When I was growing up in my tight-knit CRC triangle of home, church and Christian school, our communal economy was sustained by an unwritten code. You supported your own. You patronized CRC businesses and hired kids from your own congregation. If you had to pay a bit more for produce at Vandenbergs’ Market, well, so be it. It’s what you did. You invested in faith.
God of the cross and the lynching tree,
of the jail cell and the street corner,
of the Bible study and the police car,
look upon the world you have made.
Artful Eye poem and photograph
God of the living, and of the dying. What happened two thousand years ago has a grip on our hearts and on our minds. We remember an event impossibly far removed from us in time as though it were today that the one who won us over was tried by church and state and publicly executed.
Christmas poem and painting.
A poem for Easter.
What would David have said about Ontario in autumn? Of the explosion of colour in our forests – and what would he have written about our hills, far as the eye can see, on fire with red and gold and yellow? Would he have seen a metaphor for the way that God makes everything new – sometimes through literal flame, often through figurative flame – through the dying of the old ways to make way for what’s next?
A poem for Thanksgiving.
No, the New Jerusalem,
that better city that we seek,
that city of refuge,
that city of safety and hospitality,
that city of justice and restoration,
that restored city of shalom,
that city where God will dwell,
is a city built on the foundations of suffering love,
or it is not built at all.