Haiku for Easter

 

The tomb's emptiness

Haiku without limits

The tomb’s emptiness,

underlined by an earthquake.

Still confounding us.

Two faithful women,

don’t need spices as a prop,

visiting the tomb.

Its all a bit much!

An angel is sent to clear

away confusion.

The stone has been rolled

and the guards have all fainted.

Do not be afraid!

Instructions follow.

Come and see, then go and tell:

Your Lord has been raised!

Fear mixes with joy,

strangeness and uncertainty.

What are we to think?

Suddenly he’s here.

Do not fear! Go, tell my friends

We will meet again.

© Ken Rookes 2020

Sunday. The first Day

Sunday. The first day.

Haiku for upending

Sunday. The first day.

The sun returns from beyond;

light chases darkness.

They come to the tomb,

the women, aching, faithful,

to honour their friend.

Bringing their spices

they come to prepare his corpse;

their duty of love.

The stone had been moved.

The open entrance calls them;

Come, see my surprise!

The tomb is empty,

His broken body is gone,

spirited away.

Two men, shining bright

in robes that dazzle the eyes,

come and address them.

Why look in a tomb?

The one you seek is alive!

Remember his words.

The women returned,

(there were at least five of them),

but they weren’t believed.

Peter, however,

wanted to see for himself,

and ran to the tomb.

Only the grave-clothes

were there to be seen. Peter

returned home, amazed.

A tomb that’s empty,

a man no longer present:

should we doubt or hope?

How shall we respond

to this story of wonder,

and to he who lives?

© Ken Rookes 2019

On Belief in the Physical Resurrection of Jesus

On Belief in the Physical Resurrection of Jesus
by Denise Levertov

It is for all
'literalists of the imagination,'
poets or not,
that miracle
is possible and essential.
Are some intricate minds
nourished on concept,
as epiphytes flourish
high in the canopy?
Can they
subsist on the light,
on the half
of metaphor that's not
grounded in dust, grit,
heavy
carnal clay?
Do signs contain and utter,
for them
all the reality
that they need? Resurrection, for them,
an internal power, but not
a matter of flesh?
For the others,
of whom I am one,
miracles (ultimate need, bread
of life,) are miracles just because
people so tuned
to the humdrum laws:
gravity, mortality-
can't open
to symbol's power
unless convinced of its ground,
its roots
in bone and blood.
We must feel
the pulse in the wound
to believe
that 'with God
all things
are possible,'
taste
bread at Emmaus
that warm hands
broke and blessed.

The Sabbath had passed

Haiku of hope and celebration.

The sabbath had passed,

here they come with tearful eyes

to tend his body.

Three of the women,

bring their spices to the tomb

along with their love.

The sun had risen,

the darkness was at its end:

lots of metaphors.

Of the entrance stone

they questioned each other: Who

will roll it away?

The tomb was open,

the stone already rolled back!

Nothing to stop them!

Entering the tomb

there is nothing to be seen;

at least no body.

A man, dressed in white

with his most puzzling words;

Do not be alarmed!

Jesus? He’s not here.

There is the place they laid him;

he’s been raised to life.

Go inform his friends!

The women flee in terror

and keep their mouths shut.

© Ken Rookes

He came, touched by God.

Haiku for those who dare to hope

He came, touched by God,

sharing human pain and death;

brushing us with love.

The aching sadness.

He's gone, along with our hopes.

Can life endure death?

The promise of life,

our hearts strong with excitement,

crashing to the earth.

We weep for ourselves

as we shed our tears for him;

lifeless in the tomb.

Is anything left

from the storehouse of his life?

Was it for nothing?

A few words remain

from his wisdom and stories;

let us remember.

Surely not the end!

Darkness, hatred and fear

must never prevail.

Dawn's radiant light

confronts insistent darkness;

will it overcome?

We have heard rumours,

we want to believe they're true,

that somehow he lives.

Go on, look within

for the resurrection glow;

incandescent love.

© Ken Rookes 2017

An Anzac day challenge

"...So we may ask, as we gather within earshot of the ANZAC commemorations, which story are we to tell now?

Poet Wilfred Gibson says:

We are to ‘feel the heartbreak in the heart of things.’

