Follow me.
And I will make you fishers of men.
My fishing line was on the boat’s lea.
I hoped to catch something, but the question was when.

There are few things more pleasurable than fishing at sea when the shrouds sing.
The line runs, the time passes, I watch the boat’s way.
I don’t need to catch anything.
All that I catch I throw back anyway.

I will never catch any men.
First I should catch myself, I am forsook.
My line is laid out in yards of ten.
But after a lifetime not one pull on the hook.

I will try again and again.
One day I may succeed, one day the sun may shine again after these showers of rain.

Advent. Adventus. Parousia. Coming.

You do not know when the master of the house is coming.
If he comes unexpectedly he must not find you asleep.
Last night I was dreaming.
I was ill, it was a doctors appointment I would or could not keep.

In these dreams I never seem to be ready, always through preparedness sinned.
Always distracted, always late.
I am like a leaf blown by the wind.
Stability laid low by life’s heavy weight.

I was enriched in so many ways.
Yet have I kept steady.
The mist on this winter’s morn comes low, I cannot see the sun’s rays.
I was born into hope but am still not ready.

But hope is like a flickering candle shining in a dark place.
To the last in hope, I shall stay awake and I, I shall run this race.

Sitting with my granddaughter staring at the English winter I gave a sigh.
All was damp, muted, sleeping shadowed grey.
Leafing through old photos I remembered a walk along the footpath at Cap d’Ail.
Then all was fierce light and shades of blue saturated.

And I recalled that Summer over fifty years ago.
Wanting that harpoon gun I could not afford to buy.
Diving deep into the bay with youth aglow.
And other eyes were blue too, I remembered with a sigh.

Ghosts of the great inhabit that footpath.
Here in opposition Churchill set up his easel for joy of painting.
The deep reds of the rocks, the lapping waves, healing all wrath.
Villas, gleaming white balconies, champagne beckoning.

So now my granddaughter and I attempted together our own daub.
Such happiness on that grey day, for a moment I was totally absorbed.

Stay awake.
Praying at all times for the strength to survive.
I dream I am swimming in a lake.
I cannot reach my children stranded on an island, hard as I strive.

I had no idea how I could ever get back to my house.
Then the tide turned again and I was home with children in an instant.
Such is the dream world , one moment as fast as a stag the next as slow as a louse.
Home is gained in a moment though so far distant.

Maybe the dream world is more real than reality.
If you have faith you can swim like an Olympian.
Life may be gritty.
Happy or dystopian.

I awoke from my slumber.
And all again is slow and difficult, weighed down with life’s faithless slumber.

The sparrow herself finds a home.
And the swallow a nest for her brood.
For wisdom where can we find a tome.
Are we really all that shrewd.

The dream was clear, the sky blue, the sun out.
I wanted to go down to the sea.
It was not possible, I was working, it was ruled out.
It was only these narrow walls that I could see.

And later in the night in my dream.
I saw my soul separate and free.
Flying out, liberated it would seem.
And now in my mind’s eye I really was physically by that sea.

I seemed to know that my soul was not a figment of my imagination.
It was actual, real and not just a mental foil for irritation.

I, John, saw an angel come down from Heaven with great authority given to him.
The earth was lit up with his glory.
Sadly we never hear or see angels except in a hymn.
But they are always there in our own story.

The awaking dream at dawn was real in plain sight.
I saw my soul outside my body, it’s reality secure.
It was not a corny view with rays of light.
The point was that it existed, of that I was sure.

I cannot describe it.
I just knew with certainty that it was.
My soul’s fire is lit.
It is and was for all time with no why or because.

Before I had always doubted it’s existence.
Now I was sure, I could finish happily this life sentence.

What I John saw in Heaven was a great and wonderful sign.
Seven angels bringing the seven plagues that are the last of all.
We wonder too if we live in a strange time line.
Are these signs chance or a call.

I was lying awake worrying about disease and troubles beyond all reason and rhyme.
Then I thought why worry about the me, it is all so ephemeral.
It is here but a short time.
What does the soul care for any memorial.

Then I seemed outside of me to see.
My soul entirely whole and real.
I absolutely knew then there is an everlasting I in other form but not me.
It is a soul that I can almost feel.

And the soul does not lie with the body under the sod.
I knew then absolutely it is reunited with God.

O death I will be your death.
Baptism was the cleansing water that healed us from strife.
I began to defeat you with my very first breath.
And death is only a gateway to life.

We are baptised in his death.
And raised to newness of life.
This we know more and more with every passing breath.
This thought through our lifetime is is ever more closely joined like husband and wife.

Life is in the power of the mind.
Resurrection is ours to take now.
This road is easy to find.
It is ours if we allow.

Give me, I pray, freedom from doubt.
Let pain and mental and actual death, I put to rout.

Saint Clement

These have all contributed money they had over.
But she from the little she had has put in all she had to live on.
Faith in three in one is like a clover.
Mysterious yet it is an everlasting new dawn.

