A Word From reflectionsdeep.blogspot.com

- It Doesn't Fit our isms

(posted on Friday, October 22, 2010)

“That little thing says it is one of us,” said the regal rooster, looking down his beak at the little thing.

“One of us?” said the fat hen in her high-pitched tremor. “CLUCK, cluck, no, no, no…I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t look like one of us!” sniffed the Banty with her beak in the air.

“It doesn’t act like one of us!” clucked the fat hen, shaking her oh so lovely comb in disapproval. “No, indeed, it doesn’t think like us either. CLUCK, cluck, no, no, no.”

“What to do? What to do?” bemoaned the Banty, nervously twitching her feathers. “How can we let that silly thing in the hen house?”
“We can’t,” answered the rooster, lifting its royal brow, “it doesn’t fit our –isms. It’s rebellious.”

“It doesn’t fit my Catholic-ism,” said the fat hen.
“Ack! And certainly not my pentacostal-ism,” said the Banty.
“Or my conservative protestant-ism,” the rooster said with scorn.

“I don’t think it follows any –ism at all! Ack!” shrieked the Banty. “What to do? What to do?”

“It’s such a simple little thing,” laughed the fat hen. “It says it doesn’t need an –ism. Imagine that! How impertinent!”

And they clucked and gaggled and gossiped and groaned about the little thing that said it followed HIM but with a freedom that was impertinent (said the fat hen!), and with a joy that was silly (said the Banty!), and with a uniqueness that was rebellious (said the rooster!) . . . and He who made the little thing smiled at it and told it to follow Him as they pushed it out of the hen house.

Judy Collins - Turn, Turn, Turn

The words of this song still have power to move us.
Judy Collins - a woman with a wondrous voice.

An Advent Warning

Come, Day of God, Come!
Are children cared for by lost youths of yesteryear,
weakened, humbled souls,
pared down by two thousand years of adultedness,
struggling ones, buried under wintry traditions,
serving with mocking tolerance,
while little ones wander in avenues of daily blooming disaster,
suffering and wondering, why?
Reminders are given by bookish ones from city lanes and country homes,
lessons of injuries and martyrdoms,
pointing the way ahead to those who would see.
Come, Day of God, Come!

Star-gowned singers, grown in sin, mourn in a major key,
surrounded by stone and wood and brass.
Impressive expressions!
And yet the sweetest sounding note be junk...
... to him who wants only...love...called...strong!
The praise of God a minor thing?
Spirit truly shrieks within!
But, O what joy to find tradition spring to life,
budding into marvelous flower,
activated by the heart to sing afresh
and shout the great news of the world-morn to come!
And so the ultimate reward of divine patience
shall indeed rest in his majestic presence.
Come, Day of God, Come!

O Jesus, the descending king, seek your own to lead and quicken!
Away with abuse, brutal and treacherous,
that attacks sound minds, freezing their song in fear!
And yet a melting into humble power is done
by the helping Spirit One,
and we become deeply thoughtful,
concerned ones, really no longer divided by the evil one.
Let the educators awake in time and wonder
at His plan to accomplish all on sounding trumpet.
Come, Day of God, Come!

Written Advent A.D. 1999 – Richard Bunn, Toronto