the colour of our lives

poetry • celebration • faith • nature • humanity • imperfections • glory

Archive for the tag “christendom”

prodigal

Almost Once by Brett WhiteleyWe sat, listening to the simple story gripping our hearts. Grown men swallowed, blinked back, with clenched jaws and shining eyes.

How could we not weep, or dance? not sit, still and struck? not give all in colour and song, wild emotion, the blood and mess of the humans we are and the bodies of light we shall become?

Because we are safe, back in the hard but hidden hollow of our imperatives and rituals. Holy fire wavered above fearful brows. Over a few, or all, potent embers still burn.

αΩ


Image is of the sculpture ‘Almost Once‘ by Brett Whiteley, installed near the Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney, Australia

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please stop arguing

The cosmic constants align, just so,
and by mere existence generate
infinitesimal probabilities, lunged
towards by God’s self-appointed
collectors of irrefutables. Shrill
Dawkins countered that argument,
although it cost him the multiverse.
He carries now a debt of chance;
thoughtful credibility teeters once
more toward the theophiles, but their
arguments remain luke-warm
renditions of the full banquet. Even
amongst the faithful, the genealogies
of creation are endless; certainty may
not be deferred, and wilful ignorance
is an impermissible position. Logic
and higher reason, faith and dogma
tumble over one another, shaken like
dice in the cup Einstein rejected. The
proof we seek may never be found.

~


DanSomething appropriate for the exact first anniversary of this blog. Thanks to everyone who has read and commented, especially the regulars. Keep the faith!

skeptigenesis

at twelve, or thirteen,
listless, lying on my bed
by the window,
white vapours traversed the blue, a
perpetual evaporation
and coalescence powered
by the southern sun.

with an egocentrism fully
matching my years, I was
squinting clouds from the sky,
imagining other perplexed sky-gazers
left bemused
and wondering.

some weeks later my mother,
rediscovering earnest Christianity,
became enticed by a doctrine
embracing human dominion:
“God has made us so powerful, even
clouds will disappear
if we just pray”,
she recited.

I can still stare down the
flimsier clouds; as the years have
evaporated I squint hard,
still, at devout foolishness
which others gladly suffer;
all but the most Spartan creeds
discarded in search of a
gospel as true as the sky.

the cool of the evening

stained_glass_windowhoneyed sunlight floods through
diamonds
of stained glass, summer warmth
on hair and skin.
There is a sombre beauty
here; the high-arched windows
glow with eucalypt-filtered light;
a kind and learned voice speaks
of the curses of a
mighty fallen king, of the
import and hope for mortal lives.

If God prefers to be
here, this is not clear;
warmed by the window’s glow,
I see Him incarnate,
leaning full-faced into the falling sun,
soothing the heat of day with the
cool of evening’s Indian Ocean breeze.


Image from Liverpool Parish Church (www.livpc.co.uk)

without honour

only a few of the sick in Nazareth
made the best of that short stay and
while he blessed those poor spirited ones
his childhood friends stayed out of reach

sure, he was full of life as a child
and he’d stand by even the kids whose
families suffered the long drought and
those two years the fish didn’t school

but leaving and returning like this?
– speaking with an authority even the noble
Joseph didn’t have until the day he died –
this was too much to bear

many meanwhiles since we continue those
long-held traditions. in our case we’ve somehow
reduced him to a sunday self-help guru,
making every town the prophet’s home

on the edge of cool

morning on the frayed edge of cool fashionable hopes
well-placed behind the plain red-brick façade looming
halls still resonating with American preacher and hints of
upper middle trousers on plastic stacking chairs / all the
usual requirements are met bewildering advertising
outside the door no menu just worship words and a
mission statement like the council two doors down and
definitely no promise of espresso / life as God intends for
a few hundred elect mostly not from around here anyway
who’d want to live on a busy street like this the Saturday
nights would be unbearable / walking past the two closed
sets of double doors Sunday in January a jingling of faint
gospel pop fades to the natural chatter of pedestrian
crossings, chocolatiers and tanned grey-haired couples
sipping herbal teas across newspapers / downhill
aerodynamic railway station roofline arches glass and
grey metal over pigeons nodding sharply away from
skater chicks and the Thai family with two boxes of
vegetables / and the bearded middle aged guy locks his
bicycle to a street post squints at the sun over the
market checks his pocket and walks inside into the crowd

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