Advent Odyssey by Keith Wallis

Keith Wallis Advent Still some weeks off ‘til glory day, child and manger, God and hay.

Angels, shepherds, gifts and kings wait impatient in the wings.

And me and mine ? What of us ?

Do we engage in all this fuss, or do we, as we ought to do use this time to prepare for You.

Keith Wallis index

Advent candle #1.

3

Then You came.

4

Whose child is this ?

5

Shepherds.

6

Gift II

8

These hands

10

Sometimes as shepherds

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Advent candle #1 In grey and rainy preparation clouded days preoccupy.

Trees are mourning their lost finery, birds flee or prepare for hard times.

Day follows day, treading weary paths, a joyless melancholic procession, boughs drip metronomic tears muddy blankets hide spring’s birthright.

Bones chilled, cheeks besieged by gust and gale, eyes become refugees daring only to peer from squinting grimaces.

Beauty hides, bereaved, crest-fallen.

From such dismal obsession the season promises Light for darkened hearts, merry dances for weary feet carolling into heraldic wonder.

Candle one: hope and prophecy stout sentries guarding hearts from fear’s incessant onslaught.

A small light in the abyss of darkness tilting at the windmill of reality, whistling in the wind.

A multitude of stars hide in nightly clouds jostling for position to proclaim the appointed time when their light is outshined.

3

Then You came A world apart angelic touch an occasional visitor to this plane, in this theatre of traumatic dramas.

Life, death, love, fear take starring roles in the daily legend that unveils.

Each player exposed a cacophony of influences vying for honours and position, orchestrates the hour, the moment.

Then You came.

Too soon or too late but on time in time beyond time a touch from beyond You came.

We listened (some of the minor players) but hear different things in the words You say.

The words touch, reveal, heal, then move on in lives of their own generation to generation.

Words unclaimed by the trapping claws of death, speak only life to half opened ears clouded tearfilled eyes and mouths uncleansed by Isaiah’s coals.

To be clay on this wheel is to be gold in the forge of heaven.

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Whose child is this ?

Whose child is this, a cuckoo all warm and suckling ?

If I say you are mine Your eyes tell me that you make me a mother giving me no right to call you mine.

If I claim to have given you life you disarm me with a smile that says you will give me mine.

Your father has only spoken to me through messengers, I cannot picture his face although I know his love.

You were not conceived in passion nor touched into life by intimate caresses.

Can I call you my child ?

You were mine for forty lengthening weeks and, in your life, you will not know such intimacy again.

Will you answer my questions when you grow ?

Will you let me be your mother when darker clouds arrive and I need to grieve for you, for me, for the child I kept, a loan from God..

5

Shepherds It’s a hillside, year zero (or thereabouts) and the end of a cold night.

For the sheepherders it’s the graveyard shift – there’s nothing happening.

The only audible noises are the bleating of insomniac sheep failing to go to sleep counting humans.

The wiser, older, sheepmen are huddled around the campfire in their 40tog arctic sleeping bags.

Who is on duty ?

You guessed, it’s the young ‘un.

Alone, cold, his flute redundant in his pocket because his hands are pressed firmly into his clothes.

His head nodding uncontrollably while his MP3 plays “Rockin all over the world” by Status Quo. Then, all of a sudden, all the lights in the universe come on.

A great shining mass of angels start singing their heads off.

And they’re as amazed to be there as he is to see them – they’d been booked to sing in Bethlehem but mission control had miscalculated wind speed and they’d overshot by five miles.

The rest, as they say, is history……………..

And afterwards, When the bright lights had faded back to a star-lit night, and the singing died to an owl hoot.

Still amazed, as they trudged back from the stable to their flocks on the cold hillside, what were they thinking ?

Well, tail end Charlie, the one who’s into Status Quo and Wishbone Ash switches off his MP3 gets out his guitar and his note book and starts writing……..

Who were they to be among the first to know ?

Who were they to receive such an invitation ?

6

Singing angels shattered their quiet night air.

A baby snuggled in a mother’s arms – and her not of shepherd stock, not even from town.

What a night, oh what a night.

And who’s going to believe us ?

Do we believe it ?

Was it all a dream ?

And writing becomes a song……………….

Tonight has been so powerful, the day is still to come.

Will this be just another dream to end before it’s begun ?

If this is cruel deception then I want to be deceived.

If not, it is too wonderful for a shepherd to believe.

