The Sower

Borne on the breeze, His seeds are scattered,
Seemingly spread at the whim of the wind.
Some will find purchase, some will lie battered,
But each holds the code to a life without end.

And so go the words of the Sower in question,
Cloth-eared disciples are handed the key.
But Truth only germinates when it’s clandestine,
Faith is the blind spot that’s needed to see.

Strewn on the pathway, His seeds are downtrodden,
Then come the birdies to pick the plate clean.
The words have been heard but then quickly forgotten,
An email from heaven lost somewhere downstream.

It’s hard to hear truth when it’s had such a bashing:
Deepfakes and chatbots and mad culture wars.
Savaged by soundbites and gone out of fashion,
Truth often seems like a desperate cause.

Devoted consumers hard-wired for compliance,
With comfort our default, we’re flattered by liars.
So how shall that voice that is finer than silence
Be heard in this market of artful desires?

His seed then alighted on dry, stony ground,
And speedily withered, possessing no roots.
These folks cried “Amen!” but then rapidly found
That walking the talk is a trying pursuit.

They heard all the words, but their hearts were too faint,
Were moved for a moment, but didn’t bed in.
The first sign of trouble, they filed a complaint:
Such fair-weather faith never really begins.

Spiritual tourists out shopping for highs,
Emotional junkies just spinning their wheels,
And when the bliss fades, they won’t wish you goodbye:
They might come tomorrow; they’ll see how they feel.

Others are smothered by briars and thorns,
Choking the seedlings and starving their fruit.
All smiles at church, but their souls are withdrawn,
Their minds have gone AWOL, the Word is on mute.

Lulled by suburbia’s siren slumber,
Dulled by the rhythm of daily cares,
Numbed by perplexities without number,
Succumbed to a dosage of mild despair.

They go through life’s motions as though it’s a game
While wired to devices designed to distract.
“The world’s on fire? That’s a terrible shame.
We’d love to commit, but our schedule is packed.”

Safe in their siloes, they’re cushioned from pain.
When living in Heaven it’s easy as pie
To imagine the Kingdom as more of the same
And never think why that a seed needs to die.

Yet what of the few that found nourishing ground?
Ah, now our sad litany takes a new turn.
The scattergun strategy seemed less than sound
But now its true genius may be discerned.

Their seed it sank deep in the dark soil of soul,
With slow, secret sustenance, swelled and took root.
Then the first germs of faith felt the sun and unscrolled
And new life erupted in gleaming, green shoots.

For they heard the Word and it rang in their ears,
Their hearts were invaded, their lives altered course.
Through trials and hardship they still persevered,
And they multiplied life with miraculous force.

For the Father He knows every seed that will grow;
No earthly appearance can give us a clue.
We must sow willy-nilly, to the four corners go,
Then watch open-mouthed as He makes all things new.

For our least word of faith is like gold in His hands,
For His light, self-propelled, vaults the vacuum of doubt
Till it pierces the heart and a soul understands,
And the high halls of Heaven resound with His shout!

Phil Clarke 2023

On Larkin's Solar

Philip Larkin's poem 'Solar' from his 1974 collection High Windows has meant a lot to me over the years. As a student, its psalm-like meditation on the sun's apparent munificence seemed to chime with my faith in God's providential care. Reflecting back now with a fuller appreciation of what the unbelieving poet was actually doing with this piece allows a clarity that even more strongly brings home to me the stark contrast between the life of faith and the experience of those without.

You can find Larkin's poem here: https://allpoetry.com/poem/8495653-Solar-by-Philip-Larkin

On Larkin's Solar

Your sun blinded me,
That heraldic metaphor.
The glow of my faith obscured
How truly unfurnished
Your heaven was.
How you turned each symbol
In the light like a gold

Coin. Each face showing now
Glory now shining
Blank. I was still in the
Psalms, mesmerized by that
Blissful bridegroom, that
Joyous hero. I still am.
No angels for you.

That old Jacob's Ladder
Just a prop for fond
Projections. You eyeballed
Truth's sere singularity
Till the void appeared
Like a pupil. Paying your debt
To beauty alone.

