Bethlehem

Actually, there is a star
over your house
tonight.

Several.

Some of them
are 10 billion years old.

(One was born today
but it was on the other end of town,
behind the Genza galaxy,
and is just hanging quietly with its parent cloud,
awaiting instruction.)

There is, in fact, a group of stars
that I know personally
that guided travelers 
in canoes, and barges, and longboats
before sliced bread.
Before BREAD.

The stars are still out there,
cavorting tonight
above your very house.

Whether the magi
are headed there
as we speak,
I couldn’t say.

I do know of a certain Shams,
seen him at Pippa’s Sports Café,
pouring beer into his upturned telescope
and saying, to anyone who would listen,
that he was already there.

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Wenceslas Parker Looked Out

Wenceslas Parker looked out,
At Half-time of the Spurs game,
Wet and rainy all about,
Wind speed nearly hurr’cane.
Parker thanked his lucky stars,
Twas’ Boxing day in Leicester,
Work was closed, but not the bars,
Doctor Who and Grantchester.

When a poor man did alight,
From the Number 20,
Clothes a mess, a proper sight,
Scars on him aplenty.
Duck, where did that bloke come from?
Looks rougher than our Vardy,
E’s got no hat, his coat’s undone,
Lad must be feeling mardy.

Babe, he’s one of them refugees,
Comes all the way from Syria,
Seen him betting on the gees,
near Gilly’s cafeteria.
Parker cast aside the Sun,
Perched upon his noggin,
Duck, please put the kettle on,
fetch me my toboggan.

Sledding? You are having a laugh,
We’ve got no pot to piss in.
But bring the chap into our gaff,
Give him food and television.
So the Parkers greeted him,
Greeted him with banter,
Filled the glasses to the brim,
Emptied each decanter.

The home it came alive with mirth,
As they talked most pleasant.
That night there was some peace on earth,
There on Rancliffe Crescent.
Therefore, English folk be sure,
Though thou’d not be royal,
Anywhere you bless the poor
Is King Arthur’s soil.

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the Feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gathering winter fuel

Hither, page, and stand by me,
If thou knowst it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?
Sire, he lives a good league hence,
Underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I shall see him dine
When we bear them thither.
Page and monarch, forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude winds wild lament
And the bitter weather

Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how
I can go no longer.
Mark my footsteps, good my page
Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shall find the winters rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his masters step he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Ye, who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing.

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One Sweet Day

Time is not only linear.
Power is not only hierarchical.
Which explains how God, just yesterday,
opened the first window on her 99 cent Advent calendar,
found a chocolate angel within,
and was inspired to create the sunrise.

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The Miracle

The miracle is not, of course,
in the efficacy of the oil,
but is the fire burning in the Temple,
the fire burning eight days for the people.

War, like entropy,
is unremarkable,
one damn thing happening over another.
But in that day in Kislev,
a few people walked into the Temple,
removed the bloody cloths, and the faces of stone,
wet some cleaning rags to the task,and, using elbows and knees, with eyes open,
brought a memory of peaceback to the old place.

They lit the candles, one by one.
The flame is burning still.

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The Epic of Gilgamesh, for your viewing pleasure

In 2017, I adapted the epic of Gilgamesh (written by Sîn-lēqi-unninn) to a Ministerial closing ceremony. We don’t have a video of the original epic of Gilgamesh (first performed about 2100 BCE) but we fortunately, this version survives. Starring Rachel Priest, Rach Bourke, and several Unitarian ministers who were very good sports…

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Exist

Lately, I’ve been putting prayer on the to-do list.
I know, I know: there’s something spiritually amiss about this,
a lack of authentic devotionality, a careless mix-up of
the self-help priorities.

Worse, it’s sometimes sixth, or seventh on the list.
Some days, I don’t get there.
Some days, not quite getting my work done,
and staring endlessly at the tube,
or at the infernal, lithium two-by-four,
exhausted and aimless,
will have to count, somewhere, as prayer.

My son does me one better: he took the family calendar –
on the internet these days –
and wrote “exist” across every day,
Sunday to Saturday. That’s my kinda life goals.

So, today, I breathed in, again,
and out, once more. I’m here.
Not through any valiant effort, personally,
though the atoms in me have
coursed across vast space, planting cellular gardens
that defy the flaming sword of time.

Later, maybe, I’ll pray. Which isn’t as much as it sometimes sounds:
I breathe in, and I breathe out, and in snatches, I meet my maker.
I exist. I mark the calendar, and look at the sky, I’m here.
To-do list accomplished, another day, thanks to me and mine,
in the win column.

