A Woman of Corinth

I am currently interning at St Peter's in the City in Tauranga. We've just started a series on 1 Corinthians and here is a wee soliloquy I wrote for the congregation here from the perspective of a woman in the Corinthian church and how she may have responded to Paul's letter to them. It's written to be read aloud with all sorts of emphasis, exaggeration and dramatic pauses. For those biblical scholars among you, I may not have got all the history quite right, but don't let that get in the way of a good story. 

It was good to see young Timothy yesterday, bearing a letter from our brother Paul. While his letter was read, I could hear Paul’s voice in my head. It was as if he was right here with us again. I wish he was right here with us again. 

He’d stayed in Corinth 18 months, stitching tents and speaking the truth and teaching us about Jesus the Christ. That was three years ago though. He’s been gone for twice as long as he was here. 

I’ve been missing him, and I’m not the only one. Yet there are others who have said, ‘good riddance’, they say they’re glad he’s gone. They speak of him badly behind his back and belittle the gospel he brought. 

But despite all the backstabbing and backsliding, despite all the disgrace, Paul refuses to turn his face from us. In fact, he said he thanked God for us. I am grateful for our God is faithful. Paul is like a prophet, a mouthpiece for God, with words ringing true, “you are my children and I love you.” 

How on earth did we forget? When did we stop understanding? Did we ever understand? Even with all this wisdom and knowledge at hand? But what is wisdom without love? What is sophia without sacrifice? 

Sophia: the wisdom of God, the Spirit of God, the power of God. That’s what Paul talked about. I wish he would come and sort this out; this mess we’ve made of our lives of faith. But his letter is better than nothing.

I couldn’t understand it all though, trust Paul to trail off. I could hear the love of Christ in his words, and I could hear his love for us. I don’t remember all that was said, if only I could read that letter over and over so Paul’s words to us about our God of love could be etched into my body and written all over my heart. If only I could read.  

I’ll have to ask Andre when he gets home; hopefully he’ll remember more of the letter than I do. I do remember that bit, though, the bit about the wives not calling out in the ecclesia, and if they have any questions to ask their own husbands at home. 

No doubt these words will kick up a fuss amongst some of the woman around here. But that’s no different; they’re used to causing a ruckus, some of our dear women are. Frankly, it can be embarrassing and I’m grateful for Paul’s boldness. It’s better if they keep quiet and control their tongues – we woman are not exempt from order either. It’s no different for the women than it is for the men; Paul’s right, we all encounter freedom in Christ but not in a way that brings disorder. 

All things ought to be done decently and order. But there hasn’t been much of that lately – there has been a distinct lack of decency. Maybe it’s just the Corinthian way, but it’s certainly not the Christian way. This church has become a mirror image of the city of Corinth.

This seaport city is busy and bustling, cliquey and cultish. Our city is a melting pot of Jews and Greeks, soldiers and sailors and slaves, philosophers and freedmen, prostitutes and peddlers and trades-people. And this Church is no different; made up of all and sundry, a sure sign that the Spirit of God is not concerned with status. Diverse: yes. Yet, divisive. Our people scrabble and squabble, dead set to defend their social standing. We are not so different from the rest of the Corinth, and we ought to be. Just like Corinth, we too are large and licentious; full of sexual immorality, idolatry, lawsuits, and a complete lack of unity. But we ought to be different because we are a body, we are his body – that’s another of the brilliant things Paul wrote about. He said Christ is the head and we are like a body with many parts, whether Jews or Gentiles, slaves or free, male or female – by God’s Spirit we experience unity even in the midst of our diversity. In this body, all belong, all are blessed, all are loved. 

 

Love. Paul had a lot to say about that in his letter too. I remember it well:

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no records of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."

Love; the greatest gift of all. “Follow the way of love,” Paul said, and I’m certain he doesn’t mean the way of prostitution at Aphrodite’s temple – the goddess of love, she’s called, but her way is reckless and disrespectful. The kind of love Paul is talking about, the love of God in Christ, that’s ... indispensable. And I wouldn’t exchange that for the world, not for wealth nor wisdom. 

But some of my brothers and sisters take pride in precisely those things; so called wealth and so called wisdom. They’ve secured a high standing for themselves and are desperate to defend their independence. They won’t let anyone hold them up or hold them down, they think their honour is at stake. And at the Table they won’t even wait, everything is a race to the top. Even in worship. Words that were once spoken to God alone have become a resounding gong and an endless drone. 