I was given so much.
Do I really return so little.
That small pound coin in my pocket comes to touch.
Is that really my long account enough to settle.

Is money so important.
Surely not.
Forget the cant.
Isn’t just love worth quite a lot.

Yes, we do give so little.
Yet we demand so much, our generosity is so brittle.

Christus vincit.
Christus regnat, Christus imperat.
This lamp eternally remains lit.
This, have we yet accepterat.

How often do we view public opinion, an addiction, habit, comfort, power or money.
As our King.
None of these things is really worth a penny.
There is only one to whom we should sing.

To be a King is to serve.
But who do we serve.
What do we really want to preserve.
At our death what really do we deserve.

I was thirsty and you never gave me anything to drink.
Perhaps it’s about time I started to think.

It is twilight high upon the Wolds in Lincolnshire.
A sudden heaviness in the air.
After a long walk pleasantly I start to tire.
I am alone, company here is rare.

Despite the grey shrouded hills.
I can see miles upon mile above the Misty vale, clear in sight.
My heart now thrills.
Far below me I see a cottage in lonely welcoming light.

Perhaps four miles away I see.
A car’s headlamps sweeping forward.
Like a ship on some rolling distant sea.
On its silent journey what it, I cannot see, drives toward.

Now in the valley it is completely dark, I have finished my roam.
But smoke rises, the door opens, tea is brewing, I am home.

Hail holy mother who gave birth to the King.
Who rules Heaven and Earth for ever.
It’s easy her praises to sing.
It’s harder this hope in staying alive to sever.

I used to ask myself frankly, isn’t heaven rather boring.
How could one pass the time living for ever on some dreary constant.
But the essence is not in the being, it is in the knowing.
In heaven there is no time, just one glorious instant.

We don’t know, we cannot imagine what is there.
We cannot truly accept what we have never seen or heard.
But faintly, we encounter stillness and uniqueness in beauty even here.
This encounter with a beautiful sunset is a sensation with Heaven shared.

In Heaven, in one sublime moment, we shall see God and all peoples face to face.
And then without remorse of our time constrained humanity, we will leave scarcely a trace.

I love the cottage garden at winter twilight.
Gently into warm greys the light fades.
The kitchen window burns with an inviting orange light.
And here spring up everywhere mysterious and deepening shades.

The high pheasant squawks noisily.
The dog enjoys a last prowl and with his canine ghosts a tussle.
I look forward to hot tea and crumpets happily and yes perhaps a bit greedily.
With no wind today the trees do not rustle.

The warm yellows and browns are fading slowly.
The trees are still and increasingly bare.
I can walk into my home from the nearby wood easily.
The fox is watching perhaps, lying in his lair.

And in this lovely Wold valley place all about is profound silence.
I am utterly alone with only calm thoughts for guidance.

Our Saviour abolished death.
And he proclaimed this through the good news.
When we die, I wonder is this our last breath.
Will our body for ever we lose.

I have often doubted that not just the soul but the body is resurrected.
How can a body live in heaven unchanged.
But it is not that body that is resurrected.
It is something totally transformed.

The mighty oak comes from the tiny acorn.
It is genetically entirely created from it but it is entirely different.
The body in heaven will be unrecognisable, to this we are sworn.
Now we only hear see what is around us, then we will know every lovely scent.

Body and soul are only completed.
If they are never forever parted.

St Roque González and Companions

The light shineth in the darkness.
And the darkness may not overcome it.
The history of the Jesuit missions in Paraguay may be a vision of bleakness.
But a lamp though extinguished was lit .

I recall my visit there and the Guarani people.
And I recall the power of the film, The Mission.
All now is peaceful.
But in the eighteenth century the people were under slavery’s submission.

The Jesuits had a choice.
To sacrifice their order or the missions, myself or yourself.
St Roque did find his voice.
And sacrificed himself.

Do we compromise, we must work in the world, the world is thus.
Or do we recognise, no thus we have made the world, I have made it thus.

The Lord said I think thoughts of peace and not of affliction.
You will call upon me and I shall answer you.
Gentle Carthusian, a life of peace and hope was your conviction.
But King and country called you St Hugh.

I recall a family visit to La Grande Chartreuse.
Buried in its Alpine valley, at this commitment we stood in awe.
Into this quiet place comes no bustling news.
Out of this monastery falls a reviving spiritual dew.

St Hugh had to be ordered to leave by his prior.
To Lincoln unwillingly as bishop, he came.
Working with his own hands on his cathedral after the fire.
Ceaselessly travelling and caring for the poor to great acclaim.

He was not afraid to stand up to the King.
We who will never have his courage, only in his praise can we sing.

PSALM 1

He is like the tree that is planted beside the flowing waters.
That yields its fruit in due season.
With all nature we delight in our sons and daughters.
Sometimes it is instinct that is true not reason.