 
Phillip Clarke, 18 Apr 2023

 

Firmament

A thin blue line, the scantest sapphire wisp,

To separate all this terrestrial sphere

And every living wight that here subsists –

The blinking whelp, the seer of many years –

From cold and airless black. My chest feels tight

To think this sliver might accommodate

The rollercoasting history of life.

Yet ancient eyes looked up to contemplate

A sturdy dome of lapis lazuli,

A gleaming vault, divinely-wrought, designed

To dam up all the waters of the sky.

Copernicus and comets undermined

And cracked this Heaven's pavement, still I feel

The promise of that firmamental blue;

Solidity dissolves but to reveal

A deeper constancy, a law more true.

 

For all is motion, world on whirling world

Careening through the night, yet kept on course

And governed by the same momentous word

That called them forth. We like to reinforce

Our tender faith with metaphors of stone

But, truth be told, our trust is better placed

In neither rock nor sky, but Him alone

Who carved His little wards this breathing space.

 

For we ourselves are dust, we'll blow away,

Our greatest feats but eddies in the breeze.

The One alone who wrote our DNA

Can recollect our atoms, should He please.

Yes we are dust, but turning in the light,

Mere motes adrift in glory borne aloft;

We have no up nor down, no left nor right,

We're wheeling through the dark – but never lost.

 

I chuckle at our insubstantial sky

Then watch it fade to twilight's mystic hue –

The wildest, deepest lapis lazuli

Beguiles my startled soul with boundless blue.

 

January 2023

Chesed

Courageous love, committed to the core,

Heroic constancy, unthought-of grace;

Enduring faithfulness forevermore

Set like a seal upon our fickle race;

Extraordinary kindness undeserved,

Determined care, by cold hearts undeterred.

Fili, December 2022

Tutu

In Cape Town, thousands pay their last respects,

Outside St George's queue in heavy rain

To view his simple casket and reflect

A moment, cross themselves, and leave again.

Their Tata lies in state, their grief's sincere:

This fiery little priest who took to task

The mighty for their sins, who showed no fear,

And asked the questions no one else could ask,

They simply knew that he was on their side.

Some there for sure recalled another day –

The Arch was in full flow when doors flung wide

And filing in, their weapons on display,

Policemen lined the walls, recorders live

To capture his incriminating words.

But Tutu spoke and looked them in the eye:

"You're powerful, but know I serve a Lord

Who can't be mocked – you have already lost!"

Then stepping from the pulpit flashed his smile,

"So, I invite you now to come across

And join the winning side!" And every aisle

Erupted into praise! A dancing mass

Spilled out into the streets. Police fell back,

The forces of Apartheid at a loss,

Disarmed by joy. See how the smallest crack

Admits the light of hope, and demons cower!

For Tutu knew that it is not enough

To rail for justice, hammer truth to power:

The victory that lasts belongs to Love.

Forgiveness isn't easy, but it's worth

The grace it takes to sacrifice your right,

And stem the urge to pay back hurt for hurt,

To break the chain of hatred, that despite

The truth of evils done, new hope may form

For healing and for peace. This Tutu knew

Too well, for he had walked that road before.

And as he heard the victims' tales and, too,

Their violators', there and then he wept.

But all who knew this man spoke of his joy,

That cackle, and the sense of fun that kept

Him grounded – that no cancer could destroy.

And now the angels join to line his way,

All blowing vuvuzelas as they jive,­

Now welcoming this saint in royal array

To Jesus’ Rainbow Nation in the sky.

But Tutu’s spirit has not gone away,

The Lord with perfect timing marks his life.

For with a pun too obvious to miss,

(the kind the Arch himself could not resist)

He hints, “To get through 2022,

Just think 2-2 and you’ll know what to do!”

 

Haiku III

 

Interred in the earth,

concealed in black crumbs of death,

a bulb dreams of spring.

Haiku II

 

Late winter, a lake.

The downdraught of unseen wings

disturbs dark waters.

Haiku I

December. Tiny

bug circumnavigating

my hand. Gentleness.

