The King Receives the Holy Spirit.

2. Filled with the Holy Spirit.

When Jesus emerged from the river Jordan

A great voice sounded from heaven above,

And He was filled with the Spirit’s power

Which descended upon Him like a dove.

Immediately the Spirit drove Him

Into an arid, lonely wilderness,

Where, for forty arduous days and nights

He suffered hardships and was put to test.

“I hunger”, he thought, and had the power

To make from stones sweet bread spring forth;

Saw too all kingdoms in a moment of time;

Knew He had power to conquer the earth.

The trial was great but He found the answer.

This power was not for personal use.

 He would depend entirely upon God.

To use Spirit for self would be an abuse.

Angels then came and ministered to him

And full of spirit he went to Galilee,

Where He many miracles performed

On mountain, on plain and by the sea.

By His voice He raised a widow’s son.

He healed the lepers, the deaf, dumb and blind.

By touch He brought a dead girl to life.

He cured scores afflicted by unsound mind.

By the Spirit withered hands became whole,

A man suffering palsy returned to health,

Much healing which left Him tired and spent

But never did He use the Spirit for self.

To the very end He continued to give

From the deep well He held within,

Right to those last words, “It is finished”,

When He was released from suffering.

Who can comprehend this kind of love?

Who could think of a life so completely good?

Who could imagine a servant this great?

Who else could He be but the Son of God?

Preparation for a King.

1.       Preparation for a King.

It was an unusual beginning for a king-

His mother pregnant before marriage,

Her betrothed, His future stepfather,

Bewildered, uncertain, knowing the child

Was not his but not knowing what to do.

It was an unusual infancy for a king-

His birth in a stable, a hurried flight

As a refugee to neighbouring Egypt,

His guardian and mother living there as outsiders,

Aliens with an alien tongue in an alien land.

It was an unusual place for a king-

A childhood in a quiet, lowly village,

With all the close awareness of struggles,

The day-to-day immediacy, the earthiness,

The friendships, the caring and sharing.

It was an unusual home for a king-

A simple, modest, ordinary house,

Four half-brothers, some sisters too,

The rough and tumble of family life,

With all its closeness, conflict and intimacy.

It was an unusual discipline for a king-

In His child’s mind were great questions

For which He sought answers in His Father’s House,

But He saw His mother’s confusion, his step-father’s anxiety

And to them both He submitted in patient obedience.

For a King’s preparation it was unusual-

No luxury, no finery, no exclusive tutors,

No servants, no sense of privilege or right,

No-one to order, little chance for ego to swell,

A quiet, contemplative preparation,

Ideal for growth in humility and giving,

For empathy and compassion to flourish,

For fostering deep understanding of the heart,

For identification with ordinary people,

For developing sympathy with the outcasts,

The poor, lame, blind, deaf, dumb,

The sad and lonely lepers, the suffering,

The sick, the widows, the orphans

And the poor, oppressed and abused harlots.

Later, when He left His home, many of them saw Him,

Recognised His greatness and responded in love.

To them he opened His heart and to them,

His people most obviously in need,

He touched, healed, blessed and loved.

Yes, unusual preparation for a king,

But for this man, the greatest of men,

This poet, this story teller, this scholar,

This miracle worker, this great teacher,

This radical and innovative thinker,

This challenger of the status quo,

This exposer of folly, pretence and hypocrisy,

This future King of the world, this Son of God,

This loving, gentle, compassionate man of sympathetic tears,

It was perfectly designed, closely fitted and exactly right.

Seals Playing.

Unhindered, they roll from South America,

Swells traversing three vast oceans

To crash upon the cliffs of this small island.

Unhindered, southwards, the great rolling sea

Stretches far beyond the distant horizon

To Antarctica’s glistening whiteness.

Unhindered, the salt-laden wind blows

Unceasingly over the huddling heathland.

This is a wild, remote, windswept beauty.

Beneath the cliffs and above the surge,

At least on this clear, mild, late spring day,

Are crevassed platforms and a beautiful arch,

A great curving expanse leading to a pool

Of sheltered, exquisite transparency.

Everywhere the fur seals bask in the sun,

Argue over position, laze in the clear pool

Or clamber awkwardly towards the sea.

They are protected, contented and safe

In the place where once men with clubs

Cruelly hunted them to near extinction.

In one place, where the sea is most dangerous,

A narrow, steep cleft where the surging swell

Is a rush and retreat of foam- filled water,

A place to quickly perish upon unforgiving rocks,

Two young seals play with abandoned pleasure.

Out of the foaming surge they momentarily appear

In tangled somersault, roll and wrestle.

They are in no hurry to leave. In adrenalin-filled joy

They breach, surge, wrestle and dive again and again.

They are young, joyous and unafraid

And I think of the delight of toddlers

In a playground, the joy of swing and dip,

Or a child’s delight in climbing a tree,

Save this playground makes me feel inadequate,

A weak, thin-skinned, vulnerable being,

And my heart opens to these soft-eyed creatures,

For this is no carefully constructed safe zone

But the immense, cold, surging, cliff-pounding sea.

-Admiral’s Arch, Flinders Chase National Park, Kangaroo Island.

Two young seals at play.

 

Admiral's Arch

Seals lazing on a rock platform

Towards Admiral's Arch

These Trifling Things.

Here, I give to you these trifling things

Heated by light, love and increasing age,

Life’s diverse experiences distilled

And dripped in patterns upon the page.

They are little more than wisps of breath

Or, as distillation from the human chest,

Form essence of sorrow, love, joy, hope or pain

Which must pour forth before final rest.

If they are lighter than thistledown,

Slight, a deception or a mere seeming,

They still stem from the heart’s deep desire

To struggle and search for purpose and meaning.

Some build tall towers or beautiful bridges.

These are merely the heart’s desire to sing,

But here, take them as gifts that I offer,

These distillations, these essences, these trifling things.