This takes us to Detention Centres – that is prisons - to our north, the deep fear in many Australians of invasion, as permission to treat people seeking asylum badly. We must make the connection between those fleeing their homes and the war in Syria – as happened for people in Afghanistan and Iraq. Be angry at the waste.

Isn’t it is time for congregations Sunday by Sunday, as a matter of conscience, to heed the call to civil disobedience? Faced with years of imprisonment and large fines, we must act together, shaping a renewed ecumenical movement, welcoming our sisters and brothers from distant lands.  

Isn’t it time for us to warn politicians that our actions can put us outside the faith: as we do violence so we become an opponent of the Gospel.

Isn’t is necessary for us to hear the story of the First Peoples of this Land. Especially we who benefit from the invasion, with violence and deaths.

  

It is urgent for us to appreciate and celebrate the rich culture at the heart of this Land and its First Peoples; broken, yet in surprising ways, finding new life. Joining together with joy.

If we forget our story we no longer know who we are.

That is why we have listened to Scripture today, sung hymns, prayed, lit candles – and why we have donned our ecclesial uniform of servant’s clothes and the fiery red of the Spirit.

We are invited into a ‘counter’ story: a remembering that resists the drive to conflict and fear.

... 

He conscripts for life. And gives us a story to tell us who we are.

So don’t be fooled into thinking otherwise! The powers love to make mayhem. They insist that war never ends; they use church language and try to convince us we are powerless to stop the chaos.

But we can resist! We need to train even more seriously than the military do. We have to take risks.

So acts of imagination are called for, ones we must share with children and grandchildren, as they look toward their future. Even working for the abolition of war!

We must say all this for Jasmine who stood up for a man about to be deported, and now faces the power of the law.

We must say it for the Brisbane Canon, Peter, and the Sanctuary church movement. To Grandmothers against Detention, and ‘Love Makes a Way! To all who gather to write letters, visit the detained, keep hope alive in a welcoming and friendly Australia.

To those who craft a Treaty with and for the First Peoples.

And to ourselves as we practice the art of declaring the oppressive powers to be null and void.

In his life Jesus embodies the dream the prophets announced – of a world transformed, rich in life-giving. Peace, Shalom, Salaam for humans and nature alike.

And for this Pope Francis announces the call to non-violent discipleship,

  

And then we must expect that the Spirit of God, the wind of life, will create turbulence that pushes our little boat into surprising places.

So grieve and  be angry at the waste;

Remember..

Act for Peace.

This is the counter story Jesus tells, as he conscripts us for life.

That is what Easter celebrates!

Jesus Christ is risen: Alleluia;

 He is risen indeed, Alleluia." 

Rev Dr Wes Campbell - for full sermon see sermon's page.

He is Risen

Rev Dr Wes Campbell - Original art work. (Use with acknowledgments please.)

A group of Easter haiku

Third day Haiku

It is the third day.

The Sabbath has concluded:

now we anoint him.

Empty tomb haiku

The tomb is empty.

Nothing will be found inside;

except mystery.

The women: Haiku

Returning, they spoke

of what they had heard and seen.

No one believed them.

Idle tale haiku

The women's story:

not taken seriously

when they told the men.

Mary. A haiku.

Mary Magdalene;

witness to the empty tomb.

Can this mean he lives?.

© Ken Rookes 2016

Indifference

(a poem written by Studdert Kennedy - a chaplain in the 1st world war, - but the sentiment feels appropriate to me when i think of Australia's attitude towards asylum seekers.) 

Indifference, by GA Studdert Kennedy 

When Jesus came to Golgotha, they hanged Him on a tree, 
They drove great nails through hands and feet, and made a Calvary; 
They crowned Him with a crown of thorns, red were His wounds and deep, 
For those were crude and cruel days, and human flesh was cheap. 

When Jesus came to Birmingham, they simply passed Him by. 
They would not hurt a hair of Him, they only let Him die; 
For men had grown more tender, and they would not give Him pain, 
They only just passed down the street, and left Him in the rain. 

