and in every place where shadows threaten and sadness falls like a cloak, and failure seems inevitable. Over and over again, from now until the end of time, Jesus will be born.