Spirituality Theatre Philosophy Theology
The Temptation of St. Anthony by Fernand Khnopf
I dreamt again of you last night,
You pressed yourself into my life.
I told you that it was not fair,
You smiled and said there was no harm.
You temptress of my private thoughts.
But were you right to make me calm?
Or should I resist your enticing snare?
The figment that I saw was not my wife,
But my subconscious in confusèd fight.
Written in the morning of Saturday 11th August 2018.
“Do you feel upheld by God?”
She asked,
“I do not feel enough to know.”
I replied.
This question now reverberates
Inside my inner hollowness.
May it be that God is my grief?
For my grief holds me and not I it.
I cannot express or contain it
But it has got me pegged for sure.
It is a form of comfort
To reimagine this fearful foe
As a friend who will defend me
From the hollowness inside.
Written after meeting my spiritual director and discussing a question from my mum on Thursday 2nd August 2018.
Woman With Dead Child by Käthe Kollwitz
I have played the grieving husband
But do not know the pain,
For in my grief an ego lives
One that must be slain.
How easy is the public grief,
The softened eyes and grimaced smile,
The private grief torments me more
With no witness in the trial.
I perfected my performance
And praised was I in that;
But the play had not yet started
‘Til all alone I sat.
I’m told to cling to memories
But this already I have learnt:
She was no imagined idol
A made-up dream that can be burnt.
No, real was she and unplanned,
Her quirks are what I miss.
What beauty it was to watch her
Surprise me with a kiss.
I will play the grieving husband
For my public need me to grieve,
But how do I learn to live without
When all the people leave?
Written on Thursday 2nd August 2018 having started to read C.S. Lewis’ ‘A Grief Observed’.
Colourful Psychedelic Spiral by spotty
They talk of it as a journey,
A slow walk in a direction.
They say that it’s like travelling
In new landscape and tough terrain
But it is a cyclical spiral.
It’s seen as a pilgrimage,
A slow exploring along a way.
It’s said to be like moving
Through stages and five phases
But it is not as linear as that.
From denial to acceptance
Step by step they advise.
Complete the level before progressing
To voyage towards ‘ok’.
It just doesn’t work like that.
They talk you through the journey
Directing you through unknown.
They say you’ll need help travelling
In the new, tough chapter of your life.
I think I’ve been here before.
I am a pilgrim in foreign lands,
Slow in the new things as I go.
I move through each day…
What stage am I at?
I thought I’d dealt with that.
I still don’t believe it’s happened
Don’t ******* give me advice!
If you could help me to progress on
I’ll give you anything I can…
It just doesn’t work like that.
Orientation.
Disorientation.
Reorientation.
Disorientation
And around we go.
It is indeed a journey,
A slow walk round the truth.
It is just like travelling
Into a new life and out of the old;
A cyclical spiral.
I am a constant pilgrim now
Following slowly the Way.
He’s moving stuff inside of me,
Readjusting what is there;
It’s a messy job.
He works with deniers
And challenges accepters too,
He has all eternity to complete me
And make me treasure out of dust.
That’s how it works.
Written on Sunday 29th July 2018.
by Hidden Velvet
I’ve tried to be brave
Just as I promised
In those easier times of past.
I’ve tried to be strong
For good and for others
But today I can’t see how it lasts.
The truth is she’s gone
And hears me no more
And conversations have finished for now.
Those songs and the banter
No one else could devise
Are fading so quickly somehow.
“Memories are comfort.”
They say in your grief,
They’re just being helpful, I guess.
But what good is Then
When she lived in the Now
How do I settle for less?
When your grief drags you down
And you fear the dark pool
Of depression and loneliness too,
How do I weep
Those deep private tears
Which she always instinctively knew?
When you don’t want the pity
And the sympathy’s ‘fine’
But all that you need is her kiss,
Sometimes it’s painful
Just sit on your own
As you constantly remember her bliss.
The hope that I spoke
As we waved goodbye,
Is a meal that is meant to sustain.
I’m guessing it’s natural
To feel it get stuck
In my throat as it starts to constrain.
The journey is guesswork
Without her as guesser
And I realise how much I relied
On her simple wisdom
And presence to boot.
So I’m left to guess why she died.
And strong I will be
And brave at times
But today I just want to cry.
It’s healthy, I know,
Ashamed I won’t be
But I have to admit that lied.
I lied to you in truth,
As you struggled to breathe,
I said that I would be fine.
I may well be
In few months time
But for now I’m making your shrine.
That is not healthy.
She’s safely away.
I shouldn’t hold on, I know.
But just for the moment
I need a quick fix
And so I succumb to not letting go.
