Monday 5 December 2022

The Shepherd

(Old Man by Uday Bahn)

We were out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over our flocks that night.
Ordinarily, I wouldn't have been there.
I would have sent my sons to stay under the stars. 
I'm too old to sleep outdoors these days. 


But, it was the census, you see.
Our family were in town, taking up space. 

Staying in the guest room overhead and sitting in my spot in the living room. 
Eating and talking and arguing. And eating. And talking. And arguing. 


They'd bought their children too, 

endlessly climbing and quarrelling and asking questions.

When my animals came in at night there was never any quiet. 

Ordinarily, I'd find it soothing to have them close by, 

their slow breathing and familiar smell. 

But they kept chewing and shuffling and snorting, 

like something wasn't quite right.

So I escaped our cramped quarters
for the silence of those wide-open spaces outside our City Gate. 

Well, we call it a city, our small town.
David's Town. David's City. Bethlehem.
This old backwater where our peoples greatest king, King David,
hiked these hills as a boy, just like me, 

just like my children, 

just like my children's children.

Our King, he protected and defended his flock. 

He protected and defended his people. 

Then he died.
And in time, I...well…

In time, everything else began to fade and fall away.


Our people became vulnerable and defenceless, 

like sheep mesmerised by the burning eyes of a wolf.
We were conquered, again and again.
Captives to a foreign king. 

In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that we should all be counted, 

rounded up. 

Led by rods and roman spears. 

It was something to fear. 


I’d spent most of the many years given to me out in the fields 

where wild animals are free to roam. 

I’d protected my little ones before. 

I’d fought for my life before. 

I’d been afraid before. 

The Romans were wild too. Hungry. Menacing. Unpredictable. 


But that night, there was a burning light. 

I’d never been more terrified in all of my life.

My boys looked to me, the seasoned shepherd. 

I collapsed. Covered my head. Shook with dread. 

‘Do not be afraid,’ the voice said. 

But I was. 


‘Do not be afraid. 

I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.’ 

I remember every single word. 

‘Today in the town of David a Saviour has been born to you: he is the Messiah, the Lord.’ 

Good news!

I couldn’t open my eyes. 

Could it be true? 

Our king has come? 

At last, a protector, a defender for our people?

All this time we’d been like sheep without a shepherd. 

Alone. Afraid.
At last, our king has come! 


But why would a baby royal be born here? I'd wondered. 

There is no palace in these parts. 

Maybe the Messenger meant the City of David, Jerusalem. 

Maybe I’d misheard him. 

He kept speaking. 

‘This will be a sign to you: 

you will find the baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.’ 


We swaddled our wee ones. 

We wrapped them up warm and lay them on a bed of straw. 

Our people have been doing this for the longest time. 

This new king has come like one of us. 

Cradled and cared for. 


All of a sudden, there was a sound so loud it hit me in the chest. 

Boom. 

Boom, boom. 

Boom, boom. 

A choir calling out: 


Glory to God in the highest heaven, 

And on earth peace to those on whom his favour rests. 

They sang and sang. 

Those words sank into me like fresh, cool water from a deep, deep well. 


‘Quick!’ one of my boys said. 

‘Let us go to Bethelehm and see.’ 

My sons helped me to stand and steadied my feet. 

Just like I’d done for them a thousand times when they were small. 

‘Come on, old man,’ they teased. ‘Let's go.’ 


We found him. 

Just like we'd been told we would.

‘Come and see,’ she said. ‘Come and see.’
Ordinarily, I would have stood at a distance. 

I was a shepherd straight from the fields. 

Unseemly. Unclean. 

Yet this baby was extra-ordinary.
He was so small he could fit in the crook of my arm.

‘I’ll protect you, little one,’ I whispered. 

I held him close and closed my eyes. 

He breathed softly and everything slowed down. 

We’d been hurrying about, yet here he was, asleep. 

Such peace! 

A hush settled over us like morning mist.

I leant down and kissed his head.

Deep breath.

My whiskery chin tickled his nose. 

He nestled in.
I could have sat there until the sun rose over the hills behind us. 


My sons were skittish though.

Like spring lambs, bouncing to and fro, high and low. 

Acting like children all over again. 

Before all this they had been quiet and reserved, keeping to themselves. 

Now, they spread the word of that strange and wonderful night wherever they go. 


'We named him Jesus,' she'd told me as I turned to leave. 

'Immanuel. God is with us.' 

‘Indeed,’ I breathed. 

God has come to be with us. 

Our king has come. 