I dreamt that I was at a busy yet boring meeting.
Suddenly in my dream I was transported from it on a boat on a shimmering lake.
Now only to the calmness of nature could I give a greeting.
I just was, I did not have to make and I did not have to take.

The tree by the stream has a drink.
It does not move.
It does not think.
It is just there to soothe.

I awoke from my dream, I was back at that meeting.
Arguing.

A perfect wife, who can find her.
She is beyond the price of pearls.
I am her eternal debtor.
From that first meeting long ago my head swirls.

I know now love is blind.
Forty years later to me she is the most beautiful girl in the room.
With her my heart is entwined.
I love her love beyond any young beauty’s bloom.

That extraordinary beauty struck me first.
Now this deep set goodness keeps us close.
With parting I never lose this thirst.
But it’s her character I love the most.

Truly she cares for the needy and the poor.
This then is my amour.

Since she keeps pestering me I must give this widow what is her just rights.
Or she will persist in coming and worrying me.
Am I too the unjust judge, trying to keep out of her sight.
That’s why this parable always worries me.

But I know it’s about the value of prayer.
Keep asking.
To coldness of heart beware.
Keep persisting.

If the unjust judge can listen.
If even he can eventually act.
Surely God will to our aid hasten.
That may just be naive faith or if may be fact.

So in the long dark empty hours of night.
My cry will to him, I hope, remains in his sight.

It has given me great joy to find that your children have been living the life of truth.
As we were commanded by the Father.
Ambition festers in us like a sore tooth.
It binds us to pain with a tether.

Why do we crave power.
We hardly ever achieve it for long.
For even the greatest it is as illusory as seed cast on the rocks by the sower.
It gives no joy, only does us or others wrong.

It is creating things.
That gives us joy even as an amateur.
Poems, pictures, gardens, recipes, it is to these that happiness clings.
We need no skill, we can do just whatever we prefer.

If we are just true to ourselves.
Our lives will be happy although our life and work end up on no bookshelves.

The coming of the kingdom of God does not admit of obstruction.
And there is no one to say look here.
We seek restlessly the origin of creation.
We put trust in one then another elder.

We are lonely in our self centred ego.
But will not death release us and open up new horizons.
When our fortress walls we will bid adieu to our own virago.
We will indeed be someone fir all seasons.

With the death of the ego, the soul will be reborn.
The fall of our castle is a victory.
We can finally to love be sworn.
But this passing on is a mystery.

We stand at the edge of the precipice, afraid to open our wings.
But if we listen, a celestial wind sings.

But when the kindness and love of God were revealed.
It was not because he was concerned with any righteous actions, it was for compassion.
It is through mercy that our fate is sealed.
We need only look and we can understand this lesson.

We know that there is something immaterial, reason.
We know that it exists outside of us and time and breath.
Why then can’t I exist unbound by death in any Season.
If it exists outside time why too cannot our soul survive death.

We know that in nature everything dies.
And is constantly in new form reborn.
But our soul survives.
It is free of nature’s churn.

We feel this thing outliving existence.
It is within us as a joyous, hard to touch, yet profound sense.

Tuesday, 32nd Week in Ordinary Time

The older men should be reserved, dignified, moderate.
Sound in faith, love, and constancy.
I don’t know, am I always considerate.
Do I parade my views modestly.

The churches are closed again except for private prayer.
But actually with less action, there is more time to reflect.
Sitting alone with my conscience I peel away layer by layer.
And always there is something to detect.

One thing we always accept, every human is utterly unique.
And every human being has a self regarding conscience.
We alone, right or wrong, seek.
Lurking there, at our core, is always some remonstrance.

Always deep inside us is this forcibly reproachful protest.
And so we continue the quest.

Wherever the water flows all living creatures teeming in it will live.
Fish will be very plentiful for wherever the water goes, it brings health.
The cleansing water from the temple helps us strive.
The pure water gives spiritual wealth.

This water is truly wholesome.
How else when it comes from the sanctuary.
Swept away in its stream, ever changing, no one ever lonesome.
Cleansed by it, crossing the river Styx, we will have no need of a ferry.

The rivers Acheron, Cocylus, Lethe, Philegeton, and Styx all converge in a great marsh.
It is said thus we all arrive in the underworld.
This Greek philosophy is harsh.
But I have a vision of another river in another world.

The waters of our river give joy to God’s city.
All comes right with, to the weak, pity.

Wisdom is bright and does not grow dim.
By those who love her she is readily seen.
In my dreams I see truth at the world’s rim.
But sight in my dreams is all the more keen.

We are told that we believe that Jesus died and rose again.
And that it will be the same for all who have died in Jesus.
I see this truth as a tiny circle of light at the end of an overgrown lane.
We can only pray that one day this truth will seize us.

Wisdom may indeed be bright.
But will the oil in our prayer lamps last.
The oil needs refilling to maintain its light.
Hope must be in the future, doubt in the past.

Belief for me is a flickering light.
But trying to believe keeps joy bright.