Losing the battle

It has happened. Already.

The caustic has become run of the mill. Normal. Acceptable.

I had a hunch this would happen.


Paris.

Beirut.

And a hundred places I don't even know about.

The numbers too dense to bother noticing.

Because I no longer care.

I have become immune to the brutal deaths.



Sacrifice is not always a good thing.

A man sacrifices himself to kill others.

I sacrifice my grief and despair for a clammy mind.

I sacrifice love for indifference.


Brussels.

31 dead. At least.

I barely flinch.

Be careful now.

This means they are winning.

What if these tears are not enough?

It's happened again!
The black cloud of terror,
on the news at ten.
This time it's artists,
Of a creative nature
Drawing pictures that make
some say 'I hate ya!'
Twelve more lost
in this futile war
where only hate wins
each day more and more.
I keep trying to love,
trying to say,
STOP! this killing,
hate cannot pay,
but I'm shouting at stones,
hitting a brick wall,
what I have to say
makes no difference at all.
So instead I cry tears,
they run down my cheek,
I cannot help thinking,
the future is bleak.
So the tears will still fall,
wetting the page,
and love shivers in me,
an inescapable cage.
I want to roar at the sun,
beat the earth to the ground,
but my feeble attempts
are ignored all round.
God's abandoned us here,
here with this stuff,
this hate and this fear,
can these tears be enough?
They're an expression of grief,
and therefore of care,
without these tears,
love isn't there,
so I will cry at this wrong,
I will cry at this hate,
for while tears fall,
it is not too late.
By this they will know you,
that you love and still love
when you are abandoned
and there's no heaven above.
It is in moments like these,
when hate seems to have won
when the tears are falling
and love is undone
that hope remembers,
that faith still lives on,
so we can keep going,
we can still cling on.

New Year Restoration

Yesterday at least 130 Palestinians were murdered, most of them children, in the name of God. The day before three people died in Sydney, also in the name of God. On the same day threats to the lives of gay people in Russia were made, in the name of God.
I perceive God to be a God of restoration. What God made was good; he said so. What we have now shows we have wrecked it.

I think God might be fed up with his name being associated with such atrocities. Instead, I think God wants justice.

In my view justice is not about punishment, justice is about restoring. Justice is about restoring humanity both to victims and to offenders. Justice is about restoring the world to something God can look upon and call good. Justice is what Jesus is about.

So, I pray fervently that those who seek to maim and kill others in the name of their God will instead be restored. I pray fervently that they will be restored to humanity, to a place where love is the highest virtue and forgiveness the vengeance sought. I pray that justice will come through healing for survivors, for the families of those targeted and killed, and through change in the hearts of perpetrators and their guides.

I pray also that I may be restored to humanity; that I may be completely human, seeking love as the highest virtue and having willingness and ability to forgive those who wrong me.

Instead of making new year resolutions this year I am seeking new year restoration. Would anyone like to join me?

Honour isn't easy 3ww

The honourable way is fraught with nocturnal terrors, creeping up in the night, doubt seeping into the soul, weeping misery in the storm, sweeping away the wonder of the stars with reckless disdain.

Humanity Eliminated

It is with rage
this uncontrolled violence
diminishes humanity

love has been crushed
joy extinguished
terror seeps into the soul

Desire degrading, destroying, denying
Fermenting pain
weeping of the mind

An endless cycle
ever darkening
ever tightening
vicious grip

Despairing. Lost. Empty.

Humanity eliminated.

Sipho's Peace

Scurrying across the room in fear. Footsteps booming overhead, legs churning for his very existence, skittering over the slippery surface of the wooden floor to the hole in the wall.
"He got away again!" cried the child,
"We'll get him next time," called the woman in the room next door.
I hate rats thought the child. He was 9, and an orphan. Small for his age, but growing rapidly now he was eating properly. In the township it used to be that he was lucky to get one meal a day. At least here he ate three times a day and was able to go to school every day. Before he had to look after his little sisters with his older brother. Now, they were all safely in their new home. Victoria, the mother of the house, looked after them. She fed them, cleaned for them and gave them hugs when they were upset. She was also great at fixing things and when his toys were broken Victoria would patiently sit with him and help him put it right.
"Sipho!" His name brought him back to the now, "Why have you stopped sweeping?"
"Sorry Auntie Victoria, I was thinking."
"Oh. What were you thinking about?"
"How it was before." There was a pause. Victoria looked around the door before looking down and then meeting his eyes.
"Do you miss it?"
"No," said Sipho, "but I miss my mother. She used to hug me and her smile made my tummy go funny. I knew I had been good when she smiled. I miss her so much."
Sipho was determined not to cry. Talking about his mother always made him feel upset, but he did not want Victoria to feel bad. He could see she knew he was upset.
"I am sorry Sipho. I am sorry she is not here, but right now it is time to sweep."
With those words the moment passed, the sadness that sometimes crept upon him was swept away like the dust he brushed into a pile on the floor ready to be put into a dustpan and thrown away. But Sipho knew his sadness could not go away. He knew it would return, like a new layer of dust would cover the wooden floor in a few days and it would be his turn to clear it up again. But for now, he could enjoy a bit of peace as he swept. A bit of peace for a little while.

A story based on my experiences with Project Gateway in South Africa

Hold my hand

A couple of weeks ago I took part in a reflection on the cross. Part of the reflection could revolve around Christ in the midst of our suffering. We were in a Church, but the day was beautiful so I took the opportunity to explore. As you walked out the side door of the Church you could see about four rows of twenty or thirty gravestones. Only one, in the furthest corner, was in the shape of a cross. I headed towards it, and as I walked I could see that there were more crosses in the graveyard, but this particular one drew me on.

Still thinking about the suffering of Christ, I read the inscription.

Name
Died 1983
1 hour old

I wept. As I wept I saw a butterfly land gently on the grave; a dog whined. I wrote a poem to try to describe that sacred moment.

Hold my hand

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

The butterfly kisses where the baby lies

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

The dog howls its lonesome cry

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

Ignorant traffic rumbles by

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

This baby died but an hour old

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

Alongside my pain

O precious Christ
Hold my hand.