Coming to the City Nearest You

Palm Sunday, 29th of March 2026!

Jesus comes to Jerusalem, the city nearest you.
Jesus comes to the gate, to the synagogue,
to houses prepared for wedding parties,
to the pools where people wait to be healed,
to the temple where lambs are sold,
to gardens, beautiful in the moonlight.
He comes to the governor’s palace.

Jesus comes to Jerusalem, the city nearest you,
to new subdivisions and trailer parks,
to penthouses and basement apartments,
to the factory, the hospital and the Cineplex,
to the big box outlet centre and to churches,
with the same old same old message,
unchanged from the beginning of time.

Jesus comes to Jerusalem, the city nearest you
with his Good News and…
Hope erupts! Joy springs forth!
The very stones cry out,
“Hosanna in the highest,
blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
The crowds jostle and push,
they can’t get close enough!
People running alongside 
flinging down their coats before him!
Jesus, the parade marshal, waving, smiling.
The paparazzi elbow for room,
looking for that perfect picture for the headline,
“The Man Who Would Be King”.

May we dream of a world made new

May we dream of a world made new,

Where together we shout for justice,

And as one we fight against oppression.

May we dream of a world made new,

Where together we seek God’s righteousness

And as one we sing God’s praise.

 

May we dream of a world made new,

Where together we climb God’s mountain,

And as one we enter the promised land.

May we dream of a world made new,

Where together we proclaim the good news of God’s kingdom,

And as one we enjoy its peace, and abundance and love.

Source: Christine Sine’s God-space website

Dear Vascoe, Leunig

Pentecost Fire

Unless the eye catch fire,
The God will not be seen.

Unless the ear catch fire
The God will not be heard.

Unless the tongue catch fire
The God will not be named.

Unless the heart catch fire,
The God will not be loved.

Unless the mind catch fire,
The God will not be known.

William Blake (1757-1827) from Pentecost

ARRIVING LATE

We arrived late at Pentecost,

after the fun was over,

Peter’s sermon finished,

the baptisms completed,

and the minutes written.

What was there left?

Let this be recorded

for any who, as they read,

employ their ears

as much as their eyes:

We found a communal Gift,

priceless yet free

in that heartwood where

the Carpenter had carved

a vacant space.

This Gift we found

filling that Christ-hollow

(at the end of the day

when the curious had gone

home to their boredom)

Was the Soul of love;

not the old stuff, hedged

with conditions and exemptions,

but a new joy-love ready

to embrace the world.

                                            

Source: B D Prewer 2002

THE ROAD TO EMMAUS

It’s not the friendliest of villages, Emmaus,
the people parochial, as desert people are,
bound up in the herding and bartering of beasts,
the vines on its terraces encumbered with thorns,
the children in the market roasting a sparrow,
hardly the place to expect revelation,
if revelation’s the word – I leave that to you.

Not that we’d never believed, my partner and I,
not that, but leaving Jerusalem on business,
with news of the death, or perhaps I should say
the absence among us of someone like a God,
we felt at a loss, and not a little diminished,
and talk as we may, of covenants and creeds,
our thoughts came round to the prices of wool,
the bundles of raisins and dates in our panniers.

The Journey Of The Magi | T.S. Elliott

This next Monday (6 January) marks the feast of Epiphany. Epiphany is a feast celebrating the 'shining forth' or revelation of God to mankind in human form, in the person of Jesus Christ. The observance had its origins in the eastern Christian church, and included the birth of Jesus Christ; the visit of the Magi (traditionally Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar) who arrived in Bethlehem; and all of Jesus' childhood events, up to his baptism in the Jordan by John the Baptist. The feast was initially based on (and viewed as a fulfillment of) the Jewish Feast of Lights. This was fixed on January 6.

T.S. Elliott wore an interesting poem reflecting on the journey of the Magi to Bethlehem:

Happy New Year!

“ I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year
'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.'

And he replied, 'Go into the darkness
and put your hand into the hand of God
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way!'

So I went forth and finding the Hand of God
Trod gladly into the night
He led me towards the hills
And the breaking of day in the lone East.

So heart be still!
What need our human life to know,
If God hath comprehension?

In all the dizzy strife of things
Both high and low,
God hideth his intention ..."

Many of us will have heard the above words at some time in our life, written by Minnie Louise Haskins in 1908. Much later to become famous by King George VI reading it as part of his first Christmas message to the nation at the start of the Second World War.

At the start of this new, uncertain and unfathomed year, may your hand remain in the hand of God!

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

And we are the dreamers of dreams

When power leads us toward arrogance, poetry reminds us of our limitations. When power narrows the areas of a person's concern, poetry reminds us of the richness and diversity of our existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve

as the touchstone of our judgment.

 John F. Kennedy - Address, 

Amherst College, October 26, 1963 

We are the music-makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;

World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world forever, it seems.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy

The Hill We Climb.

"The Hill We Climb" is a spoken word poem written by American poet Amanda Gorman and recited by her at the inauguration of Joe Biden in Washington, D.C., on January 20, 2021. 

The poem was written in the weeks following the 2020 United States presidential election, with significant passages written on the night of January 6, 2021, in response to the storming of the United States Capitol. Gorman was twenty-two years old when she recited the poem, making her the youngest inaugural poet ever.

The poem was written to call for "unity and collaboration and togetherness" among the American people and emphasise the opportunity that the future holds.

The Hill We Climb, by Amanda Gorman

When day comes we ask ourselves,

where can we find light in this never-ending shade?