Still Jesus cried, ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do,’ 
And still it rained the winter rain that drenched Him through and through; 
The crowds went home and left the streets without a soul to see, 
And Jesus crouched against a wall, and cried for Calvary. 

by GA Studdert Kennedy
 

AN EASTER REFLECTION

My wife an I and I own a Golden Labrador dog (of course she is beautiful) her name is Gabby. Most mornings Gabby and I go for a walk for about ½ hour.
We live in the Harcourt Valley and only have one rural road along which we can walk. Along that road a farming family used to have a horse named Sally. She “lived” in a good sized paddock which had a stand of pine trees and a small spring fed dam. Each morning on our walk I would look out for Sally. And if I did not see her I felt a bit glum. However more often than not on our return journey home I would see her through the pine trees or out in the open. And I was always happy to see her. It was that different perspective coming from another direction that allowed me to see Sally.
If you read any of the Early Church Saints (either men or women) they often talk about the “dark night of the soul”. What they meant by that was that they had a sense that God was absent. No matter how long their devotions, how dutiful their service they had this sense that God was not there. Then they would stop fretting, stop trying too hard to connect with God and the moment of joy would come as they sensed God again in their lives and in their activities. It was that different perspective that enabled them to experience God again.
In John’s gospel there are two stories in chapters 3 and 4 which seem at first unrelated, but really I think quite intentionally linked. The first story is that of Nicodemus coming to Christ at night (dark time represents evil, tragedy, God absent). And Jesus offers him “Light”. The second story is that of the woman at the well in the midday heat and Christ offers her “Living water”.
Easter and Pentecost offer us the possibility of a different perspective.
To see Christ anew, and too understand in a different way how God’s grace and love is available to all people and at work already in our world.
For example the unexpected hug, the kind or loving word, the act of grace by another, in a time of reflection, the moment of recognition that Christ has been here, the word that enlightens us, these experiences offer us that different perspective, they offers us that “Living” water or the “Light” that shines on the darkness.
Lord, give us ears to hear and eyes to see your actions in the world.

Rev jon Watson

Rising

 

For seven weeks the season called Easter

stretches out, long after the eggs
have been divested of their foil
and the chocolate has been consumed.
It persistently recalls the mystery,
as we read, in episodes,
the story of women and men
who met unexpectedly with their risen Lord.
Luke, teller of good news,
offers us a sometimes ghostly,
sometimes fleshly, Jesus;
both of whom lead us to renewed wondering.
We hear, again,
the familiar but unlikely resurrection tales,
and are faced with the same worrisome possibilities
of all past Easters.
The narratives call loudly,
and reach deeply,
as the spirit of Jesus invites us
to take our part in the great ongoing drama.
He challenges us to take courage,
to walk his road of love and forgiveness,
and to carry in our own bodies
the defiant confrontation,
determined hope,
and costly sacrifice
that may yet redeem the world.
 

 

© Ken Rookes 2015

Get on with it, Thomas!

In the business of faith, so-called,
words are gathered on paper,
sorted into groups,
numbered and annotated,
printed with indelible ink,
framed behind glass
and made into standards
behind which combatants assemble
and accuse their opponents
of heresy and betrayal,
and by which fellow humans
are categorised as being in or out.
But faith is not about words,
or being right,
(or, even more importantly,
not being wrong);
faith is responding to grace
and risking all
on the wild adventure
of life and of love.
When, a week after he was raised,
Jesus told Thomas to stop doubting
and to have faith,
he was not so much worried
about the content of his beliefs
or his ability to put aside his questions,
or so it seems to me,
but simply telling him to get on with it.
Get on with it, Thomas.


© Ken Rookies
I left my new poem behind, in Willowra, so I am posting an old one on the gospel for this coming Sunday. I will post the new one when I get home in about a week.

The basic message

“ The collateral implications of this basic message are radical and comprehensive. Anticipation displaces dread. Regret gives way to equanimity. Cynicism vanishes before joy. Self-control conquers addiction. Purpose usurps futility. Reconciliation overtakes estrangement. Inner peace calms disquiet and distraction. Creativity banishes boredom. Death will give way to life, darkness to light, fear to confidence, anxiety to calm, and despair to hope. These collateral implications are something like the fulfillment of your deepest desires, your wildest dreams, your fondest hopes, and your secret wishes, only in this scenario your hopes, dreams, desires and wishes originate from the heart of God rather than from the human heart curved in on itself.”

