Tell it not in Gath

Haiku of lament

King Saul and three sons

lie slain on the battlefield;

David’s grief-stricken.

He leads the lament

for Saul and for Jonathan;

the mighty, fallen.

Tell it not in Gath!

Let’s not give our enemies

cause to celebrate.

Let the land languish,

forgotten by rain and dew,

let it mourn with us.

Saul and Jonathan,

much loved, united in death

as they were in life.

Swifter than eagles,

stronger than lions; weep loud,

Israel’s daughters.

My heart aches for you,

my brother; your love to me

passed that of women!

© Ken Rookes 2024

Yet they will not come

Haiku of lament

Herod is a fox,

threatened by Jesus, makes plans

to be rid of him.

They try to warn him.

Jerusalem is not safe!

The man is reckless.

Love’s work must go on;

to bring healing, freedom, hope.

I must finish it.

Jerusalem calls.

It is the killing place, where

prophets meet their end.

O Jerusalem,

city of sadness and death,

how tragic you are!

Your children are lost;

unprotected chicks. I would

gather them to me.

My heart is aching

to embrace and protect them;

yet they will not come.

© Ken Rookes 2022

Anguish

Haiku to protest innocence.

Such deep depression

to curse the day of one’s birth,

or conception’s night.

Let clouds fall darkly,

let the morning stars be dimmed

and the dawn withheld.

Let all be darkness,

let no joyful cry be heard,

her womb remain closed.

Life is but trouble;

had I not been born, I would

have been spared the pain.

Quit your whinging, Job.

You cannot be innocent;

punishment is just.

You have done much good;

that doesn’t mean you’re blameless.

Come to terms with God.

I won’t be silent.

I will make complaint to God;

I have done no wrong.

Why test us humans,

why bother us constantly.

God, give us a break!

If I sin sometimes

how does that affect you, God;

can't you look away?

God, why target me,

why am I such a burden?

Can’t you let me go?

© Ken Rookes 2020

Posted in response to the Narrative Lectionary for the 14th June 2020.

O Jerusalem!

Haiku for those who will not.

O, Jerusalem,

greatest city of them all;

most to be pitied.

The Pharisees warn,

Get away from here, Jesus;

Herod wants your life.

O, Jerusalem;

entitlement and power,

keenly defended.

The perfect venue

for the killing of prophets,

O, Jerusalem!

Jesus will return

to the great city one day,

to meet destiny.

Jesus is weeping

for Jerusalem’s children,

who turn from God’s love.

As a hen enfolds

her brood with protective wings,

so I would love you.

Yet you would not come.

You made your choice, live with it;

I have done my best.

One day you’ll see me

and shout: Blessed, he who comes

in the name of God!

© Ken Rookes 2019

Anzac Day reflection

On Tuesday Anzac Day, prayers for peace will be held at St Paul’s Cathedral, for the third year running.

We will remember those who said no to war. As in the past three years, we will lament the carnage in which so many young people were killed. There is an irony in meeting in the Cathedral: as the prayers are offered, the sound of military drums and marching will be heard.

As we have prepared these prayers of lament for the killing fields so far from Australian shores, we have been made aware by the Australian historian Henry Reynolds of war fought on Australian land.

His recent books, The Forgotten War and Unnecessary Wars, are a shocking reminder of the dispossession of indigenous people as European invasion took place.

That is an uncomfortable truth. It also questions why Australians have been so ready to travel around the globe to fight in wars generated by imperial powers, the British Empire and now the United States.

Christians of all people are called to remember these things which are so easily forgotten. With Easter so close to Anzac Day we are brought face to face to the cross on which Jesus was killed by the Roman Empire. And to his call to be peacemakers.

This is particularly urgent this year as military attacks are being threatened or carried out internationally.

The following statement is included in the Order of Service.

This is a service of lament, repentance and hope on the centenary of the First World War. We will lament the destruction and waste of so many young men and women on all sides, the pain and anguish suffered by those who returned, by their families and communities.

This is focused in 2017 in recalling the slaughter of Passchendaele, Fromelles, and Pozieres, those who said no to war, the forgotten Aboriginal wars.

We will repent of the ongoing war and violence in our world and in our hearts, and hear again the hope of God’s gift of peace, given to us in the Crucified and Risen Lord, being lived out in many scenes of conflict.

We will honour the courage and self-sacrifice of all who fought in the First World War by praying for peace and doing all we can that makes for genuine peace, that young men and women may never go to war again.

In this time of heightened tensions, we especially pray that Australia and other nations will not be led into war again.

