Jesus Christ is risen. Alleluia!
Tonight my friend Richard led a service of holy laughter, in the manner of Greek Orthodox Christians who have celebrated Easter through festivities and telling jokes. This is all to reflect the ultimate joke God played on the devil by raising Jesus from the dead. It felt so refreshing to laugh in the service--and to remember the goodness of humor. Praise God.
Here are a few jokes I can remember from the service:
Q: Who was the most successful female financier in the Bible?
A: Pharaoh's daughter. She entered the bank of the Nile and came out with a little prophet.
Q: How do we know God is left handed?
A: Because Jesus sat on God's right hand.
Q: What kind of a man was Boaz before he married?
A: Ruthless.
28.3.16
14.3.16
"The Strange Guest" by Alfred Noyes (poem)
You cannot leave a new house
With any open door,
But a strange guest will enter it
And never leave it more.
Build it on a waste land,
Dreary as a sin.
Leave her but a broken gate
And Beauty will come in.
Build it all of scarlet brick,
Work your wicked will.
Dump it on an ash-heap,
Then--O then, be still.
Sit and watch your new house
Leave an open door.
A strange guest will enter it
And never leave it more.
She will make your raw wood
Mellower than gold.
She will take your new lamps
And sell them for old.
She will crumble all your pride,
Break your folly down.
Much that you rejected
She will bless and crown.
She will rust your naked roof,
Split your pavement through,
Dip her brush in sun and moon
And colour it anew.
Leave her but a window
Wide to wind and rain,
You shall find her footstep
When you come again.
Though she keep you waiting
Many months or years,
She shall stain and make it
Beautiful with tears.
She shall hurt and heal it,
Soften it and save,
Blessing it, until it stand
Stronger than the grave.
You cannot leave a new house
With any open door,
But a strange guest will enter it
And never leave it more.
With any open door,
But a strange guest will enter it
And never leave it more.
Build it on a waste land,
Dreary as a sin.
Leave her but a broken gate
And Beauty will come in.
Build it all of scarlet brick,
Work your wicked will.
Dump it on an ash-heap,
Then--O then, be still.
Sit and watch your new house
Leave an open door.
A strange guest will enter it
And never leave it more.
She will make your raw wood
Mellower than gold.
She will take your new lamps
And sell them for old.
She will crumble all your pride,
Break your folly down.
Much that you rejected
She will bless and crown.
She will rust your naked roof,
Split your pavement through,
Dip her brush in sun and moon
And colour it anew.
Leave her but a window
Wide to wind and rain,
You shall find her footstep
When you come again.
Though she keep you waiting
Many months or years,
She shall stain and make it
Beautiful with tears.
She shall hurt and heal it,
Soften it and save,
Blessing it, until it stand
Stronger than the grave.
You cannot leave a new house
With any open door,
But a strange guest will enter it
And never leave it more.
"Distant Voices" by Alfred Noyes (poem)
Remember the house of thy father,
When the palaces open before thee,
And the music would make thee forget.
When the cities are glittering around thee,
Remember the lamp in the evening,
The loneliness and the peace.
When the deep things that cannot be spoken
Are drowned in a riot of laughter,
And the proud wine foams in thy cup;
In the day when thy wealth is upon thee,
Remember the path through the pine-wood,
Remember the days of thy peace.
Remember--remember--remember--
When the cares of this world and its treasure
Have dulled the swift eyes of thy youth;
When beauty and longing forsake thee,
And there is no hope in the darkness,
And the soul is drowned in the flesh;
Turn, then, to the house of thy boyhood,
To the sea and the hills that would heal thee,
To the voices of those thou hast lost,
To the still small voices that loved thee,
Whispering, out of the silence,
Remember--remember--remember--
Remember the house of thy father,
Remember the paths of thy peace.
When the palaces open before thee,
And the music would make thee forget.
When the cities are glittering around thee,
Remember the lamp in the evening,
The loneliness and the peace.
When the deep things that cannot be spoken
Are drowned in a riot of laughter,
And the proud wine foams in thy cup;
In the day when thy wealth is upon thee,
Remember the path through the pine-wood,
Remember the days of thy peace.
Remember--remember--remember--
When the cares of this world and its treasure
Have dulled the swift eyes of thy youth;
When beauty and longing forsake thee,
And there is no hope in the darkness,
And the soul is drowned in the flesh;
Turn, then, to the house of thy boyhood,
To the sea and the hills that would heal thee,
To the voices of those thou hast lost,
To the still small voices that loved thee,
Whispering, out of the silence,
Remember--remember--remember--
Remember the house of thy father,
Remember the paths of thy peace.
"Music and Memory" by Alfred Noyes (poem)
Music, that is God's memory, never forgets you.
Music, in atom, and star, and the falling leaf,
Binding all worlds in one, remembers for ever
The least light whisper and cry of our joy and grief;
Chord calling to chord, through swift resurrectional changes,
From key to key, in the long unbreakable chain . . .