Written as I sat near my wife’s grave on Wednesday 25th July 2018; the first time since her funeral.
I
A fragile princess, as of glass
In tow’r high, locked away
For her own good the king and queen
Placed her there and there to stay.
No windows but a tiny chink,
The light, a mem’ry fade.
Alone for now but not her choice
But her they did persuade.
Cursed was she and from her birth,
A curse that held her tight.
It stopped her from roaming free
Despite how much she might.
At any moment it would strike
And rob her of her friends
The very things that gave her joy
And they would make amends.
Everyday she’d risk her life
To be with them and love.
O, how frustrating was this curse
And the solitude thereof.
The king and queen protected her
Frustrated too they were.
The tower was for her own good
But freedom they’d prefer.
II
To find a charming prince, there was
A quest through her whole life.
One to protect her from the world
And take her as his wife.
Many a suitor there had been,
The king and queen did test
Each one on who would seek to care
For their frail daughter best.
But this cursed girl would rather have
Shared adventure and fun.
An equal to watch over her
And encourage her to run.
Each candidate was surely fun
But failed they did on this:
To look to her own flourishment
And their own cares dismiss.
Many had fallen at these trials,
The king and queen did think
Their little girl might have to live
Her life alone and shrink.
But bold and brave she proceeded
Her uncertain life embraced.
Enjoyed the dalliance of these men
But alone her trials faced.
III
Then, one day, a far-fetched man
From far off country came,
To try his hand at trials set
And her fair hand to claim.
At first the princess was not keen,
His looks were not quite right.
Some unpleasant flaws he had
And grumpy he was to sight.
Stubborn and demanding he was
And difficult to know,
But it was these same traits he had
Stopped her in her flow.
He wasn’t what she wanted
But persistent he became
The princess fell in love with him
As they played their wondrous game.
And so the desperation turned
Into affection craved.
From affection into friendship
And then to love enslaved.
Then the moment where he faced
The trials and the test
How would he fair against the curse
And in their future rest?
IV
Love, the princess began to see,
Was more than first impressions;
In fact love changes the way you see
People and their expressions.
Something you once thought ugly,
When looked at technically,
Changes in appearances
And shifts aesthetically.
So some strange and unusual gift,
That’s puzzling at first sight,
Through those altering lens of love
Become all sweet and light.
A choice it is but hard to do,
Painful at certain times,
To see past others’ failures made
and forgive them of their crimes.
As the princess watched her man
Face up to curse and trial,
She found he fought unlike the rest
And showed some secret guile.
He was not brave as others were
But he did make her smile,
And it was this same outlook shared
That led her down the aisle.
V
Now the pauper became her prince
But not your usual kind,
He seemed transformed by secret power
To which he seemed quite blind.
The princess taught him much in life,
Like how to laugh and trust,
And as they journeyed near and far
The more he seemed robust.
Her life did seem to lilt on him,
Just like a soft refrain,
And softened out his outer quirks
And healed his inner pain.
Despite his lack of social grace
And clumsiness in speech,
With the princess standing by,
The prince began to teach.
Who was he to speak such things
For she was the lesson learnt?
But still the secret power wrought
Changes as old lies burnt.
Together they grew into a team
One flesh they did become.
When thought you one the other too
Would beat their mutual drum.
VI
Joined were they by faithful friends
Those who shared their power,
The princess, with the prince they sought
To save her from her tower.
The curse continued unabated
And tried to steal her soul.
But war they waged for all it’s worth
And fought to keep her whole.
The princess and her prince remained
Upheld by secret guard.
It seemed their story was being writ
By Destiny as bard.
And finally they both discovered
That Love himself was he,
This secret force that shaped their view
And would the captives free.
Love, their story was re-telling
The curse in new light seen.
To the pair, he freedom gave
And to the king and queen
Strength to face all life brought
To recast all the strain
Through the altering lens of love
Brought joy out of the pain.
VII
But now an epilogue I tell
The princess now has died.
Her lonely prince now mourns her death
And many tears he’s cried.
The king and queen bereft are they
But Love still has a way
To teach them all how to witness
The coming brighter day.
The curse did overwhelm their girl
But won it did not do,
In victory it boasts and chides
But it’s jumped ahead a cue.
Their princess rests in peace awhile,
While all the scenery’s set
Ready for the second act
When all the players are met.
With this story, Love’s not done,
There is still more to add.
The climax has not yet been reached
And still twists to be had.
Yes, Love his final gift to give
Our princess will still live,
And the curse with pain and gall
Will with the final curtain, fall.
This is a poetic rewrite of a fairytale I wrote my wife on her 29th birthday as part of a treasure hunt I sent her on. I have added an epilogue to conclude the story.
