Perhaps

 

North Shore, Iona

Perhaps

when we have sat on a beach in a storm

and contemplated the force of the wind

and the ferocity of the waves

we might have greater respect 

for those who risk their lives

taking to small boats in unpredictable weather 

to find safety

Perhaps

when we have meandered through the woods

or been awed by the stillness of the forest

noticing how life bursts through

in the least expected places

Or contemplated how ecology connects and communicates

with myriad species

we might learn to join their conversation

to ask before taking of the abundance we find

Perhaps

even in the midst of the concrete laden squares

of our towns and cities

we might notice the foxes raking through the bins

or the heron flying overhead

or the buzzard perched on the lamp post

eying the rats or the hatchlings, potential food for their young

we might wonder at how the animal world

takes what it needs to survive

knowing that, in time to come, they too, will return to the earth

Perhaps 

even the slightest nod to nature

that surrounds us in myriad ways

will still us and ground us sufficiently

and help us to contemplate the wonder

that everything belongs

and for any to flourish

all must flourish 

Perhaps

with eyes open and fists unclenched

the beating of our hearts may find connection

with the beating heart of all creation

compelling us to work together

for the healing of the earth

Liz Crumlish September 2024

Weaver of stories

Thirty years ago today, I was 'licensed to preach' by the then Greenock Presbytery of the Church of Scotland. During the discernment process, I was unable to answer affirmatively the question "Do you have a desire to preach?" posed by the men who were assessing my call. 
In 30 years of ministry I can't say I have ever experienced a desire to preach.
Back then I wasn't able to articulate it but now I know that the role to which I felt called was more akin to that of a story weaver. A role that involved more listening than speaking, allowing folks to hear their own and others' stories and to make connections with one another and with the God who created each of us as storied beings. Forging connections with a God who beholds humanity through tear filled eyes, extending love filled arms, imploring us to look at one another and to listen to one another's stories. For only in hearing one another's stories and, through them, holding one another sacred, will we be able to protect the fragile light from being snuffed out by the darkness of conflict.

Story Weavers

The heavy threads of fear and grief
are borne gently
their weight acknowledged as they are interspersed
with gossamer light filaments of love
whose strength belies their fragility
They are laid out in an intricate pattern
that extends an invitation to draw near
to see better
to hear better
tales of war and violence
and hunger and greed
interrupted by incidents
of reverence and kindness
that offer some salve
to the hurt and anguish
And while the darkness is barely diminished
a thread of hope begins to emerge
to infiltrate despair
as stories are held with sacred regard
bringing transformation in their sharing.

Liz Crumlish August 30, 2024

Wisdom, bread and wine

 

Proverbs 9:1,2,5,6

Wisdom has built her house,

she has hewn her seven pillars.

She has slaughtered her animals, she has mixed her wine,

she has also set her table.

“Come, eat of my bread

and drink of the wine I have mixed.

Lay aside immaturity, and live,

and walk in the way of insight.”

Wisdom comes slowly

a gradual dawning that emerges

to change perspective

to soften the edges

of all our binaries

It seeps in like an infusion

that slowly affects its host

like yeast in bread and wine

leavening, fermenting, transfiguring 

wherever it is afforded space to breathe

To capture its nurturing essence

it is necessary to linger

tasting the bread of compassion

and savouring the wine of abundance

allowing their goodness to infiltrate

the lives of the host and the guest

creating a fertile plain

in which wisdom may flourish

for the life of the world.

Transforming stories

 

Ruins of the 13C Augustinian Nunnery on Iona

Tormentil - soothes the gut

Kenilworth Ivy - wound healer

It’s not enough

to be able to name the flowers

We must get to know their stories

and listen to all that they can teach us

The hard working women

who inhabited the cloisters

of the Augustinian abbey in Iona

listened to the plants

that grew around 

their wild and rugged island

They found healing for wounds

in the absorptive sphagnum moss

And soothing for guts 

in the tannins of Tormentil 

They befriended the star shaped beauty 

of St John’s wort

that hinted at light in the long days and nights

of the harsh Scottish winter

Their gentle inquiry

and their patient listening

unearthed underground mysteries

And, as they held sacred the stories 

already there for the telling,

they breathed new life into the next chapter

of the stories of the flowers

that promised healing for the world 

I can’t help but wonder how

if we humans were to listen carefully 

to one another’s stories

we might nurture a way of caring

for the wounds of the world.

Liz Crumlish, Iona August 2024

Feast of Mary Magdalene

 John 20:1,14-18

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb.

…She turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’ ” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her.

I wonder how long…

How long

in the dark of that early morning

did Mary hold her delicious secret 

close to her heart

How long did she savour 

that gargantuan news

that he whom she accompanied 

in life and in death

chose her to be there for his rising

For those precious moments

in the dark of early morning

Mary alone 

held the news close

before she took to her heels

to proclaim resurrection

By the words of a woman

the gospel was preached

Thus it was

Is now

And ever shall be

Amen

The morning after the campfire

 

The fire pit is empty

the burnt and blackened logs of the night before

resting

Until another arrives

to ignite and fan the flame

The songs sung and the yarns spun

hang around

like a wisp in the air

like webs carefully woven

and added to an intricate pattern of weaving 

that continues

long after the story makers leave

The birds and trees and fungi

gather them up

and let them settle

deep in the earth and wind and fire and water

A return to the elements

held lightly

cherished and nurtured

until another soul encounters the wisdom stored 

in a place reserved for listening 

for recovering the ground beneath our feet

and for sharing in the healing of the earth

Non binary

I cry myself

Portfolio Priest

And, as I live with this

self proclaimed handle,

I realise

it comes from all those years

I was told

You have to choose

You have to be one thing 

or the other 

Those years when my vocation

was questioned

by a patriarchy

that knew not how

to re-imagine priesthood

A patriarchy that sought to weed out

and punish by exclusion 

all who were different

And I know now

as I knew then

My vocation is non binary

not this or that

but a kaleidoscope of bits and pieces

of many shapes and hues

tumbling together

And I recognise

my privilege

that allows me to claim my identity

An identity that embraces the possibility

of more than one thing being true

at the same time

and to call it fabulous