I’m glad Paul wrote to remind us of who we were when we were called; without wisdom and without honour, weak and wounded, foolish and frail. And Christ our Lord has born our weaknesses and our foolishness; he has become for us our strength, our righteousness, and our redemption. That’s what Paul wanted us all to remember. Sophia: the wisdom of God, the Spirit of God, the power of God. 

I praise you our God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Brother

A reflection inspired by a story Jesus told about a father and his sons (Luke 15:11-32), informed by Tim Keller's 'The Prodigal God', and encouraged by Malcolm Gordon's song 'Won't You Come Home', written from the perspective of a younger sister in the household. 

(NB: If you want to read this, you have to read it out loud to yourself.) 

     I. 

Brother, you’ve been gone too long.

you packed your bags months ago

but you’d left long before

you walked out that door.

You made your escape in your imagination

and only your shadow remained in our midst.

What were you waiting for?

You could have cut the cords

quickly and cleanly.

Instead,

you pulled at unravelling threads.

Now our lives are frayed

split and separated.

And you asked him to do it,

to split the inheritance,

to separate the land and sell it off

so you could have your share.

But what you were really asking him to do

was to separate himself from you,

that split his heart in two.

But you never knew

how words that were spoken

left gentle hearts broken.

You never knew

because you shielded your eyes

as you said your goodbyes.

If only you knew

how we loved you.

You’re my brother

and I never

wanted you to leave.

Won’t you come home?

     II.             

Brother, you’ve been gone too long.

Dad’s been waiting for you

ever since you went away.

He stands for hours looking down the lane,

one hand on his back, one hand on his cane.

He’s delusional in his old age;

every day he asks our brother,

“where’s my child?

Where's my boy?

When’s he coming home?”

“How am I to know?!” he shouts at our father.

“Am I my brother’s keeper?!”

He’s been missing you, you know,

our brother, the first born, the beneficiary of the estate.

He’s been missing you, but he’d never admit it.

He’s working himself into the ground, you know,

just to forget that you’re not around.

Busy forgetting.

Busy fretting.

Mum’s been doing that too –

fretting, that is, not forgetting.

Her eyes well up each time she remembers

how her child is out of her reach,

how her child is beyond her grasp.

She breathes out a sob and breathes in a gasp.

She doesn’t know where you are,

            and it worries her.

She doesn’t know how you are,

            and it wounds her.

With both hands on her heart

she wails in fits and starts,

it’s tearing this family apart.

It’s as if you were dead, only worse.

I wish you were dead.

At least then we’d know where you are.

Instead,

you could be anywhere.

Anywhere but here

            where you are loved

            where you belong.

I’ve been missing you too,

every time I’ve been thinking of you.

And I think of you all the time,

brother of mine.

You’re my brother,

and I need you here.

Won’t you come home? 

 
     III.             

Brother, you’ve been gone too long.

So, I’ve packed my bag too,

I’m coming to find you.

Our brother says I’m being ridiculous,

he says I’ll die out there.

I know he’s right,

but I don’t know if he cares.

I hardly recognise him anymore,

he's not who he was before.

He’s bitter,

         broken,

         bereft.

Only I am left,

both my brothers are dead.

My father has two lost sons.

One is far, one is near;

both are loved, both are heirs.

My father has two loved sons.

My brothers, your inheritance

is neither land nor livestock, but love;

neither materials nor money, but mercy.

Brothers, by birth you belong,

since birth you are beloved.

“Come! Quickly!” I hear my father call.

“My son is here! Here is my son!”

With legs in full stride

and arms open wide,

he runs.

With cloak waving

and voice trailing,

he runs.

With everybody staring

and not even caring,

he runs.

You’re my brother,

and you’ve come back,

you’ve come home.

            

     IV. 

Brother, you’ve been gone too long.

Come and eat,

come to the feast.

Let the whole household celebrate,

let the whole family rejoice!

For you were lost and then found,

you are now safe and sound.

You are here, you are held, you are home.

He’s given you his cloak and his ring,

people laugh, and dance, and sing.

But someone is missing.

When will my eldest brother come in?

He’s out in the fields, has anyone told him?

Wait, he won’t like this, no, not at all.

If he comes in there’ll surely be a brawl.

It’s too late, he’s here, but he won’t come in,

instead, he calls the old man out to him.

“What have you done?” I hear my brother say,

“I don’t want him here, send him away!