I don’t want the day to come in to my dreaming heart.

I don’t want to reason things from this visionary start.

If this is cruel deception then I want to be deceived.

If not, it is too wonderful for a shepherd to believe.

Didn’t look for these happenings, can it all come to pass ?

Please God keep us in this sleep, please make these dreamings last.

If this is cruel deception then I want to be deceived.

If not, it is too wonderful for a shepherd to believe.

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Gift II It was an old splinter, painful in the palm of my hand, familiar, almost friendly as it weaved its poison.

Comfortable pain doing harm, but most times almost ignored.

I ducked low to enter the stable catching my palm on the frame which sparked the palm pain into life for a moment.

I was drawn to this place following the melody of evening animals, the warmth of their breath in a colding night, lured by the misty oil light from within.

In the dim smelly light, the girl sat holding a new-born close for mutual comfort, young for motherhood.

Pain and pride etched into her face, cared and careless, held and holding, smiling the smile of a mother.

I stood there awhile, palm throbbing again.

The stable – a cathedral of love – gripping every breath I took.

Couldn’t see the baby from where I stood but felt enthralled by the wonder of childbirth this particular, peculiar childbirth.

All eyes were on the child, mother’s, oxen’s, donkey’s.

There may have been other people there too but, ignorant of their presence, caught up in the moment, they were insignificant to me.

If it wasn’t for the twinges of pain in my palm it would have been that elusive “perfect moment”.

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Then SHE noticed ME. Smiling, she beckoned to me with the smallest movement of her head, as if I were important.

I held back awhile, fearing to sully the moment with my presence, eager to remain an un-contaminating voyeur.

Besides, I had nothing to offer, no comfort, no gift.

Just me, the cold chill that had followed me into the room, and a pain in the palm.

Then I did go forward to see the child, short strided, hesitant.

It was his eyes that caught me and brought the tear to mine.

This child seared the heart with a glance.

This child scoured the deepness of the soul.

This child threw the emotions into a whirl and the mind into a vortex.

All the weight of the world was in those eyes and his smile gently blew the weight away.

He said nothing – nor would he – just a few hours old.

I said nothing – nor could I. I had nothing to say, nothing to give.

I touched his hand, No, that’s not the way it was, he touched mine, I didn’t even realise its proximity to him, I wouldn’t have presumed, I wouldn’t have dared.

Then I could stand there no longer, lost in the deep that surrounded him I found myself retiring.

The pain had gone, my palm soft and free of splintered poison, even the memory of the hurt had gone.

I thought, as I withdrew from that room, what magnitude of splinters would crown that little head when he grew and became a man ?

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These hands These hands, tiny, wrinkled, waiting to grow but older than time, these hands made life from nothing fashioned universes from thought and word.

These hands built hill and mountain, conjured creatures that roar and scare.

These hands poured mighty oceans from a jug of plenty and designed fish to explore their depths.

These hands touched earth with warmth and light, breathed winds that chill and breezes that caress.

These hands, confined in childform, have always been, will always be.

These hands, clutching mothers fingers in limpet grip, created the mother who holds him fragile against her body for mutual comfort.

These hands hold destiny in their palm and offer to grip biting iron in blinding pain.

These are resolute hands, healing hands, hands to lead the blind, hands to inspire the weak, to encourage the poor.

These hands, mighty enough to demand, strong enough to force, reach out to you in compassion in tenderness in offering.

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Sometimes as shepherds.

Sometimes as shepherds afraid, grimy, ashamed of our shabbiness we approach the manger-cross.

Sometimes as kings, haughty, self-assured confident of our position we approach the manger-cross.

Sometimes as shepherds.

And we come, shepherds, slowly, and still in fear nothing to offer, nothing of worth, to this manger-cross holy place: set aside in time and space for purpose.

Each forward step a warming, glowing friendship greets us.

Each step closer to tears, each broken-hearted step a step closer to the mending heart of God. Sometimes as kings.

And we come, kings, purposeful and determined gold-incense present-carrying to this manger-cross holy place: set aside in time and space for purpose.

Each forward step a disarming, glowing furnace melts our offering.

Each step closer to fear each fear inducing step a step closer to the restoring heart of God. Sometimes as shepherds, though mostly as kings, we come to our places of manger-cross: in church, at home, at the unexpected moment, to receive not the Christmas present

but the ever present Christ.

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All pieces Š Keith Wallis This edition December 2006