The Sabbath had passed

Haiku of the rising

The Sabbath had passed.

The women came to the tomb

with spices of love.

The tomb was empty.

The stone had been rolled away.

Much bewilderment.

Two men appeared, bright,

shining with eternity.

The women trembled.

Why look here, among

the dead. The one whom you seek

is with the living.

These things that happened,

death giving way to rising;

a purpose divine.

They sought out the men

with their unlikely story.

They were not believed,

Resurrection’s proof

remains elusive. Made real

only by a few.

© Ken Rookes 2022

Be blessed

 

Haiku of reversal

They came to hear him;

a great crowd eager to learn,

and to be healed.

The unclean spirits,

whatever we make of them;

he dealt with them, too.

He pronounced blessings,

surprising, unexpected;

Blessed are you poor!

You who are hungry,

you will be filled! Strong echoes

of his mother’s song!

You who are hated,

becoming unpopular

for my sake, are blest.

Corresponding woes

are spelled out: You who laugh, must

take your turn to weep.

You who are wealthy

are going to miss out. You

have had your blessings.

The poor and the weak

heard his words with joy. Less so

the privileged ones!

© Ken Rookes 2022

Be at Peace

 Haiku of resurrection greeting

 

Be at peace, he said,

when he stood among his friends;

but they were frightened.

They had watched him die;

thought that he must be a ghost.

He spoke to calm them.

Asks, Why do you doubt;

of what are you so fearful?

Look, see, it is I!

Joy mixes with doubt:

they see him standing there, but

their minds know better.

Jesus eats some fish.

This is meant to convince them

that he is no ghost.

How to understand?

Speaks of Moses, the Prophets;

says: These things must be.

The scriptures, he said,

tell that the Christ must suffer;

rising the third day.

Hope for humankind:

God’s way of love, forgiveness.

You are witnesses.

© 2021 Ken Rookes

Into your hands

Haiku of the end.

They arrest Jesus

decide upon the verdict,

begin the trial.

Taken to Pilate,

He is accused of treason;

by his own people.

A Galilean,

you say! He’s not my problem;

take him to Herod!

Jesus the healer!

says Herod, all excited.

Show for me a sign!

He keeps them guessing,

refusing to play their game,

keeping his mouth shut.

Pilate resists them,

He has done no wrong. Flog him,

then we’ll let him go.

The crowd shout him down.

Pilate, lacking conviction,

lets Barabbas go.

Beaten and broken

Jesus staggers ‘neath his cross.

The Cyrene bears it.

The inscription reads

This is the king of the Jews.

A king for us all.

They are mocking him:

If you are king, save yourself!

The soldiers join in.

Two others also,

criminals, guilty as charged,

are hanged there with him.

The one also mocks.

The other entreats: Jesus,

do not forget me.

At three he cries out,

Father. I am in your hands!

and draws his last breath.

The crowd return home,

beating their breasts, questioning,

What is it we’ve done?

© Ken Rookes 2019

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

Witnesses

Two formerly obscure old people

become Luke’s surprising choice

as his final witnesses

to the Messiah’s birth.

In his historically improbable

but still entrancingly wondrous

natal narrative, he retrospectively presents us

with the excited pronouncements

of an elderly man and an aging widow.

Salvation for Israel,

light and hope for the foreigners,

redemption for Jerusalem;

here, in this infant.

Imagine if a pair of old people stood up

to deliver such outrageous observations

in our own time.

There probably wouldn’t be a camera crew

on hand to record the event

or interview the key players;

it would be unlikely to make the papers.

At best, there might be a few smiling selfies

with the old people, the mother and child.

Some, no doubt, would end up online;

maybe with a paragraph in someone’s blog,

to be reposted by a handful of friends,

or shared with a link.

Most likely we’d offer a patronising wink or a smile

and shake our collective heads

before joining in the joking dismissal.

Let’s face it, the elderly

probably weren’t taken seriously back then,

either. No one else seemed to notice,

or bothered to remember;

only Luke.

© Ken Rookes 2014

Interpreting the story

Gospel writers Matthew and Luke

are the approved suppliers

of the raw materials

from which we cobble together our Christmas stories;

faith being the thread that seeks,

gathers and ties the meaning.

The angels speak of the wonder

of the aching God who decides to take action

and to embrace uncertainty.

The girl-woman, Mary,

is a sign of human obedience

and willingness to let God’s perplexing purposes

take their unpredictable course.

Her carpenter husband, Joseph,

in determining to proceed with their marriage,

shows the persistence of human compassion

in the face of bewildering embarrassment.

And the baby, strange and vulnerable,

tells us of the mystery of divine love

found, unexpectedly and riskily,

among us.