He’s caused enough hurt,

he's caused enough pain!

I never left, I never disobeyed.

All these years I’ve been slaving for you,

don't deny it, you know that it’s true!”

“My child,” he says, “you’re not my slave, you’re my son.

I know you’ve been hurt by what your brother has done.

My child, you are always with me,

I will always love you.

I have given you all I ever had

and now it’s time to celebrate and be glad.

Celebrate; my child is here, my child is home.

Celebrate; your brother is here, your brother is home.

Celebrate; you are here, you are home.

This is where my children belong.”

“But I’ve been here this whole time!” the eldest says.

“I’ve been here this whole time and you never celebrated.

No calves, no goats,

no rings, no cloaks.

Nothing. You never gave me anything!”

One of my brothers is home

but I’m afraid my other brother will leave.

He can’t go though,

we can’t go through this again.

Here is where this family belongs.

“My child,” our father whispers again,

“you are always with me,

I have always loved you.

My child, won’t you come in?”

He stares my brother full in the face.

With his hands open at his side, he waits.

You’re my brother
and you are loved.

This is your home.

Leaving

New Zealand scores shockingly high on the domestic abuse scale. This breaks my heart, and the following poem is what fell out. I want to protect you from the words and imagery used here, but more than I want to protect you, I want to protect those for whom this is a reality. So I'm turning the light on to help us see these things for what they are and to cry out for justice on behalf of the voiceless. 

He’s hurting me.

He’s holding my wrists in his hands and he’s hurting me.

My fists are clenched tight.

His fingers are white.

He towers over me and ties me up with words.

I cower before him and fight to find freedom.

In the struggle I kick

                 and curse

                 and crumble.

My knees hit the floor, hands raised, head lowered.

Limp limbs held fast in his fists.

He throws my hands from his,

telling me I could leave,

but I’d never be able to live without him.

He’s right, I could leave.

But I can’t move.

My body is bound, a heap on the ground.

I find shelter between the wall and the door.

I just don’t know what to do anymore.

My voice cries out to the God above,

“How long, O Lord, must I call for help,

                                  before you will listen?

                                  before you will save?

Why do you wait and watch

while strife unfolds and injustice abounds?

Why are you so far from saving me?

Where are you?"

"Wake up," you whisper, "open your eyes."

The nightmare is over. 
  
You’re right there, right here.

You’re healing me.

You’re holding my hands in yours and you’re healing me.  

My palms are marred.

Your palms are scarred.

You come to us and cover the corruption between us,

I wait before you and find rest in your freedom.

In your peace I breathe

                and live

                and belong.

My knees are no longer next to my chest

as my body unfolds
and my spirit is told,

you will never leave me nor forsake me.

You’re right, you won’t leave.

With you, I live.

Now I can move.

I know just what to do.

We Belong

Being the shortest of the months, February is almost over. For me, this month began out in the wops with a bunch of young adults who are eager to live lives of faith with integrity and intentionality. I had the privilege and the pleasure of being a bit of a mentor to some of the participants. We talked and taught, we sang and sat silent, we played and we prayed. 

One night, around midnight, I sat down with Zoe, Tessa and Trevor (Petra lay down on the couch and went to sleep). We had a pen or two and some paper, and a couple of guitars. Life happens differently when it’s late at night and your body and your brain are tired. In our fatigue we discovered a lullaby; a song to put our souls at rest. 

I learnt something about God that night; something about us partnering in the creation of stuff; something about us being made in the image of God the Creator. I had some words, Tessa had some music, Zoe had some melodies, Trevor had some questions, and Petra had a stillness for us to sing over. 

I rejoiced as words became lyrics, and lyrics became a melody, and a melody became a song - a song that gets stuck in my spirit. 

I wrote the words a while back. They were about the people of St Paul’s Church in Katikati. They were about journey and pilgrimage and being loved by God and by one another. But they were always about more than just the people of St Paul’s; they were about the disciples on the road to Emmaus, they were about the different people I’ve journeyed with along the way, they were about The Way. I don’t have the words to describe what I mean – that’s what the song is for. 

What was even more exciting was when Sam turned our late night strumming with sore fingers on steel stringed guitars into something beautiful. For me to share this with you I had to try my luck at movie making. I’ve used an image depicting the story of the disciples on the road to Emmaus. I don’t know who this picture belongs too; you’ll have to ask Jason, he’s the one who introduced me to this work of art (Jason and Google). 

This is “We Belong”. This is for you.