Wibbling Thoughts

Ressurection

—————————-
The final stage of the story, the part that everyone knows – god died, God was raised.
It’s supposed to proove new life, God’s triamph over death

“where death is thy sting? where grave thy victory?”

the problem is that death has a sting, and the grave has victory. maybe there is a heaven, but the thought of heaven doesn’t mean that people don’t greive on earth. next sunday is the anniversary of my dad’s death. for the last 5 years easter has been a time of death, a time of memory. a time when although god is risen, my dad is not.

it’s hard to talk about ressurection when all you can think about is death.

and people wonder why i’m a bleeding heart liberal.

Mourning

————————————–
we went back to the upper room
we had no where else to go.
we didn’t know this city, were all much more at home in the country
with fields and fishing boats
not crowds of milling people.

i woke as the sun dawned
and for a fleeting second i thought i had dreamed yesterday
that He was dead
but then i realised it was the truth
He had died, He was dead
and all the hope in the world died with him

today is a day of mourning

Mary’s Story

————————————-
I saw him die. I saw them take my child and nail him to a cross, and heard him cry out the creator of this forsaken world, heard him ask his Father why he had been abandoned, and I screamed with him. I asked God why he had led my son down this path, why he had abandoned my son, why after saving so many, after healing so many, was my son left to die in the heat, struggling to breath, moaning in pain, using his last breath to forgive the scum that killed him.

And my sorrow spilled out on to the dry, bitter ground like wine poured from a cup. And I cried the tears of helplessness and grief, putinto incomprehensible screams of the pain that tore out my heart as they peirced his side. The tears of a parent who is forced to bury thier child, who keeps a silent vigil for 3 hours as their son dies in agony.

They tried to comfort me with psalms and prophecies. With promises of hope, that this was not the end, that something would happen. They tried to console me whilst my child lay in a cold, dark, borrowed tomb. They tried to tell me that my son would be raised.

And my sorrow turned to rage. How dare they console me? How dare they speak to me as if they know my suffering. My son is dead.

Yet it is more than that. In my grief for my son, I forget who he was. In the death of my son, God died. Divinity that resided in me, that I bore for nine months, that I cradled in my arms, is now dead. And the hope of this world, the saviour of this world – hung on that cross, is lying in that tomb. And as I mourn my son, the world must mourn it's god. The hope, that light that Simeon sang of 33 years ago is extinguished, the wick is quenched, it cannot be relit.

And still they dare to sepak of prophecy, of promise and hope. As if he is asleep. As if they can stand at the tomb and tell him to come out. For my child is dead, my god is dead. Do they not realise that the only one with the power to raise the dead is in a tomb, that he is dead?  What hope is left when the saviour cannot save himself? 

Meditation

———————————
Why is this night different from any other?

this night
this is the night when history is made
the night when lifes could be made, or broken, or recreated.
this night is different from any other

first the meal – familiar symbols, herbs, lamb, bread
bitterness, tears, sacrifices
memories of the past,
of freedom from slavery and promises unfullfilled
Why is this night different from any other?

bitterness, tears, sacrifices.
familiar meals and rituals take on unfamiliar changes
the bitterness of herbs and the salt water of tears
the bread that is broken and hidden
the child that play hide and seek
the ordinary things of life
rituals remembered from childhood
until the meanings changed – yet stayed the same

‘this is my body'
‘this is my blood'
that bitterness, those tears, that freedom
those promises still unfulfilled
are promised yet again
in a new way.

a new hope born through tears
born through the bitterness
this night is different from any other
a night of tears
a night of bitterness
a night of hope.

I just found the notes from the ikon service at greenbelt…the quote about the passion is kinda relevent…

“Ironically, Gibson’s The Passion may have been more Christian if it had denied the resurrection – because we struggle to think of one with out the other, we must attempt to think of the day that separates them – only when we face the horror of the cross without the comfort of the ressurection can we do that.”

This year during holy week I am forgetting that I already know the end of the story.

Last night I watched the passion of the christ at church, on a big screen…well….i watched most fo the passion of the christ – just not the whipping scene, the first ten mins, the bit with the raven and the ending. I didn’t want to spoil the ending, I wanted it to be a suprise.

I’m going to attempt to put up reflections for holy week – well, for what’s left of holy week…specifically maundy thursday onwards.

Well, I went to the audtition, and I think it went ok – I might have auditioned for the part of the nurse, i’m not really sure. The majority of the time spent preparing for the audition was spent pacing around a church yard muttering shakespeare to myself – God knows what it must have looked like to anyone walking past…

I have to wait until april to hear if I got in…

Tommorrow morning I’m going to go to auditions for Romeo and Juliet – if I am sucessful, this will be the first drama type production that I will be part of since leaving secondary school. It will also mean that I have to act sane for several months, but that should be do able…

I’m not sure how to prepare – I’ve not done an audition for anything proper for a long time, but i’ve read Romeo and Juliet, and prepared a piece (Portia’s speach in the Merchant of Venice – you know, the one that goes the quality of mercy is not strained it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the earth beneath, it is twice blessed… ).

It’s a bit annoying really, i’m the wrong age or sex for most of the decent characters – I’d love to play the nurse, but I’m guessing 20 is too young, I’m too old for Juliet (wasn’t she 14?) and much as i’d love to play friar lawrence I’m not a bald middle aged man…Shakespeare wasn’t that hot on female characters really (for obvious reasons)…it’s a shame…

I’ll let you know how the auditions go…

I went to christian focus tonight and think that I coped very well. I skived all day of college because I couldn’t face people, so actually walking for 45mins (which was fine – i don’t mind walking in the dark, in fact i like it) and sitting in a room with 18 people in it was very difficult. But I did it.

The session was on prayer, and there came a point when the speaker mentioned the dark night of the soul, and the feeling of god not being there. Then various people started talking about selfishness, and God testing people and whatnot, and I got pissed off. I wanted to ask if they had ever spent weeks and weeks hiding in a church and crying throughout the service, and prayed and prayed for some small release from mental turmoil and had the prayers just bounce back after hitting the ceiling. But I suppose that my experience of the dark night of the soul is depression – 5 years since I was diagnosed, and a life time of feeling this way, and not everyone (thankfully) suffers from depression.

After the session somone asked me how I was, and I replied that I was fine, put on a smile, but then was asked to name five reasons why I was fine. And I couldn’t do it. And even now, having thought about this, I cannot name five reasons why I was fine. So I had to admit I was lying, and say that I was crap. But then I was asked to give ten reasons why I was crap, and I declined that offer because I didn’t want to tell the ten reasons. But it was nice, and I went to the pub, and had a drink. And I’m going next week for a curry night – I’m going to try and get my hands on a sari for the occasion…

This place is not my home.

It is not my chair that I sit in, not my bed that I sleep in.
It is not my key that I carry, not my door that I unlock.
This place is not my home.

The veiw from the window is not mine,
The sunlight that streams in is not mine either.
I do not belong here, not wholly, not me.
This place is not my home.

I am homesick.

Every moment, every day,
I realise that this place is not for me
I am homesick for a place I never knew
Longing for a world I cannot imagine.

Waiting for a world that grips me completely
a place where my soul aches to be.

This place is not my home.

I am homesick.

Freedom bound?