Statues

The gallant sun vaults lightly overhead
But I am stalled. This daze of déjà-days
Has thinned my spirit to a spider-thread.
Imprisoned with myself, my self I face.
What stranger now upbraids my gentle boy
With words so cold? I numbly recognize
The sterile rage, now spitting unalloyed:
Where now the father, genial and wise?
A memory arrives of playground chat.
I made a face, then came the swift retort:
"The wind'll change, and you'll be stuck like that!"
The thought remains, and I am brought up short.
No statue knows the wind upon its face,
But does it feel that final gust of grace?

Reflections on the process of creation from Genesis 1

God's Creative Process

• God is always prior
• Creation is potential
• God is intimately present by His Spirit alongside creation
• God speaks a good word that reflects His good nature, calls forth sthg that is not yet (sometimes its purpose is explicit, sometimes hidden)
• That new reality comes into being (sometimes it springs into being instantly; other times it requires further fashioning) Rom 4:17 "the God in whom he believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist."
• God sees that it is good (n.b. Hebrew tov does not mean 'perfected', far from it, it means packed with further creative potential)
• God distinguishes and separates it from that which it is not (calls it out)
• God names it, endowing it with the dignity of its own being
• It inaugurates/fulfils its purpose 

Our Creative Process

• Sons and Daughters of God are God's image-bearers and partners in bringing in His New Creation, He has chosen to work through them
• They see the hidden Kingdom potential in the wilderness and people around them
• Their personal presence wherever God has placed them, as bearers of the divine image and presence, makes a real difference
• They declare in faith new realities as yet unseen that reflect the goodness and generosity of God
• That new reality is initiated/uncovered in the heavenlies and is inaugurated in the earth
• They and God look on it with faith, encouragement and approval
• They acknowledge and give it its own unique new place in the new creation order
• They name it. In Ge 2:19 we see God's excitement as He shows Adam the creatures He has lovingly made, to see what he will call them. "And whatever the man called every living creature, that was its name." God deliberately leaves aspects of His good creation open to be completed by us, then confirms our free choice. This is our high calling and our deep privilege as His creative image-bearers.
• It inaugurates/fulfils its purpose
• Rest, and repeat with new variations! :)

Key differences

We are not the Creator, so our speech-acts of sub-creation are acts of uncovering what is already potential in God's good creation; but until we unlock them, they are not fully real, not yet "created". Invention is discovery, both of the incredible potentials God has built into His good creation, and of our own genuine creative potential as His image-bearers restored through the grace of His Son. Our Father trusts us to exercise real power and authority in His New Creation, and is excited to see what His children will make of the world He has gifted to them.

Note

As we meditate on all of this, it is vital for God's Word to dwell in us richly, and to keep in close step with His Spirit so as to grow in wisdom, maturity and discernment, and so avoid the errors and excesses of parts of the Word-Faith Movement. We do not merely speak into being whatever we fancy, naming it and claiming it, but, just as we are being remade into the image of Christ, praying and suffering with Him in the wilderness of this world, so we also share in His glory, the joy of beholding in faith a New Creation unfolding, speaking it into being with Him who has called us out of darkness into His wonderful light :)

Bezalel ben-Uri ben-Hur (repost) Ex 31:1–6

Called by name into My shadow,
Son of Uri, Son of Hur,
From the royal tribe of Judah,
You will undertake the work.

Flowing with My Spirit’s wisdom,
Knowing tricks from every trade,
Understanding things unfathomed,
Shadow Me, My protégé.

There is nothing you can’t tackle,
Son of Fire, my brightest spark:
You will build My Tabernacle,
You will make My Holy Ark.

Son of White, uncharted canvas,
Craftsman of the Tribe of Praise,
In your hands My Spirit dances,
Virtuosity ablaze.

As you prise My pure Menorah
From a solid, gleaming block,
I’ll delight in your bravura,
Scent the worship in your work.

Cherubim and almond blossom,
Might and beauty wrought in gold;
Universe in microcosm,
Body of My Word foretold.

With you I’ve equipped another,
Made to serve the Father’s Tent,
Son of a Supportive Brother,
Lo, Oholiab I’ve sent –

You’re the gaffer, he’s the gopher,
You’re his mentor, he’s your man;
You’re conductor, I’m composer,
He’s the leader of the band.

