There is often discussion about speaking-preaching and being and doing.
IS one more vital than the other?
How many bible verses can we quote to each other to ‘prove’ our point??!!
One such writer suggest than often what we hear may soon be forgotten, which in no way throws doubt on the spoken word.
Perhaps its the human thing to do to justify our own position or calling?
I recently caught up with a mate who is a story teller and artists, as he draws and tells stories. He creates images which stay with you, and so reinforce what is being said.
He has been in recent days working with a large corporation as they transition into a new phase. At one of the venues he was going out to get his morning coffee As he walked past the reception area, where the person who had put all the arrangements in place for the day, was sitting he simply asked if they would like a coffee too.
In 20 years working in that position this person had never been asked if they would like a coffee. This became the talking point among the 100’s attending his seminars. Why? maybe because his actions reflected his words?
Over recent weeks my partner The Ruth and I have taken numerous wedding and funeral services. After one funeral recently someone approached Ruth and commented that when we lead people through this times and as we sit and eat with them it brings calm and offers hope for the future.
So if you’re not someone who gets to speak in public or you’re the silent’ type, don’t be embarrassed , you’re actions are important. Maybe, just maybe, actions do speak louder than word??
God help me to know when to speak up AND when shut up!!!!
It’s been a while since I last wrote anything here. In that time there has been much of the ‘stuff of life’ going on. So much in fact I’m not sure where to start, what to say and what to leave unsaid.
Journeying with people as they begin married life, others who are laying loved ones to rest and hearing stories of injustices endured by indigenous peoples, and those who have endured loss due to decisions made to become the person they believe they are.
I often feel inadequate in many of the situations I find myself in, sometimes its a stranger who engages in conversation.
One of those took place today.
As I was parking the bike a person approached as blurted out How can there be a God when the world is so shit?? (a reasonable question)
What followed was a comprehensive list of what is wrong with the world, conspiracy theories and the like. The conversation, which was one sided, concluded with ‘well I have enough of this shitty world, so everyday i throw myself in front of trucks and buses because I’ve had enough’.
Where is a person supposed to go after a conversation like that? (to the pub????)
So whether we ourselves are experiencing darker moments or we are journeying with others through dark times, may brighter days await us.
Sometimes the words of others best help us understand the darker times. These words from an Elder at Parihaka (NZ)
After the shades os darkness comes the dusk of dawn, whilst before lies the shimmering glory of a fair day. (he maru ahiahi kei muri te maru awatea he pakiarohhi kei Mia)
…then this line from a song called..we’re all in this together we’re all in this together walking the line between faith and fear….. (not sure of its origins but heard it on a cd by old Crow Medicine Show)
This from the good book in Psalms, read at a funeral recently.
He shall cover you with his feathers, under his wings shall you trust:his truth shall be your shield and *buckler. (*a smaller shield fitted to the wrist for added protection?)
Back loitering tonight, its cold and wet. I sense despair on the streets tonight………..mean while many of our senior politicians make excuses about their own fate after the election. Leaders spew out hateful words about ‘others’ who are different…. one multi millionaire business man even suggested we needed a ‘dictator’ to sort things out!! I wonder if there are many who give a ‘*flying f*#k’ about those who live in misery.
This poem, while written in a different time, still reflects,I reckon on our society today. Obsessed with home ownership, status, creating personal wealth and the accumulation of more stuff we don’t need, sadly this includes some of us ‘churchies’ too!!!
They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone That want is here a stranger, and that misery’s unknown; For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet My window-sill is level with the faces in the street — Drifting past, drifting past, To the beat of weary feet — While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair, To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care; I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street — Drifting on, drifting on, To the scrape of restless feet; I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.
In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by, Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet, Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street — Flowing in, flowing in, To the beat of hurried feet — Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
The human river dwindles when ’tis past the hour of eight, Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late; But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street — Grinding body, grinding soul, Yielding scarce enough to eat — Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.
And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town, Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street, Tells of the city’s unemployed upon his weary beat — Drifting round, drifting round, To the tread of listless feet — Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.
And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away, And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day, Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat, Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street — Ebbing out, ebbing out, To the drag of tired feet, While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.
And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day’s sad pages end, For while the short `large hours’ toward the longer `small hours’ trend, With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat, Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street — Sinking down, sinking down, Battered wreck by tempests beat — A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.
A ‘mens club’ on one of our city streets.
DREAMS is the name, I wonder if dreams are made or shattered here???
But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes, For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums, Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet, And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street — Rotting out, rotting out, For the lack of air and meat — In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.
I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor? Ah! Mammon’s slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat, When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street, The wrong things and the bad things And the sad things that we meet In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.
Another Winters night out on the city streets
I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still, And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill; But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet, They haunted me — the shadows of those faces in the street, Flitting by, flitting by, Flitting by with noiseless feet, And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.
Once I cried: `Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure, Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.’ And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city’s street, And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet, Coming near, coming near, To a drum’s dull distant beat, And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.
Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall, The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all, And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution’s heat, And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street. Pouring on, pouring on, To a drum’s loud threatening beat, And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.
Life is a blur for many in the ‘most liveable city’ Local Council make it hard for people, often moving them on.
And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course, The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse, But not until a city feels Red Revolution’s feet Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street — The dreadful everlasting strife For scarcely clothes and meat In that pent track of living death — the city’s cruel street.
This annual service commemorates the long association the Welsh Church has had with the Queen Victoria Hospital, initiated by the use of our hall by Dr. Constance Stone as the first out-patient clinic run by