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.

Idle

He gives power to the faint,

and strengthens the powerless.

Isaiah 8:29

God is idle,

declares the small white badge

purchased from the NGV

after viewing an exhibition of contemporary art.

In spite of the confident declaration

of the ancient prophet,

I find myself forced to agree.

The god who intervenes in human affairs

giving power to the faint and strengthening the powerless,

appears to have gone missing.

Who has less power

than those who cross hazardous seas

in nervous wooden boats;

fearful, fleeing; seeking, pleading

for refuge and compassion?

Their anxieties compound, multiplying

behind iron gates and barbed wire.

They cry out in desperation, but god

and the bastard gaoler politicians

who pretend to serve him,

neither hear nor act.

We can only hope

that there might be another god,

human-shaped, bleeding, weeping;

whose spirit resides in at least a few faithful hearts.

Perhaps this god is listening;

perhaps the servants of this god

have open ears,

and are not idle.

© Ken Rookes 2015

If you love me

 

There must be at least fifty ways
to declare your love.
Some decide to sing it,
shaping it with verse and melody
into a song, beautiful and profound;
or, borrowing words from a poet,
recite it with drama and passion.
Others make it into a dance,
enacting with rhythm and movement
the intentions of heart and mind.
You might employ the red swelling bud of a rose,
perhaps a ring crafted from gold, or silver;
or even chocolates, hand-made and wrapped in foil.
You can spray it, multi-hued, upon a waiting wall,
whisper it in private by the glow of a candle,
shout it, unashamed, with joy;
or weave it into a cheerful scarf.
You could write it with a roller pen;
if you prefer, use quill and ink on parchment paper,
with X-es on the bottom.
It can be painted with pixels,
pulsating with light on the screen of a computer;
you might post it in a blog,
solicit lots of likes on Facebook,
or even print it off and pop it in the mail.
You might make a clever video,
upload it to Youtube, and hope that it goes viral.
Your message of affection can be carved earnestly
into the bark of a tree,
or spelled out in a blooming daffodil surprise,
emerging from the earth when Spring comes.
You could raise your arms
to the swelling chords of an electric organ,
with fingers splayed towards the imagined heavens;
or speak of your devotion ecstatically
in the languages of angels.
But in the end,
neither the words
nor the manner of their expression
seem to amount to much at all;
If you love me, the Carpenter said,
you will do what I say.

© Ken Rookes 2014