Not for pedigree I picked him,
From the doubtful Tribe of Dan: 
All whose hearts I’ve given wisdom
Lend their talents to My plan.

Wisdom laid the Earth’s foundations,
Understanding raised the skies,
Knowledge loosed the hidden oceans,
Coaxed the evening dew to rise.

Wisdom oversees the building,
Understanding girds the roof,
Knowledge furnishes it, gilding
All its treasure-store with truth.

Children of My inspiration,
Made as makers, take your part,
Spell the letters of creation,
Test your tools and make a start.

Carpenters and curtain-weavers,
Artists, seamstresses and smiths,
Joiners, jewellers and engravers,
Come and harmonise your gifts. 

Hallow Me in your profession,
Saw and dovetail, Spirit-led,
Carve the furniture of Heaven,
Hammer gold to shining thread.

Weave the pattern I have chosen,
As you strain with every strand,
You will find your lives are woven,
Twined together by My hand. 

I am making you My People,
Wield My colours, let them sing;
White and scarlet, blue and purple,
Wholeness flows from Heaven’s King.

You will build My holy dwelling,
Not in Egypt, slaves oppressed,
But as workers, wise and willing,
Rising from your Sabbath rest.

You will pitch My Tent of Meeting,
Not in Canaan, honey-fed,
But as desert drifters seeking,
Daily humbled, Heaven’s bread.

Year by year, I’ll teach you freedom,
Hone your hearts with patient care,
I the artist, you the medium,
For the Promised Land prepared.

Not for forging senseless idols 
Did I fashion you from clay;
You’re My images designed to
Riff, proliferate and play!

Masterpieces of My Glory,
Shadows of the One to come,
Tell the world another story,
Something new beneath the sun.

Spring 2020

A winter long and dark, a cheerless time has passed,
With sighs the earth awakes, the buds unfurl their blooms.

Yet anxious eyes are blind, and tears blur the mind

And many hearts lie stone-cold in their tombs.

The gentle April sun may raise a weary smile,

But frozen souls won’t heed a thaw they can’t conceive.

The signs of life are near, creation’s goodness clear,

But even the believers need to grieve.

And yet, and yet – the Spring! No social distancing

Can disallow the trees, the blossom-scented breeze,

A hint of something new, a hope that won’t defuse,

A sense the world was somehow made for peace.

To cynics Easter’s just a metaphor for Spring,

A way of saying “Life survives another day”

But we whose eyes have glimpsed the glory of the King

Suspect that they have got it the wrong way.

  

The Earth’s no accident, its birth was deeply meant

By One who shaped with care this well-appointed sphere;

The wisdom of His Word is built into His world:

Each season speaks to those with ears to hear.

For long before His planet felt its first green shoot

He saw the twisted path His children would pursue;

Before the Christ was born, He knew he’d wear the thorns,

But it was the only way to make us new.

The Tree of Death stood tall, its fruit a woman’s seed,

He drew our poisons in, the virus of our sin,

Then plucked by Winter’s hand, lay deep beneath the land;

In mystery a new world would begin.

And countless springs would dawn before that Easter morn

The Tree of Life regrew and spread His seed,

But they were metaphors for something so much more:

And now He stands and beckons, “Come and eat.”

My father had a big stick

My father had a big stick,

As big as any tree,

And when I thought of something wrong

I knew it was for me.

My father had a big stick,

I always feared the sound;

Wherever that I went it seemed

To follow me around.

My father had a big stick,

He stood behind my back;

I knew that I was for it

When I heard a mighty crack.

My father took his big stick

And broke it on his knee,

Then placed the pieces on a hill

For all the world to see.

I turned and saw a broken man

I didn't recognize,

But when I looked into his face

I saw my father's eyes.

Now when I see that broken stick

There planted like a tree,

I know I had my father wrong –

It never was for me.

Love is the Way

Here's a well-overdue link to my Christmas poem: https://jubileesolihull.org/love-is-the-way/

Easter Fool

Easter Fool

I thought to be a wise man so

I gazed into the Word,

But in its looking-glass I found

A world that seemed absurd.

Where poor are rich, and rich are poor,

The laws of life reversed,

The humble rule, and what is more,

The last may finish first.

