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.

O Little Town of Bethlehem

We spent last month retelling the Christmas story. There were angels who sang, and shepherds who ran, there were innkeepers who didn’t have any room, and there was a stable which was perfect because Mary’s baby would be born soon. All this singing and running and rooming and birthing happened in the little town of Bethlehem in Judea.

But this month there is another story emerging from another Bethlehem, the one in Tauranga, the one I can walk to from my little house on the hill. The story goes like this:

In Bethlehem in Tauranga there was a school. This school sent some students, some teachers, and some parents to a school in Ma’hanga in Kenya to build classrooms and to build
cross-cultural relationships. The people of Bethlehem were in a minivan on the Nairobi-Murang’a highway in the heavy rain. The van rolled and ran into a ditch. The crash claimed four lives and bruised many others.

This story feels like a far cry from the birth of Jesus Christ – a far, aching, guttural cry of grief.

But maybe it’s not too far. Jesus is known as the Suffering Servant; “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). The birth of Jesus Christ isn’t separated from his death, it’s the same life we’re talking about, it’s the same story. The story of how God became human, the story of how God came to be with us, the story of how God came so we could be home. Christmas points to Easter, where God is bringing light from darkness, hope from despair, and life from death.

Life and death. These two stories go together, like this: life, death, life. This is true for those who died in the crash in Kenya too. These faithful followers of Christ have been living God’s story; their lives tell the tale of a God who is compassionate and generous and so full of love it overflows. Their death doesn’t change that. Life, death, life – that’s how the story goes.

But for those who remain, those recovering in hospital and those racked with grief, know this: the Risen Christ is with you, his scarred hands hold yours and his bruised body bears yours. Your story is a part of God’s story, your life is a part of God’s life. 

Behold! God is making all things new. From Bethlehem in Judea to Bethlehem in Tauranga and everywhere in between. Someday soon there will be singing and running and rooming and rebirthing.

Maranatha, come Lord Jesus.

Of Camels and Kings

A reflection on Matthew 2:1-12 for Epiphany 2013

We’re travellers, we are. Traipsing our way across deserts and wandering in wide open spaces; tracking our way through valleys and over treacherous mountain ranges. 

How we wound up here in Bethlehem is beyond me. I’m just the bag boy, packing camels and carting water. The others, they’re the smart ones – the scholars. But out on the road, out in the wilderness, we’re all travellers wandering beneath the same sky. 

The sky! That’s where their heads are – always up in the clouds, always turned toward the heavens. These scholars – these astrologers – are forever consulting scrolls and counting the stars and charting the skies. They can’t get enough of it! They’re as excitable as children, and the gods know they’re grown men, old in years, long in the tooth. 

I feel like I have to be the sensible one, telling them we need to start thinking about making camp, the camels can’t carry on much longer and look, the light is fading. Despite the long days, they’re up all night gazing at the lights beyond. By dawn we’re on the move again as the sun emerges in the east. 

The East. That’s where we’ve come from, and come for what? For the dirty, dusty streets of Bethlehem?! For the beloved City of David?! This doesn’t look like any city I’ve ever seen before, and besides, who on earth is David? 

They say they’ve come for a king, but they saw the king when we were in the City of Jerusalem. King Herod, King of the Jews, that’s what he told them. I’ve always wanted to see a king; to be in the presence of a powerful ruler, to sit with them in their splendour. Maybe I’ll get my chance on the way back. When we were there I had to wait behind the palace with the beasts and the bags. Better luck next time, I hope. 

Yet King Herod told them to head to Bethlehem, so here we are. But this is no place for a king; no palace to accommodate him, no placards announcing the news of his birth, no sign of nobility…

But look a-yonder! Can you see that star?! How could you miss it?! This is the star they’ve been talking about all this time. Each night the men point to the sky and discuss the stars, telling me their names and teaching me about navigation. But tonight, tonight it’s like I’ve noticed this star for the first time, the way it blinks and beckons.

I bump into the back of a camel and shake my eyes off the night sky. Why have we stopped? I step to the side and see the Magi still and silenced – the wise with no words to say. It’s quite a sight; legs astride, eyes surprised, mouths open wide. I let out a laugh and it echoes along the empty streets. I hold my mouth with one hand and slap my knee with the other. The men throw back their heads and their bellies shake as their joy bursts from their bodies. How undignified, how delightful! 

No one can say a word, but we know we’ve arrived. We’ve caused such a ruckus a man comes to the door, but instead of cursing us he calls us to come in. I follow, leaving the animals to fend for themselves. Inside there’s a child and his mother. She’s not much older than me, and he’s just a wee boy. 

We bow to him, and for the second time tonight I put my hand to my knee as I lower my body to the floor. My fellow travellers bring forth their treasures; gold, frankincense, myrrh – gifts fit for a king. King of the Jews, they say, the Messiah, the Christ. But this is no ordinary king, not by any means. Yet I know, here in the back of beyond, far from any palace or place of honour, I am in the presence of a King. 

His name is Jesus, she says. He will be called 'Immanuel' the Magi say, Immanuel, God with us.

I make a face and the child grins at me. I grin back. How glorious! God is with us!