All, all that we ever loved, though it sleep in the silence,
At a touch of the Master shall wake and be music again.
Music, in atom, and star, and the falling leaf,
Binding all worlds in one, remembers for ever
The least light whisper and cry of our joy and grief;
Chord calling to chord, through swift resurrectional changes,
From key to key, in the long unbreakable chain . . .
All, all that we ever loved, though it sleep in the silence,
At a touch of the Master shall wake and be music again.
"Creation" by Alfred Noyes (poem)
In the beginning, there was nought
But heaven, one majesty of Light,
Beyond all speech, beyond all thought,
Beyond all depth, beyond all height,
Consummate heaven, the first and last,
Enfolding in its perfect prime
No future rushing to the past,
But one rapt Now, that knew not Space or Time.
Formless it was, being gold on gold,
And void--but with that complete Life
Where music could no wings unfold
Until God smote the strings of strife.
"Myself unto Myself am Throne,
Myself unto Myself am Thrall,
I that am All am all alone,"
He said, "Yea, I have nothing, having all."
And, gathering round His mount of bliss
The angel-squadrons of His will,
He said, "One battle yet there is
To win, one vision to fulfil;
Since heaven where'er I gaze expands,
And power that knows no strife or cry,
Weakness shall bind and pierce My hands
And make a world for Me wherein to die.
All might, all vastness and all glory
Being Mine, I must descend and make
Out of My heart a song, a story
Of little hearts that burn and break.
Out of My passion without end
I will make little azure seas,
And into small sad fields descend
And make green grass, white daisies, rustling trees."
Then shrank His angels, knowing He thrust
His arms out East and West and gave
For every little dream of dust
Part of His life as to a grave.
'Enough, O Father, for Thy words
Have pierced Thy hands!' But, low and sweet,
He said 'Sunsets and streams and birds,
And drifting clouds!'--The purple stained His feet.--
'Enough!' His angels moaned in fear,
'Father, Thy words have pierced Thy side!'
He whispered, 'Roses shall grow there,
And there must be a hawthorn-tide,
And ferns, dewy at dawn,' and still
They moaned--Enough, the red drops bleed!
'And,' sweet and low, 'on every hill,'
He said, 'I will have flocks and lambs to lead.'
His angels bowed their heads beneath
Their wings till that great pang was gone.
Pour not Thy soul unto Death!
They moaned, and still His Love flowed on:
"There shall be small white wings to stray
From bliss to bliss, from bloom to bloom,
And blue flowers in the wheat; and--" 'Stay!
Speak not,' they cried, 'the word that seals Thy tomb!'
He spake--"I have thought of the little child
That I will have there to embark
On small adventures in the wild,
And front slight perils in the dark;
And I will hide from him and lure
His laughing eyes with suns and moons,
And rainbows that shall not endure;
And--when he is weary, sing him drowsy tunes."
His angels fell before Him weeping.
'Enough! Tempt not the Gates of Hell!'
He said, 'His soul is in his keeping
That we may love each other well,
And lest the dark too much affright him,
I will strow countless little stars
Across his childish skies to light him
That he may wage in peace his mimic wars;
And oft forget Me as he plays
With swords and childish merchansize,
Or with his elfin balance weighs,
Or with his foot-rule metes, the skies;
Or builds his castles by the deep,
Or tunnels through the rocks, and then--
Turn to Me as he falls asleep,
And, in his dreams, feel for My hand again.
And when he is older he shall be
My friend and walk here at My side;
Or--when he wills--grow young with Me,
And, to that happy world where once we died,
Descending through the calm blue weather,
Buy life once more with our immortal breath,
And wander through the little fields together,
And taste of Love and Death.
But heaven, one majesty of Light,
Beyond all speech, beyond all thought,
Beyond all depth, beyond all height,
Consummate heaven, the first and last,
Enfolding in its perfect prime
No future rushing to the past,
But one rapt Now, that knew not Space or Time.
Formless it was, being gold on gold,
And void--but with that complete Life
Where music could no wings unfold
Until God smote the strings of strife.
"Myself unto Myself am Throne,
Myself unto Myself am Thrall,
I that am All am all alone,"
He said, "Yea, I have nothing, having all."
And, gathering round His mount of bliss
The angel-squadrons of His will,
He said, "One battle yet there is
To win, one vision to fulfil;
Since heaven where'er I gaze expands,
And power that knows no strife or cry,
Weakness shall bind and pierce My hands
And make a world for Me wherein to die.
All might, all vastness and all glory
Being Mine, I must descend and make
Out of My heart a song, a story
Of little hearts that burn and break.
Out of My passion without end
I will make little azure seas,
And into small sad fields descend
And make green grass, white daisies, rustling trees."
Then shrank His angels, knowing He thrust
His arms out East and West and gave
For every little dream of dust
Part of His life as to a grave.
'Enough, O Father, for Thy words
Have pierced Thy hands!' But, low and sweet,
He said 'Sunsets and streams and birds,
And drifting clouds!'--The purple stained His feet.--
'Enough!' His angels moaned in fear,
'Father, Thy words have pierced Thy side!'