Where economic counselling

Is often sought from birds,

Where flowers offer fashion tips,

And folks are fed on words.

Where faith can make a mountain leap,

And beggars fill the feast,

Where happiest are those who weep,

And lords will scrub your feet.

Preoccupied with paradox,

I didn’t notice when

The mirror’s silvered surface flipped

And I was taken in.

I landed in that Land of Fools

In time to see their king

Swing into town upon a mule

And spark an Arab Spring.

He visited the Holy Church

But, seemingly compelled,

He rearranged the furniture –

Which didn’t go down well.

He said to love your enemies,

Which possibly explains

Just why he made them with such ease,

And had so few close friends.

  

He was the greatest Fool of all,

The crowds were gathered by,

And when they asked him how to live,

He said they first must die.

They asked him for morality,

He told them to believe;

They asked for immortality,

He told them “Take, and eat.”

But eating flesh and drinking blood

Was greeted with distaste;

Some wondered if they understood,

But more decamped with haste.

The Fool knew well his foes were close

Yet all good sense he spurned,

All compromise he quite despised,

No bridges left unburned.

He was so hopelessly naïve,

Yet looked so self-controlled;

He really did seem to believe

That Love would conquer all.

The finest minds in all the land

Conspired to put him down,

The Church and State worked hand in hand

To end this awkward clown.

The people proved quite pliable

With well-timed, trashy Tweets,

And malcontents reliable

For midnight meet-and-greets.

So all the courts were kangarooed,

The guv’nor stamped the forms;

The Fool was booed, paraded nude,

And crowned with cruel thorns.

  

The soldiers hoisted him above,

Upon a wooden throne,

And all the brothers he had loved

Now left him quite alone.

His honour guard were common thieves,

His courtiers sneered and jeered,

As all the darkness in the world

Was thereabouts congealed.

Like some perverted puppet show,

A vision to appal;

Yet as he viewed the mob below,

The Fool forgave them all.

Then Death clocked in, to end the play,

Cocking his constant grin,

He didn’t know that in three days

The joke would be on him.

For, yes, the Fool had fooled them all

By simply speaking true:

The gathered wisdom of the world

Had not a single clue.

For Love can never be denied

For Love is its own Law;

When Love became a Fool and died,

He blew off Heaven’s door.

Now any fool can get inside,

The rednecks and the scum,

But those who wear a shred of pride

Won’t ever feel at home.

I thought to be a wise man, but

The Fool rewrote the rules,

If I’m a fool to follow Him,

I’d rather be a fool.

Fili (Phil Clarke), Easter 2018

Bezalel ben-Uri ben-Hur

Here's a link to a poem of mine (audio & text) over at the Jubilee blog:


https://jubileesolihull.org/bezalel-ben-uri-ben-hur/

Seed

Seed

And on Day Three

The earth brought forth

Its fruitful trees

To bear their seed

 

The Man to tend

Them all but one

The Woman too

His helping hand

 

The Serpent sowed

A seed of doubt

She saw the fruit

Seemed good to eat

 

There stood the Tree

Its fruit at first

Had tasted sweet

Then bitter thirst

Their doom was set

The Man for thorns

The Woman pain

The Serpent dust

And enmity

Did grow between

The Serpent's and

The Woman's Seed

There stood the Tree

The Man wore thorns

The Woman wept

The Serpent bit

 

There stood the Tree

Its fruit was felled

Its seed went deep

Beneath the hill

Unless a seed

Falls in the earth

How can its fruit

Be brought to birth?

 

And on Day Three

The earth brought forth

The first fruit of

The Tree of Life

His many seeds

Have taken root

The Serpent crushed

Will bite the dust

Caedmon's Hymn

*J*O*Y* (mark 2)