Good news. 

Great joy.

Thursday 29 March 2018

Peter's Confession



The last time I spoke to you I said,
“How could you?
“How could you possibly suggest that I could pretend I don’t know you?”
...because you know me…

You know me.
You know I say things I don’t mean
and mean things I don’t say.
All of my enthusiasm gets in the way. 

I am full of impulse, excitement...regret.
My words get tangled like an old fishing net.
You know me, but I am prone to forget who I am. 

I am…
“Who do you say that I am?” You asked.
I remember that. 

We were in the villages around Caesarea Philippi.
We’d gone out to get away from all the people
The crowds who came to you and called to you.
They called you a prophet, back from the dead,
Elijah, Jeremiah, John bar Zechariah. 

But I knew that wasn’t quite true.
I knew you.
You were Jesus bar Joseph, Mary’s son.
A well trained carpenter
A well read Rabbi
A good for nothing Galilean with God on your side.

I knew exactly who you were
and where you were from

yet I knew there was something
inexplicable and mysterious about you.

I was with you when thousands of hungry people were fed on next to nothing.
When men who were deaf, mute and blind were made whole.
When a woman, a Grecian at that, begged you to heal her daughter, and you did.
When the water, the water I know so well, yet never understand,
became your walkway a firm ground beneath your feet.
Mysterious.
Inexplicable.
Inconceivable. 

….‘Who do you say that I am?’
You are the Christ, the son of the Living God.

See, I knew you.
You were the long awaited Messiah.
The one who would rescue us and restore Israel.  
I knew you.
I knew exactly who you were and what you would do.
I was to go with you - even if it meant I would be put in prison or put to death.
Nothing would stop me because nothing would stop you.
I knew!
At least I thought I did.

I don’t know anything any more.
I felt that for the first time when I entered the High Priest's courtyard
and sat on the floor.
She saw me there, the servant girl.
I sat by the firelight - desperate for the flames to draw out the darkness in me
and bring warmth to my cold and weary bones.
Believe me, I’d been cold before, but never like this.
She came close.
She read and remembered my face.
‘This man was with him,’ she announced.
I floundered like a fish in the sand, seeking a hiding place,
Back, back, back to the dark, to the depths.   
‘Woman, I don’t know him.’ I stammered.  
‘I don’t know him.
I don’t know him!’
…not any more.
I don’t recognise you any more. 

Willingly, you’d allowed them to arrest you
and carry you off like a common criminal.  
You didn’t hold your ground or put up a fight
like I thought you would,
like I thought you should.
You mustn’t be the Messiah, not really.
I must have been wrong.
You weren’t chosen by God, just cursed.
Forsaken, like the rest of us.
The forgotten children of Israel.
Disgraced and dispossessed.
I fled, as the darkness gave way to the morning light.
The rooster crowed and filled me with fright.
You were right.
You know me. 



Thursday 2 February 2017

Te Tiriti O Waitangi



The Treaty of Waitangi has caused many tears and much grief. Yet Te Tiriti O Waitangi is also a cause for gratitude and great hope. Here as a founding document of our nation, we have a covenant agreement that speaks of a strong desire for unity with one another and with our God. This is the cry, the call, and the challenge inherent in the voice of our ancestors. Their voice comes to us from days of old when our nation came to birth. 

There is another voice that comes to us which is yet older still, the voice of God, the Ancient of Days. Our ancestors echo God’s voice who calls us all to unity through the commitment of a covenant relationship. God says, ‘I will take you as my own people and I will be your God’ (Ex 6:7). That sounds like marriage vows to me – a covenant, a promise, a treaty.

I have been to four weddings this summer. My friend Cindy and I wrote a song for one of them:

Here we stand before you Lord
surrendering to your call. 
Your faithfulness we will declare
throughout this life that we now share.
Hallelujah, hallelujah/

You, our God, have made us one.
Forever we are bound in your love.
We give to you our lives of praise
bringing glory to your name. 

When we face great loss and grief
with heavy hearts and tear stained cheek's
O God, our help, to you we'll cling. 
Held by mercy, we will sing. 
Hallelujah, hallelujah

You, our God, have made us one...

As we follow you, Jesus
may your grace be at work in us. 
By your Spirit and your word
we will proclaim the truth we've heard. 
Hallelujah, hallelujah. 

You, our God, have made us one...  

May we as a nation by bound together in love and unity, remaining faithful to our covenant promises. Let us lift our voices as we join with our ancestors in the cry, the call, and the challenge to live in unity with God and with one another.