He whispered, 'Roses shall grow there,
And there must be a hawthorn-tide,
And ferns, dewy at dawn,' and still
They moaned--Enough, the red drops bleed!
'And,' sweet and low, 'on every hill,'
He said, 'I will have flocks and lambs to lead.'
His angels bowed their heads beneath
Their wings till that great pang was gone.
Pour not Thy soul unto Death!
They moaned, and still His Love flowed on:
"There shall be small white wings to stray
From bliss to bliss, from bloom to bloom,
And blue flowers in the wheat; and--" 'Stay!
Speak not,' they cried, 'the word that seals Thy tomb!'
He spake--"I have thought of the little child
That I will have there to embark
On small adventures in the wild,
And front slight perils in the dark;
And I will hide from him and lure
His laughing eyes with suns and moons,
And rainbows that shall not endure;
And--when he is weary, sing him drowsy tunes."
His angels fell before Him weeping.
'Enough! Tempt not the Gates of Hell!'
He said, 'His soul is in his keeping
That we may love each other well,
And lest the dark too much affright him,
I will strow countless little stars
Across his childish skies to light him
That he may wage in peace his mimic wars;
And oft forget Me as he plays
With swords and childish merchansize,
Or with his elfin balance weighs,
Or with his foot-rule metes, the skies;
Or builds his castles by the deep,
Or tunnels through the rocks, and then--
Turn to Me as he falls asleep,
And, in his dreams, feel for My hand again.
And when he is older he shall be
My friend and walk here at My side;
Or--when he wills--grow young with Me,
And, to that happy world where once we died,
Descending through the calm blue weather,
Buy life once more with our immortal breath,
And wander through the little fields together,
And taste of Love and Death.
"The Song Tree" by Alfred Noyes (poem)
When I was volunteering on Iona last year, Miriam lent me an old, hardbound blue book of poems by Alfred Noyes. Here are five poems that have stood out.
"The Song Tree"
Grow, my song, like a tree,
As thou hast ever grown,
Since first, a wondering child,
Long since, I cherished thee.
It was at break of day,
Well I remember it,--
The first note that I heard,
A magical undertone,
Sweeter than any bird
--Or so it seemed to me;
And my tears ran wild.
This tale, this tale is true.
The light was growing gray;
And the rhymes ran so sweet
(For I was only a child)
That I knelt down to pray.
Grow, my song, like a tree.
Since then I have forgot
A thousand dreams, but not
The song that set me free,
So that to thee I gave
My hopes and my despairs,
My boyhood's ecstasy,
My manhood's prayers.
In dreams I have watched thee grow,
A ladder of sweet boughs,
Where angels come and go,
And birds keep house.
In dreams, I have seen thee wave
Over a distant land,
And watched thy roots expand,
And given my life to thee,
As I would give my grave.
Grow, my song, like a tree,
And when I am grown old,
Let me die under thee,
Die to enrich thy mould;
Die at thy roots, and so
Help thee to grow.
Make of this body and blood
Thy sempiternal food.
Then let some little child,
Some friend I shall not see,
When the great dawn is gray,
Some lover I have not known,
In summers far away,
Sit listening under thee,
And in thy rustling hear
That mystical undertone,
Which made my tears run wild,
And made thee, oh, how dear.
In the great years to be?
I am proud then? Ah, not so.
I have lived and died for thee.
Be patient. Grow.
Grow, my song, like a tree.
"The Song Tree"
Grow, my song, like a tree,
As thou hast ever grown,
Since first, a wondering child,
Long since, I cherished thee.
It was at break of day,
Well I remember it,--
The first note that I heard,
A magical undertone,
Sweeter than any bird
--Or so it seemed to me;
And my tears ran wild.
This tale, this tale is true.
The light was growing gray;
And the rhymes ran so sweet
(For I was only a child)
That I knelt down to pray.
Grow, my song, like a tree.
Since then I have forgot
A thousand dreams, but not
The song that set me free,
So that to thee I gave
My hopes and my despairs,
My boyhood's ecstasy,
My manhood's prayers.
In dreams I have watched thee grow,
A ladder of sweet boughs,
Where angels come and go,
And birds keep house.
In dreams, I have seen thee wave
Over a distant land,
And watched thy roots expand,
And given my life to thee,
As I would give my grave.
Grow, my song, like a tree,
And when I am grown old,
Let me die under thee,
Die to enrich thy mould;
Die at thy roots, and so
Help thee to grow.
Make of this body and blood
Thy sempiternal food.
Then let some little child,
Some friend I shall not see,
When the great dawn is gray,
Some lover I have not known,
In summers far away,
Sit listening under thee,
And in thy rustling hear
That mystical undertone,
Which made my tears run wild,
And made thee, oh, how dear.
In the great years to be?
I am proud then? Ah, not so.
I have lived and died for thee.
Be patient. Grow.
Grow, my song, like a tree.
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