                *J*O*Y*

Exult! Erupt! It’s all too much!
Our God is King! Our King is Love!
The stars that sang while Earth began
Are singing still, the cry that thrilled
Through all the trillion throng, the song
That filled the sky until it rang,
Is ringing still. The faithful sun
Who runs his daily race, his face
Agleam with joy, is beaming still.
The trusty wheel that turns the year
From icy winter into spring’s
Refreshing, on to summer cheer,
Is turning still, the Father’s vow
Still proving, and the darkest rain
By rainbows answered, even now.
And it can never be contained –
It leaps and grows and overflows;
The sweetest gladness sears the heart,
The finest electricity
Facilitates felicity.
The mind reclines, the spirit soars,
And laughter shakes the very boards!
A snigger, then a titter, then
A giggle, chuckle, chortle-snort!
Guffaws grow into belly-laughs
And crowing, hooting, cackles, shrieks,
Hysteric fits that last for weeks!
And just when you can take no more,
The Spirit Who began it all
Begins to fall, and tears are shed
That drain our sorrows to the floor.

For Joy can never be content

To be a guest; on just our best
And holy days to counterpoint
Our daily woes: it will not rest
Until we know, until we start,
With softer hearts and brighter eyes
To realize – it came to stay.
For Joy is deeper than our grief
And older than all sorrow;
And some tomorrow, we believe,
The dawn will steal in like a thief
And we shall find ourselves relieved
Of all our customary clothes –
The dusty gear we once supposed
Befitted best our grounded souls
Then, just as suddenly – transposed!
Our rags will fade and we shall trade
This garb of gloomy gossamer
For something that says “Summer’s here:
Those dowdy shrouds are so last year!”
No, sombre suits won’t suit at all
When Zion’s fashionistas call
The shots. The sons of God will be,
At last, on show, like lions on
A catwalk, striding slow, each one –
Ha! – flaunting colours that the world
Has never seen – celestial hues
Whose glow, imbued with each soul’s truth,
Illumines, not conceals, reveals
The treasure of their heart. A new,
New season will redress the Earth,
The Earth that yearns with every turn,
That bears the burns of all its salt
And stinging tears, the cruel assaults
And locust-eaten years, that longs
To hear the song of Jubilee,
The silver trumpet-blast, at last,
To sound the end of slavery! 
It comes, it comes! I hear the thrum
Of ancient wings and angel drums;
The ground resounds, the rocks cry out,
The palm trees wave their fronds about,
The oceans roar, the mountains dance,
The raucous rivers clap their hands!
And every beast and every bird
From every flock and every herd
Comes loping, leaping, swooping in
To join the never-ending hymn!

For Joy is not some passing dream,

No! It is the eternal theme
Of life itself – the pulse, the beat,
Repeating, ever incomplete,
Reverberating down the years,
Now loud, now soft, but never lost,
It spurs the heart to persevere
When every path leads to a cross.
It kept our Champion on His course
Through Hell itself to win His Bride,
And He will know His heart’s delight
With her forever at His side;
And we shall be forever one:
Our laughter will outlast the Sun! 

From north to south, from west to east,

The bells ring for the wedding feast:
As blossom like confetti falls,
Come all, the greatest and the least,
Prepare the way, deck out the halls,
The King has paid the price for all!
Now ev’ry road with flowers pave
To greet the conqueror of the grave!
And ev’ry voice in Heav’n and Earth
Rejoice to hail the Lord of Mirth!

Fili – #2, July 2015

Mt 5:8

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."

We cannot be neutral about sin. Everything we do informs who we are; repetition forms habit, and habit forms character. Grasping our true identity in Christ is crucial, as this is what will keep us from sin. It is therefore also that which Satan seeks to obscure via sin. His strategy is, as usual, based upon a half-truth. He takes it one step further by telling us: "This that you are doing now: this is who you are." The lie is clever because it affirms a deeper lie: "You are your own creator: you make yourself what you are." And there is the subtlety, for as Jesus says, "As a man thinks, so he is." The reality is that the Holy God of Love is both our Creator and our Redeemer, and that we had as much to do with the latter as we did with the former. He has set His love upon us before the foundation of the world. We are as incapable of damning ourselves as we are of saving ourselves: in Christ, we are a new creation. But this is not a recipe for lethargy: the opposite is true. The Man Christ is our true image, our pioneer, our forbear, our head. He went before us that we might follow after Him. God did not merely become a man: He became Man that men may become able to live a divine life. We can no longer blame human nature for our flaws, for the Lamb of God has taken away the sins of – wait for it – the World! Hallelujah!