Rev Dr Wes Campbell

The power of Lament

I sit within the Uniting Church tradition in Australia, a tradition which, by and large, does not 'celebrate' Ash Wednesday as part of our church life. In my ministry i have spent some time within the episcopal (Anglican) tradition where i have learned the value of taking this day seriously. I still remember the first time that i was part of an Ash Wednesday service and the power of having my forehead marked with the sign of the cross, a sign of my mortality, but also my grief and sadness at my own and our corporate human fallibility and violence. In a time when we continue to inflict violence on each other and the environment in so many ways, i feel that this day plays a vital part in our Christian life. To paraphrase part of a sermon (see below) by Jan Remont ...
  as Ash Wednesday grows close – and as I hear the news each day, look around me, and search my own heart – I find myself thinking of ashes as . . . ashes. Ashes in their stark deathly reality, not ashes as ground that can still sprout – but in my mouth is also the taste of ashes. I want to weep. In Iraq and in Africa, ashes of war and ashes of hunger. The last ashes scattering in the wind and no hope of fire to cook more food, because there is no food left and no fuel for fire. Ashes of the many who continue to die in conflicts in the Ukraine and Syria. Ashes of Auschwitz, whose memories are deep within us.  Ashes of our Australia's integrity as we continue to treat Asylum seekers as criminals, Ashes of the dead Egyptian Christians beheaded by the Islamic state last week. Ashes of the Rainforests that are burning even now to fuel human greed.
There is great power in Lament and it is a power to acknowledge our truth and to begin to strive for change.
Rev Gordon Bannon

If they do not listen

 

If they do not listen,
if the warnings go unheeded
the war will not be ended,
the climate goes on changing,
the poor will always languish,
the wealthy will never let go,
the raucous will not be silent,
kings will still raise armies,
and cheats will keep up their long established practice
by moving their headquarters off-shore.
Miners will make their holes ever larger,
generals will keep sending soldiers to their death,
politicians will compromise for the sake of cheap opinion,
the rich will pay less taxes,
the beggars will not go away.
Desperate people will travel once more on boats,
bullies will have their way,
children will be hurt again,
and mothers will weep
while fathers are immobilised by guilt.
If they do not listen,
love will fall into ruin,
truth will be vanquished,
and the memory of hope is lost.

© Ken Rookes 2013

The harvest is past, the summer has ended, and we are not saved.

Jeremiah 8:20

The season for salvation
came and apparently passed
with no-one noticing.
We were distracted,
captivated by the wonder and glory
of the collective reflections in our gazing pool.
There is darkness all around,
still it does not bother us
whilst there is even the palest light; flickering,
yet sufficient to see our own beautiful
but blinkered eyes.
There was, supposedly,
a season for repentance, too;
but for that to be effective there needs to be
an acknowledgement of the reality of the darkness,
and we would rather not know.
Anxiously feigning bravado,
we gather in our harvest
and boast about its yield,
blissfully unaware of its bitter nature.
The summer has ended,
and our time of harvest moves inexorably
to a Narnian winter,
wherein we will whisper the rumours
of Gilead’s springtime promise
with yearning, tears and lamentation.

© 2010 Ken Rookes

O that my head were a spring of water and my eyes a fountain of tears

 

Jeremiah 9:1

My people turn away
from light’s revealing rays,
seeking shadows.
My people stop their ears
to the cries of the lost, of cast-off wanderers,
of the unworthy and the fearful,
preferring pretty ditties of distraction.
My people build dams to hold back tears,
high walls around their hearts;
they refuse to weep or ache.
The thirsting land groans abandoned,
a salty wilderness where compassion grows limp
and wilts in rising indifference;
a desolate place where justice is found
only by digging deep below dry creek beds.
Truth, falling frail like dew before dawn,
evaporates unvalued and vanishes,
unseen by those who sleep late.
A modern luxury, who can afford it?

O that my head were a spring of water
and my eyes a fountain of tears;
and that grace might flow
like a never-ending stream!

© Ken Rookes

the depth of Jesus' lament ...

If you have ever loved someone you could not protect, then you understand the depth of Jesus' lament. All you can do is open your arms. You cannot make anyone walk into them. Meanwhile, this is the most vulnerable posture in the world --wings spread, breast exposed --but if you mean what you say, then this is how you stand. ...

… Jesus won't be king of the jungle in this or any other story. What he will be is a mother hen, who stands between the chicks and those who mean to do them harm. She has no fangs, no claws, no rippling muscles. All she has is her willingness to shield her babies with her own body. If the fox wants them, he will have to kill her first; which he does, as it turns out. He slides up on her one night in the yard while all the babies are asleep. When her cry wakens them, they scatter.

She dies the next day where both foxes and chickens can see her -- wings spread, breast exposed -- without a single chick beneath her feathers. It breaks her heart . . . but if you mean what you say, then this is how you stand.
-Barbara Brown Taylor
 Christian Century 2/25/86

http://www.edgeofenclosure.org/lent2c.html

The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.

The harvest is past,

the summer is ended,

and we are not saved.

Jeremiah 8:20

The season for salvation

came and apparently passed

with no-one noticing.

We were distracted, captivated

by the wonder and glory

of the collective reflections

in our gazing pool. There is darkness

all around; still it does not bother us

whilst there is even the palest light,

flickering yet sufficient to see our own

beautiful but blinkered eyes.

There was, supposedly, a season

for repentance, too;

but for that to have been effective

there needed to be an acknowledgement

of darkness’s reality,

and we would rather not know.

Anxiously feigning bravado,

we gather in our harvest

and boast about its yield,

blissfully unaware of its bitter nature.

The summer has ended,

and our time of harvest moves

inexorably to a Narnian winter,

wherein we will whisper the rumours

of Gilead’s springtime promise

with yearning, tears

and lamentation.

© 2010 Ken Rookes