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An Alien Astronomer Reports on System B^DX4-2

System B^DX4-2 is a promising one. A single mid-size star, with a number of planets in orbit – 6 visible. Gravity tables put the likely total at somewhere between 8 and 16.

Star 1-B^DX4-2 is just post-midlife, stable ordinary. Nothing much to report. Of the planets, 2 stand out as being particularly interesting. B^DX4-2.# has a number of rings, presumably made of ice, rock, or plechs. It’s a stunningly beautiful planet. B^DX4-2.” is a nicely-sized storm ball, with terrific colours, pressure stripes, and a gradually diminishing anticyclonic formation. It could keep an avid astronomer watching for days, in quiet pleasure.

The other planets are small, presumably rocky, and difficult to say much of.

B^DX4-2 lies firmly within the life-sustenance vectors, and so there is the distant possibility that it hosts organic matter. While the probabilities are always slight to nothing, they are not nothing, and further study is required. Any life is more than likely microbiological and rudimentary. Still, we know in theory evolution could happen on other planets, just as it has here. Perhaps, they too have their astronomers, skurlling out from there anomedizers in our direction, and imagining what form they take. Perhaps they too enjoy long lunches, batamize in the evenings, and write poetry. Though it may be doggerel from our perspective, nevertheless, how humbling it is to be watched, in the mind’s kur, by the imagined watcher. We must never lose hope of the diminishment of our self-importance.

The files for System B^DX4-2 are stored in the database and available on alternative Tuesdays for inspection.

Respectfully submitted,

Chip

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The Trick

The trick
is to open your hands
wide enough
to hold the sunrise

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The 21st Century Congregant, Part 2: How Congregations Can Adapt

A few weeks ago, I wrote a piece called “The Century Congregant: A Profile”. I wrote about what we might expect from a typical attender to our chapels and fellowships and churches – aware that none of us are completely typical, but trying to get a broad sense of what the needs and interests are of those who arrived at our doors.

If you don’t want to read the whole essay, here’s the short version: many of our congregants these days are spiritually curious; are open to different beliefs and complexities of thought; are painfully aware of injustice, power imbalances, and our ongoing ecological catastrophe; tend to move around frequently in life, both geographically and philosophically; spend a lot of time online, for better or for worse; may have grown up unchurched and aren’t really interested in the “mechanics of church” such as committees and annual meetings; may be unable to feasibly attend Sunday services regularly; is feeling stretched thin by life and economic precariousness, and yearns for authentic community.

Does any of that ring true for you? It’s a composite picture, and not an exact picture by any means.

At the end of that essay, I promised to follow up “probably in a week or two” (it’s now a month and a half – I’d say that’s close enough!) with a sequel about how the implications of the 21st century congregant profile on how we “do church”. So here we go.

I begin with the assumption that congregations often have somewhat limited reserves of energy and enthusiasm. In our Unitarian and free Christian movement, we are blessed with incredible volunteers and talented ministers. But our congregations are on the small side, and most don’t tend to have the wherewithal to launch twelve-point plans with multi-staff teams. Furthermore, I don’t believe we need to. A congregation of four loyal people, who can put in an hour to help every now and again, can accomplish some pretty impressive things, I have found over the years. Here’s what I suggest.

  • Focus on the why, more than the what. Keep reflecting on what your congregation is all about. Why does it exist? I recognize not every congregant is a navel-gazing, frustrated philosophy graduate like myself (I pity you 😊), but these ruminations don’t need to be complicated. What do you like, and what do you value? “We like to be together, see each other’s faces, get to know each other.” Great – if that’s the case, obviously finding time for social gatherings and getting to know each other is going to be a priority. “We feel a sense of connection to the generations in our historic sanctuary.” Amazing, start from there, think about ways you might connect even deeper on your history. “The growing inequalities in our society have us fed up, and the way the homeless outside our sanctuary are treated breaks our hearts.” YES – acknowledging this is powerful and holy. Talk about it, pray about it, call an organisation that deals with poverty, talk to your neighbours.
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On a Grey and Rainy Morning

Everything under the sky gets ruined,
broken by raindrops,
whispered suggestions by the passing gales
that soon become promises.

The ten thousand things are busy
being destroyed utterly
this grey morning.

Even now, your bitterness, regret,
sorrow and care,
your hatred and pain,
your worst moments, and the clumping
of shame against your chest

Are being gently destroyed.
All of it already doomed.
All of it, flowers.

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