This is the sermon I preached at my wife’s funeral. Many people have asked to see a copy and so I publish it here in full.
The first reading was Psalm 139:1-18
The gospel reading was a dramatised version of Mark 5:21-43 performed by Sarah’s dad, Ian Birkinshaw from his show The Gospel of Mark
Psalm 139 was an obvious choice for today for two reasons: One. It was Sarah’s favourite Bible passage bar none! Whenever she needed to teach young people about life with God she’d talk them through Psalm 139. She knew it almost off by heart (which with her memory was amazing!) I never thought to ask her, however, why it meant so much to her. The second reason that Psalm 139 was an obvious choice for today is because I always use it when I conduct funerals. It is a great funeral psalm.
When I use it for other people’s funerals I talk about how days like today are times to tell stories. We all know this person, some more intimately than others, but none of us know all the parts to the whole story. As a Christian, I say, I believe there is one person who has been there at every moment not only watching the outside life but also listening in to the inner life too. There is one who has heard every whispered hope or cried lament, each unfounded fear and every guilty pleasure. God has heard it and seen it all. I conclude by saying that the final judgement is not as medieval art would have us see it, as we cower before a detached judge; rather, the final judgement is an intimate meeting with our loving Lord as he quietly whispers into our ear our true story as he saw it. This story will be truer than even the stories we have told ourselves. For this judge knows the truth of us better than we know it ourselves. I believe we will all meet with him when we die and he will tell our stories to us. And so, I say at normal funerals, this psalm encourages us to tell the stories of this person and, as you do so, know that, by doing it, you are participating in an act of God; therefore, listen to how he would tell the story and be faithful to that telling…
But this is not a normal funeral, for me.
All of that is still important to say but today there is something more I’d like to add, and it is an attempt at answering my unasked question as to why Psalm 139 was so important to Sarah. The verse,
All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
I always avoid highlighting this verse in normal funerals because there’s too much theological nuance needed to explain it but, despite her constant eye rolling at my love of theology, Sarah would be happy to hear me ‘download my brain’, as she called it, and give some ‘Ned’s notes’, So here they are…
I don’t believe that this verse means that God knows everything we’re going to do before we do it. Sarah and I agreed that God is far more collaborative than that. He has freely chosen, out of love for us, to work with our free will; our choices. So when the psalmist writes that ‘all the days ordained for me’ are written in his book I don’t think they mean it as some detailed diary entry nor can I imagine it is some magic number, like a death counter. 30 years, 12 weeks, 2 days until death! I read this passage as the psalmist reminding themself that our days are finite; they are numbered. God has put a limit on this life. Sarah, more than most of us, acknowledged and accepted that. Sarah said in an interview once,
The unexpected gift of cystic fibrosis is that we tend to live life more intentionally than those who are well, because our eye is always on the clock.
Sarah lived her life in the shadow of Death but we cannot comfort ourselves by saying that that is because she had CF. We all live in the shadow of Death; Sarah just embraced it. In the hundreds (if not thousands) of responses to Sarah’s death there are some repeated phrases or sentiments; one of them is that she was so full of life despite her illness. If you thought that, or felt it, then let me say to you what Sarah said to many in the past,
There’s nothing stopping you from doing the same.
Yes, celebrate the life she effortlessly lived but learn how to live like that too; acknowledge that your days are numbered. Before you think that this means that Sarah erred the other way and was one who believed in, ‘drink and be merry for tomorrow we die.’ You’d be wrong. Sarah was not some bucket list sort of person, she never sought to please herself because she didn’t want to have any regrets. The numbering of Sarah’s days was balanced by a deep understanding and belief in resurrection and the life eternal. This life is limited. Her life is forever.
So what of the story of Jairus’ daughter and the haemorrhaging woman? This too seemed pretty obvious: it was the set reading for the Sunday before Sarah died, it was a story so many people used to cry out for a last minute recovery and restoration of Sarah but far more significantly than all of that; it is the story Ian, Sarah’s dad, associates with his own ‘daughter’. As he performs Mark’s gospel, it is this one story that has caused him to reflect on Sarah. This story tells of a daughter who is sick and of a father who turns to Jesus and pleads for a miracle. In the story the daughter dies before Jesus gets to her. In the end, however, Jesus raises the daughter from death and restores her to her father. Cynics amongst us might say, “But Sarah didn’t get raised. She is still dead.”
