Passion Sunday

I can't believe we've arrived at the start of the build-up to Easter: it seems no time since Christmas, let alone Lent. It's felt a hectic few months; we're both beginning to wonder if we're assuming that we can still do what we did in our 40s and get away with it. But as, aside from a powerful service with some great new hymns and wonderfully confident congregational singing, it was a very ordinary, quiet day - no wind, some rain but not when we were out, a little sun, a shortish walk - I'm going to post the poem I wrote last week. If anyone is suffering now - the actual meaning of "passion" in the context of of this liturgical season - it's the people of Palestine, so it seems a suitable day to share it. I wrote it in response to an actual video I saw last week. The photo is of the small crucifix above the pulpit in church this morning.

In Gaza
Child, your eyes are pools 
of loss but still you smile
at someone who has looked
has noticed you exist
shivering in the rain
has asked you where
you left your - 
Your life? Your family?
The mother weeping now
holds a small wrapped shape
that is the newest child
who lived only a month
before starvation drained
that mother’s breasts of milk - 
that family? Consumed by greater grief
than you can comprehend?
The father lost among
the ruins of this place?
This place that is not home, 
for that is long ago
destroyed, a heap of grey
with random wires and dust - 
a lifetime lost in loss
in the short life you’ve lived:
that life? That family? Is that
what this kind voice
is asking you about?
But no. This stranger now
who seems to have the time
for you, your little self, 
to ask you if you have
a something warm to wear - 
pulls out from that rough sack
a jacket, pulls it round
your shuddering small frame, 
adjusts the hood, the arms …
and now your tears can flow
as someone has been kind
this random stranger who 
records what hell is here 
with love for what you are -
a child. A human child.
A child, among the ruin of
two syllables, of life, 
by those who want you gone. 
We weep with you, child 
and hope you will be strong
and live to tell the world
what crimes have happened here - 
to tend your lemon trees
to wander in the fields
where once your fathers lived
and be, just be alive
in Gaza.

© C.M.M. 03/24