Archives for category: Easter

Today is Holy Thursday. A reflection of mine from 2009:

The Thursday Moss

These rocks that I nurture
ramble indolently
from the bent-over One
to the bent-under three
and if messages could
pass along my dull green,
oh! It would change
this weak human scene.
On my eastmost rock
see, I bear elbows
that are shaking, trembling
like minor death-throes.
My leaves are absorbing
muttered words of prayer.
They cry soundlessly
to show that I care.
My stalks are channelling
these heavy tears,
absorbing the shivering
release of his fears.
And all of this drama
is making me frown,
for what a contrast
from my west, further down,
for here I’m a pillow
for sleepyheads, three,
who haven’t discerned
the One’s urgency.
He told them to wait
and I’m waiting too,
but doing much better;
they nodded on cue
and now they’re dead to it
and I’m left awake,
a witness, He’ll die
for theirs, and my, sake.
Also, for some more good Easter poetry, see


One day the sun rose in the West.
Nobody blinked.
Well, one or two marvelled at the phenomenon.
A couple, just like you or I,
checked their memory-banks for where the sun should rise
and, having confirmed the East,
permitted themselves to be startled,
at least.
But the rest,
perhaps unable to pinpoint the strange sensation
of the rising sun in the West,
went about their daily business:
checking the camels,
baking the bread,
mending the nets,
tending the pets,
spinning the wool,
spinning tales of the sun
rising on every horizon,
but never in the West.
And we, too, go about our daily business:
checking the cheques,
buying the bread,
spending the bets,
fending off debts,
telling the tills,
telling the tales two thousand years later.
One day the Son rose in the West.
Well, West of here, but perhaps for you
North or South or East
at least
as one or two professed.
That Son who’d died
came up where least expected:
His light had resurrected.


I don’t pretend to know your thoughts
as you rocked on the edge of the precipice,
arms flung out,
waiting to fall
and not knowing how to fly.
I heard that your words were lost
in acres of vast silence
and you cried,
but your tears
turned to salt just like the rest of us.
I suppose the guilt laid on you needed an outlet,
a fall to match our fall
and in the pain
of forgiveness
you promised to keep gathering our trash.
I wish I had the innocence to be shocked
that you not only fell but you flew
and we have life
and could fly
if we too could fling our arms out for love.


Easter greeting 2014

May we recognise him in the silence,
in the parties,
in the pain.
May we recognise him in the newborn,
in sparks of life
that rise again.
May we recognise him in forgiveness,
in celebration,
and in prayer.
May we recognise his love abundant
in each presence,

Photo by Anne, Sister in community.

Happy Easter! This morning I sent out a group text to friends with an Easter message. And what a revelation! When I went to put in the word ‘Jesus’, I found that ‘Jesus’ was not the first possibility that my auto-guess-the-word function drummed up – it was ‘jests’. I was shocked to realise how little I must use our Lord’s name in texts. Sure, ‘God’ comes up the first time, but not his beloved Son. Then as I was listening to the Easter readings I heard this charge leveled at Peter, “Certainly you are also one of them, for your accent betrays you.” Peter, Jesus’ most staunch defendant, was now denying that he ever knew him. But no matter what he said, it was something else about him that alerted the sceptics. His accent. OK, he was from Galilee, the same area as Jesus, but was it something else in the way he spoke that connected the two? Is there something in our own accents that points to who ultimately claims us? Do people hear Jesus speak when they hear me, do they see Jesus at work when they see me, do they know Jesus in their hearts when they understand me – and all without mentioning His name? I think I need to teach my auto-guess-the-word function some language, but also to allow my language to be unmistakably accented like Christ’s.

Easter morning walk to our church…the journey mirrored last night’s powerful reading from Genesis 1.

I stepped out of the house, down the sandhill.

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.”

I strolled past the gulf and mud flats.

“Let the waters under heaven come together into a single mass, and let dry land appear.”

Past native plants and imports.

“Let the earth produce vegetation.”

After the pigeon had left, I bent down to the inspect the berries – yellow and red.

“Plants bearing seeds…

…in their several kinds.”

“This shall be your food.”

And then I turned back to the power house, that great eyesore so close to our house.

“Let us make humans in our own image…let them be masters.”

Some masters!

But I also saw signs of hope, ancient and ever new. The local Aboriginal women’s traditional birthing place in a quiet grove along the shore.

“God created humans in his own image,
in the image of God he created them,
male and female he created them.”

Happy Easter!

A drumroll, please, for the holiest week in the Christian church’s year! Coming up to Easter, my Roman Catholic sensibilities were moved yesterday at Mass, at the breaking of the bread. And this emerged…

Mass in Holy Week

A crack. And it is done.
Two hunks of bread
or living tissue,
this Love is broken.
Henceforth the issue:
a death has spoken.
And you have spoken out our pain,
what once was whole, and one,
now is Life, is slain.
This piece, this shred of heart
has seen too many failures,
armies, wars and hates,
it is the smallest part
that’s left
when pride abates
and fears expose
and lose debates
with tyrants, with our peers.
With errors forced, obliged, chosen.
And years
And life untasted
plays injustice in chords,
a march away from fullness,
in you, in me, in hordes
of cheaply pasted glue unstuck.
Cleaning out this muck,
you knew
the pain, the fear, each year
and time to break.
And break you did.
With lifeblood oozing
from your cup and side,
this thirst to slake
of what we block or hide.
You speak, you spoke,
the speech was won
and lost, and losing was the aim
for, unless the pain
was real and you were lame
and dumb and broken,
we could not be healed
and spoken
into speech. And the gift,
the bread,
was ever to be said:
reminder of the dead
in you and us.
But if
that word was last
we would lay our hope
on graves of Life,
once shared, but passed.
No, another word was said,
and, rising from the dead,
you made reply,
what ended need not die
and our broken parts
may be reborn
even now,
even past death’s dawn,
another morn,
another patcher-up of hearts
has felt the crack,
what you have begun.
And it is done.