Dan Clendenin

He is Risen!

Rev Dr Wes Campbell has done a new Easter journey triptych and has given me permission to post his paintings and share on our site. 
This is the Resurrection

 panel. 
Please feel free to use with acknowledgement.

While it was still dark

While it was still dark

the smallest something began.

The match flares;

its flame might catch,

or it could sputter out, unfulfilled.

In the shadows ahead of the rising sun

a woman follows a path through the trees;

hope has abandoned her.

It had been her painful duty

to watch the man die;

she knows that the darkness is thick and heavy.

Alone she comes,

with only the soft glow of love

to guide her feet to his tomb.

Hers will be a final act of devotion,

a sacred ministration to one she worshipped,

even though he cannot know it.

As she comes near to the place.

the beginnings of the dawn intrude,

to wash the garden with their dull light.

The shadows grow weak and diminish,

and the day begins to be reborn.

© Ken Rookes 2015

The Betrayal

Rev Dr Wes Campbell has done a new Easter journey triptych and has given me permission to post his paintings and share on our site. 
This is the first panel portraying the betrayal of Jesus. 
Please feel free to use with acknowledgement.

All they could do

 

All they could do, the gospel writers,
and those who crafted the stories before them
was to grope in wonder after some words.
Words to convey even a shining edge
of the full mystery.
So they wrote of angels shimmering with white,
and an earthquake that shook the very foundations
of both earth and heaven;
and of the surprise of a disappearing man
who could not be grasped
but who was strangely with them still.
Of the impossibly empty space
that death had once occupied.
They told of a stone,
the removal of which would have required a forklift,
that had apparently been flicked away by a divine finger.
They wrote of unsurpassed joy and of hope
that had been conjured ex nihilo.
They told of embracings,
of illuminating journeys and intimate dinings,
of unexpected recognitions
and equally bewildering disappearances.
Their stories included the elements of honest fear,
uncertainty, and disbelief;
as if to underline the wonder.
One who they had loved,
in whom the Divine One appeared to dwell,
and who, they all attested, had been killed;
was somehow present. Living. Decades on.
All they could do was grope in the diminished darkness,
and hope to find some words.

© Ken Rookes

And a Good Friday was had by all

And a Good Friday Was Had By All

 You men there, keep those women back and God 

Almighty he laid down on the crossed timber 

and old Silenus my offsider look at me as if to say nice work for soldiers, 

your mind's not your own once you sign that dotted line 

Ave Caesar and all that malarkey Imperator Rex

well this Nazarene didn't make it any easier really‑

not like the ones who kick up a fuss 

so you can do your block and take it out on them

Silenus held the spikes steady and I let fly with the sledge‑hammer, 

not looking on the downswing

 trying hard not to hear over the women's wailing

 the bones give way the iron shocking the dumb wood.

Orders is orders, I said after it was over nothing personal you understand‑

we had a drill‑sergeant once thought he was God 

but he wasn't a patch on you

then we hauled on the ropes and he rose in the hot air

 like a diver just leaving the springboard,

 arms spread so it seemed over the whole damned creation 

over the big men who must have had it in for him and the curious ones 

who'll watch anything if it's free with only the usual women caring anywhere 

and a blind man in tears.

‑ BRUCE DAWE

Painting by Rev Wes Campbell (used with permission)

a poem for Good Friday

To the God of the Godless

When I had tired of the wars around me

Longing for forgetfulness, the softness of arms and breasts,

I could not close my ears to the thunder of the living.

But tonight history has ceased to cry out within me.

My white flag of truce is hoisted, my arms are thrown to the ground,

My back is turned to the cannon and here I surrender.

The hunger of generations is nothing now? Nothing.

The brotherhood of heroes? The knowledge of vast constellations?

I have rejected my vision and renounced prophecy.

Love is the final quality, love and not courage.

Not the love of the Gentiles, the crucified love of disciples,

But the love of my love; it has silenced a thousand poems.

I have sought peace in war, serenity in struggle, pity in hatred.

I shall search no longer, the lights are turned down.

Only faintly, faintly, I still hear the marching step of the unborn,

Feet, feet, moving, moving.

‑ DAVID MARTIN