So, what of the fat man in the red suit,

intruding uninvited into our neat nativity?

Perhaps he is God, laughing.

© 2009 Ken Rookes

Scenario

Like a scene from a carefully crafted play,

the angel messenger from above,

an apparition in glowing white

given the name of Gabriel,

passes uninvited through the door

(enter stage left), and approaches

the girl. The wardrobe department

has also dressed her in white,

for reasons which will become apparent.

It is a contest in whiteness.

The heavenly envoy tells the girl not to fear,

that she will give birth

to a Child of Light;

one who, when the stage lights are dimmed

for the penultimate scene,

will continue to shine

for all humankind.

The girl protests the improbability

of such a scenario;

she has not known a man.

She is told that the script for the second act

has already been written.

A divine spark

will overturn the laws of biology

when she is overshadowed

by a mysterious spirit something;

she has only to accept the role.

She does, without actually seeing the script,

thus allowing the rest of the drama

to proceed to its unpredicted ending.

© Ken Rookes 2014.

Micah from Moresheth

Micah from Moresheth,

in the region of Judah,

gave us Bethlehem as the location

for the birth of the Messiah.

Perhaps he stopped by at the little town

on his one-day journey to Jerusalem

to do his prophecy thing.

He posed a challenge for gospel writers,

Luke and Matthew:

how to arrange for Jesus from Nazareth

to be born in Bethlehem, three days to the south.

For the one, it was a census; for the other,

fear, a massacre, and the return to a new home

after refuge in a foreign land.

For the one, the drama of a stable birth

with flights of angels and bewildered shepherds.

For the other, a fearful escape

and the vulnerability of refugees.

They each give us reason to pause

and reflect upon the strange purposes

of an even stranger God.

I wonder, if Luke was writing today,

might it be the homeless and the hopeless,

camped beneath a bridge, who would be

the subjects of the angelic invitation?

I wonder, if Matthew was writing today,

would he write of the kindness

of the people-smugglers

who helped the Holy family

reach their place of welcome and safety?

© Ken Rookes

He saved others

 

He saved others;
touched them, blessed them,
warned them, loved them,
heard them, healed them.
He reached out to embrace them,
waited for them,
gave them permission,
wept with them.
He told them stories that lead to life,
laughed at their foibles,
forgave them,
offered them freedom.
He placed among them, children;
invited them to learn,
asked them to listen,
sat with them in silence.
He came into their houses,
entered their lives,
ate bread with them,
shared their wine.
He argued the point with them,
got angry,
taught defiance,
played, prayed,
and walked with them
on the road to the kingdom.
He whispered where God might be found;
pointed towards hope,
made peace,
established love,
and showed them the way.
He saved others;
and felt no need to save himself.

© Ken Rookes 2013

Tepid hospitality

Turning away from the righteous Pharisee
he looked with love
upon the subject of his host’s derision.
The unnamed woman knew her place,
and had knowingly disregarded all the conventions,
upsetting more than a jar of ointment.
The consensus was clear: this woman
did not fit in with polite company.
She belonged out there,
in the shadowed places,
where ambiguities abound
and sinners lead their anxious lives.
Not in here, where the well-mannered Simon
extends his tepid hospitality
to this latest sensation,
the wandering teacher from the provinces;
he, at least, had an invitation.
With his feet still wet from ointment and tears,
the man speaks softly of warm forgiveness,
of welcome, gratitude, love and peace.
He does not care for the cold and calculating rules
by which respectable society is ordered;
and outrageously says so.


© Ken Rookes 2013

… and Lysanias was ruler of Abilene.

Luke understood

that every story has a context,

that historical and cultural settings shift

and shape the meaning of a life.

Unconcerned with the trivialities

of diet and apparel, the gospel teller

identifies emperor and rulers

before presenting us with cousin John,

son of Zechariah and Elizabeth, who steps

outrageously from among the rocky hills.

He will preside, for a season,

over Jordan’s troubled waters.

The Baptiser, so-called, spoke

with the courage and recklessness

of Isaiah, Micah, Jeremiah

and all the others,

who, centuries long-past,

had been foolish enough to listen to,

and believe, the divine word.

The world, into which John

intruded his annoying message,

was wounded, tear-washed and bound.

Its dwellers had long accepted

the prevailing necessity of fear,

greed and suspicion, never guessing

that there might be an alternative.

Much like us.

The Baptiser called for mountains

and hills to be levelled,

and winding roads and tracks

to be made smooth and straight.

He warned all of us less than perfect people

to straighten out our twistings and evasions;

to prepare ourselves for something new.

A new someone who might just come

to drive a crazy cosmic bulldozer

through the obstacles of human living;

and then will come the grace.

© Ken Rookes 2012