The second story, of the women healed of bleeding, should not be seen as a detour or interruption to the main account of Jairus and his beloved child. This story also has something to tell us today about healing. This woman had suffered for 12 years and doctors had tried all they could to heal her. She bows before Jesus and reaches out to touch his robe; she does not speak to him, maybe she can’t bear to phrase the request… maybe she didn’t have the breath to say it but she is still healed.
A month ago I was preaching on healing at Saint Peter’s Church where Sarah and I have served together. I talked about Sarah then and said that the downward trajectory of Sarah’s health over the years often masks and hides the many miracles that God has performed along the way. In the final week of Sarah’s life we were told continually by the wonderful staff on the CF Ward,
…but Sarah always surprises us.
God has always surprised us.
Ian, Adele, Pete and I have had front row seats over the years to countless miracles, as Sarah bounces back; again and again, against the odds. People call it tenacity, strength, resilience; it is all these things but have you ever wondered where it all comes from? In the end, however, as Sarah removed her mask for the last time and chose to finish the fight; I can sense that Jesus turned towards her and was still able to say,
Go in peace and be set free from your suffering.
A healing but not in the way we would have had it.
And so to the daughter; still dead. Jesus tenderly speaks over her,
Little girl, I say to you, get up.
Sarah is not dead but asleep and Sarah was not afraid of death, she believed that when
Jesus returns he will speak over all his children,
Awake, arise. Get up.
And we will all awake together to songs of joy and great dancing. This is the hope that gave Sarah all the qualities you have been witness to for as long as you have known her.
So let me be blunt with you all. After today I do not want to hear people say to me,
I don’t know how Sarah did it.
I’ll tell you how, the one, singular, exclusive, unique, solitary reason: Jesus.
There is no other way that Sarah lived the way she did. Sarah would not give any wiggle room on that and nor will I. If you want to know the answer to that wondering: it is Jesus. Sarah has followed Jesus into death, not once but everyday; a continual surrendering into a death of this life but she bore the fruit of resurrection, day by day being transformed into the likeness of the first-fruits: Jesus.
If you have wished more people would be like Sarah, well; it starts with you. And if you want to live more like Sarah then you’re going to have to follow her in being more like Jesus. The hope, the joy, light, the life, the strength; all of it was Jesus shining through her. You have witnessed the resurrection life. That is what it was! And there is no other way to do it. There is no short cut. The journey is not as effortless as Sarah made it look: she was just well practiced. it is a tricky path to tread and many fear going down it but there is no other way to bear the fruit of resurrection, as Sarah did, than to start.
If you want to start but are afraid then I will pray for you. I will pray a prayer that Ian prayed over Sarah in her final days; a prayer that is adapted from a line of Sarah’s favourite comedian, Harry Hill’s,
That’s it, Jesus… you help.
Valley of Aosta: Snow Storm, Avalanche and Thunderstorm by JMW Turner
The shore is safe to watch the waves;
A remote, observing enclave.
One’s theories of the surging storm
Helps not the journey to transform.
O, dare to learn to ride the ebb
The boundless, ceaseless, water web.
Avoiding danger as the norm
Helps not the journey to transform
In the vastness, cool and daunting,
The depths become very haunting,
But staying on the beach so warm
Helps not the journey to transform.
There are times when all is turmoil,
The winds conspire your life to spoil;
To shun this necessary swarm
Helps not the journey to transform.
In spacious swell you’ll swim and hang
And look back at the coast with pangs
Of memories of life lukewarm:
This starts the journey to transform.
The waves will shape you if you will,
Through heave and pitch, the pain and chill.
O ride, my soul, ride out the storm!
This starts the journey to transform.
Written on Sunday 22nd July 2018.
Tomorrow I take you to bed to rest
In peace you will lie down in hope to rise.
Processed through sparkled friends with shouts and cries.
Begin will we our begrudged parting blessed,
As you lead me to that secluded place
And to this lonely future me to face.
But those same friends in sequins found,
Will shower me with tears abound,
Laughter and sorrow mingled then,
Our prayers are answered with, “Amen.”
For some a day, for ‘us’ some time,
Our journey up together climb.
Written on the day before my wife’s funeral on Thursday 19th July 2018.
Wanderer Over A Sea Of Fog by Casper David Friedrich
Awashed am I with feelings
My head cannot pin down.
Naming them is fruitless
They’re not exhibit nouns.
To label is to know them
Classified and understood.
To give to them a title
Really will not do me good.
Accept, lie back and let them
Immerse me in their depths,
To teach me of their truths
And their unmeasured breadth.
Too soon I go to thinking,
Discerning what this is,
“How do I handle it?”
Like revising for a quiz.
But I’ll embrace my feelings,
My head will have to wait
It will learn to befriend
These instinctive inner traits.
Written on Monday 16th July 2018