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| "The Transfiguration" by Albert Bouts (1451) in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge |
Forgive me if this is becoming predictable, but Malcolm Guite's Lent Devotional "The Word in the Wilderness" is a real source of inspiration and encouragement in what has been a challenging period. In this case my thinking was stimulated by his selection of John Heath-Stubbs "Golgotha" earlier this week, and reading of a friend preparing for the 5 Peaks Challenge - the attempt to climb the 4 highest peaks in The Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales within 48 hours. I was already doing some reading and writing in preparation for our Holy Week Services and this piece started to develop... Like all of my offerings I have no illusions about them being in the same league as any of those poems in Malcolm Guite's collection, and it probably isn't in its final form, but I thought the ideas within it were worth airing, as we approach the second of the "peaks" alluded to... In it I play with, and in at least one place react against, other poets' or hymnwriters' takes on the events... But that is the nature of any form of comment on scripture... where we go beyond the text in our imagination we can come to different conclusions...
The secret proving time over at last,
the multitudes fed and healed,
the Bread of life rises to reveal
his richer, deeper, fuller self,
affirmed by ancient elders,
witnessed by weary followers,
wishing to remain there, aloft
on this unnamed, peaceful peak.
Yet life is not lived on the rarefied heights,
but down in the fertile valleys, the plain
places where fallible faith is needed
because the light is not so bright.
The palmy pilgrimage complete,
the Way arrives at his father’s house,
being rebuilt, again, on that peak
where another ancient father once
offered his son to a bloodthirsty god.
How many times had he stood there,
since scaring his blessed mother and
righteous step-father, as a wayward child?
How many times had he fashioned a whip
and cleared the courtyard of those
who profited from piety and desperation?
Yet still they proliferate in holy precincts.
The Bread broken and devoured,
being rebuilt, again, on that peak
where another ancient father once
offered his son to a bloodthirsty god.
How many times had he stood there,
since scaring his blessed mother and
righteous step-father, as a wayward child?
How many times had he fashioned a whip
and cleared the courtyard of those
who profited from piety and desperation?
Yet still they proliferate in holy precincts.
The Bread broken and devoured,
the wine of the true Vine consumed,
he goes to the garden of the olive press,
on a peak overlooking both the city,
and the future, overshadowed by both
ancient trees and approaching pain.
he goes to the garden of the olive press,
on a peak overlooking both the city,
and the future, overshadowed by both
ancient trees and approaching pain.
Blood squeezed out like oil,
like wine, produced by more painful
means than that miraculous time in Cana,
anticipating all that were to come;
A fully human deity dreading torment
like wine, produced by more painful
means than that miraculous time in Cana,
anticipating all that were to come;
A fully human deity dreading torment
but, reluctantly, prepared to pay the price.
On the lowest of all so-called mounts,
a mere bone-heap of discarded detritus,
the Life comes to an ignoble end.
The Light is utterly extinguished,
crushed by the boot of empire,
cursed by the mediators of religion,
abandoned by all his followers, bar
some women, not worth worrying about.
No-one carefully noting down
the last will and testament of the Word,
only some snatched, much misunderstood
utterances before he was finished.
And finally, after forty unexpected days,
the good Shepherd abandons his sheep,
on a lonely mountain steep, as others
had reputedly done before, at his birth.
Again angels urge men (and women?)
to move on and look for their messiah,
back down in the valleys, and towns,
because the one who had gone,
and will come, as promised, is present
in byres, and byways and office blocks -
wherever people live and work and die.
On the lowest of all so-called mounts,
a mere bone-heap of discarded detritus,
the Life comes to an ignoble end.
The Light is utterly extinguished,
crushed by the boot of empire,
cursed by the mediators of religion,
abandoned by all his followers, bar
some women, not worth worrying about.
No-one carefully noting down
the last will and testament of the Word,
only some snatched, much misunderstood
utterances before he was finished.
And finally, after forty unexpected days,
the good Shepherd abandons his sheep,
on a lonely mountain steep, as others
had reputedly done before, at his birth.
Again angels urge men (and women?)
to move on and look for their messiah,
back down in the valleys, and towns,
because the one who had gone,
and will come, as promised, is present
in byres, and byways and office blocks -
wherever people live and work and die.
Selah
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