The loss we carry,

a sea we must wade

We’ve braved the belly of the beast

We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace

And the norms and notions

of what just is

Isn’t always justice

And yet the dawn is ours

before we knew it

Somehow we do it

Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed

a nation that isn’t broken

but simply unfinished

We shall not cease ...

 

From T.S. Elliot's Four Quartets. See HERE for whole poem.

“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

Blessing in a Time of Violence

Image: Holy Even in Pain © Jan Richardson

Which is to say

this blessing

is always.

Which is to say

there is no place

this blessing

does not long

to cry out

in lament,

to weep its words

in sorrow,

to scream its lines

in sacred rage.

Which is to say

there is no day

this blessing ceases

to whisper

into the ear

of the dying,

the despairing,

the terrified.

Which is to say

there is no moment

this blessing refuses

to sing itself

into the heart

of the hated

and the hateful,

the victim

and the victimizer,

with every last

ounce of hope

it has.

Which is to say

there is none

that can stop it,

none that can

halt its course,

none that will

still its cadence,

none that will

delay its rising,

none that can keep it

from springing forth

from the mouths of us

who hope,

from the hands of us

who act,

from the hearts of us

who love,

from the feet of us

who will not cease

our stubborn, aching

marching, marching

until this blessing

has spoken

its final word,

until this blessing

has breathed

its benediction

in every place,

in every tongue:

Peace.

Peace.

Peace.

Source: Jan Richardson: This blessing appears in Jan’s latest book, The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief.

The Set of the Sail

 

A song to sing

We Are the Music-Makers

We are the music-makers, 

And we are the dreamers of dreams, 

Wandering by lone sea-breakers, 

And sitting by desolate streams. 

World-losers and world-forsakers, 

Upon whom the pale moon gleams; 

Yet we are the movers and shakers, 

Of the world forever, it seems. 

With wonderful deathless ditties 

We build up the world's great cities, 

And out of a fabulous story 

We fashion an empire's glory: 

One man with a dream, at pleasure, 

Shall go forth and conquer a crown; 

And three with a new song's measure 

Can trample an empire down. 

We, in the ages lying 

In the buried past of the earth, 

Built Nineveh with our sighing, 

And Babel itself with our mirth; 

And o'erthrew them with prophesying 

To the old of the new world's worth; 

For each age is a dream that is dying, 

Or one that is coming to birth.

By Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy (1844 – 1881). British poet

Mary on Easter Morning

We were weighed down, walking to the tomb.

We knew the way, for we had 

walked it two days before.

We had followed Joseph of Arimathea 

and his servant,

down the hill from Golgatha,

their arms straining with the 

dead weight of Jesus’ body.

We saw where they laid him, how they 

wrapped him in linen.

We saw their shoulders pushing that stone in place,

the sound of it grinding shut.

And though our eyes streamed tears

we marked the place,

for we knew we would come back.

And on the first day of the week,

we came, arms full of aromatic oil and spices;

cinnamon, cassia, myrrh.

All our resources pooled in a fragrant offering,

one last service for Jesus.

We walked the dark path,

the sky just beginning to lighten.

What we saw in the semi-darkness

was not the closed tomb we had expected,

but a gaping hole!

Alarmed, we looked inside,

seeing that Jesus’ body was gone.

Someone had been there before us.

How could this be?

Grave robbers?

Some final act of blasphemy against our Saviour?

Had Pilate changed his mind,

and was Jesus’ corpse now hanging 

somewhere for all to see?

I dropped all I was carrying and ran to find the other disciples.

Peter and John came racing back,

entering the tomb:

Jesus was not there.

I stood with them, our hands on the giant stone,

confusion written on our faces.

They left, but I remained, gathering up all those spices,

my tears dropping on the ground,

would this suffering never end?

I turned and looked again in the tomb,

but this time, there was not darkness, but light!

Two angels sitting where Jesus’ body should be;

and they asked me why I was weeping!

Why was I weeping?

And then another man, the gardener,

suddenly there behind me,

also asking about my tears.

All I wanted was Jesus’ body,

so I could do what I came here for,

mourn properly, anoint him with these spices in my arms.

“Where is Jesus, tell me if you know!” I cried.

And then he said my name, and I suddenly recognized him.

Jesus! Not dead, not cold, not lifeless, not gone forever!

Jesus, alive, before me, talking, looking in my eyes!

My heart about stopped as I reached out to hold him,

to see if he was real, touchable, Jesus in the flesh.

He talked of My God and Your God,

and suddenly it was real to me.

It was not God far away, not God not listening,

but God present, God doing impossible things,

God making morning miracles out of death’s darkness.

Jesus asked me to go and tell the others.

I threw the spices on the ground,

(no need of them now!) and I started running,

my feet moving faster than they’ve ever moved.

beautiful with good news,

I have seen the Lord!

I have seen the Lord!

Source: Carol Penner

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.

ONLY ONE

Only one king comes to our town

not in a Rolls Royce or BMW with police bikes all around, 

but bareback on a runt of a donkey,
like a comedian, feet brushing the ground.

Only one high priest comes to our church
not led by bishops and cardinals
rich-robed with religious sentiment,
but led by a grubby gang of street kids
screaming their heads off with merriment.

Only one god comes down our street
not surrounded by holy angels
or shining like the sun at noon,
but with tears running down his cheeks
for those who play the devil’s tune.

Only one true-man comes along this way
never looking to be served
or honoured with public praise,
but to serve and give his life
as a ransom for rebels and strays.

© B D Prewer 2001