a prominent UK politiion declared that there is no such thing as Islamophobia. The complexities behind this hubristic and clearly partisan statement are not the point of this post, but it will have escaped none of us that bombs are raining down on places where they worship in different ways to us. Scratch the surface (or don’t even do this) and the lie of that politician is exposed repeatedly. Those in power in the US have named their enemy. They know what the enemy looks like, and it something like the photo above.

What is the call of Jesus when religion gives cover for war? When the death of the other is seen as an acceptable political price to pay? When casual racism echoes in the corridors of power and no-one calls it for what it is, out of fear of offending the racists?

Part of my answer to this involves listening again to the voice of the other.

As a poet, I have long been drawn to the Sufi poets- mostly writing over a thousand years ago, before England was really England, and when the USA was just a distant nightmare to the people of what came to be known as America by colonisers.

Lets start with Attar.

Attar of Nishapur
 (1145 – 1221 ce) saint and mystic, one of the most voluminous authors in Persian literature on religious topics.  His best-known work, Conference of the Birds, is an elaborate allegory of the soul’s quest for reunion with God

Intoxicated by the Wine of Love.
From each a mystic silence Love demands.
What do all seek so earnestly? ‘Tis Love.
What do they whisper to each other? Love.
Love is the subject of their inmost thoughts.
In Love no longer ‘thou’ and ‘I’ exist,
For Self has passed away in the Beloved.
Now will I draw aside the veil from Love,
And in the temple of mine inmost soul,
Behold the Friend; Incomparable Love.
He who would know the secret of both worlds,
Will find the secret of them both, is Love.

      Farid ud Din Attar – translation Margaret Smith -The Jawhar Al-Dhat  

n the dead of night, a Sufi began to weep.
He said, “This world is like a closed coffin, in which 
We are shut and in which, through our ignorance,
We spend our lives in folly and desolation.
When Death comes to open the lid of the coffin,
Each one who has wings will fly off to Eternity,
But those without will remain locked in the coffin.
So, my friends, before the lid of this coffin is taken off,
Do all you can to become a bird of the Way to God;
Do all you can to develop your wings and your feathers.”

      Farid ud Din Attar,  translation by Andrew Harvey and Eryk Hanut – ‘Perfume of the  Desert’ 

Today we point you to this lovely resource from our friend Tim Watson. It is simple, beautiful and profound – 40 thoughts/ideas/actions for reflection during lent.

Here is one of our favourites to give you a flavour;

I (Chris) am on Skye just now, where we will be setting up a pop up gallery space and visiting my son-in-law’s family. They live on a croft, just along from Saint Maelrubha, second most venerated Scottish saint after St Columba himself. Maelrubha was another Irish monk, who made the journey over here 100 years or so after Columba, setting up a monastic community in what is now Appelcross, just over the water from where I now sit. In fact, legend has it that when he came over to Skye to spread the gospel, he did so by sailing over on a flat stone. Here a tall rock is remembered as his pulpit and a holy well still bears his name.

The tradition of holy wells as palces of veneration and suplication is much older than the Christ story. Around the well that bears the name of Maelrubha archeologists have dig neolithic polished axes, perhaps left by earlier worshippers as a way to persuade their version of the divine, revealed to them in th elive giving sweet water.

Scholars also trace other forms of knowing through the stories that come down to us from Celtic folk memory – ones which see everything that is and has substance, everything that breathes and moves on the earth or on the sea or in the sky, as being made and held in the mind and soul of God. In this context, the holy well is different from any other well only because it is a ‘thin place’ where the membrane between us and the great divine is thinner. Every well is a holy well, but at this one, God is more transparent.

If we can learn once more to see the world this way, how might it change our relationship with the great am-ness that we are held within?

Burning bushes

The head of this pin
The hazelnut
Snake and twist of kelp in the
Surfing summer storm
The life inside bone
This feeling of home -
It is all transparence

Every pool is a
Sacred well
Every bird is 
A holy dove

Moses misunderstood
Because every bush is
Burning

Chris Goan

We have just heard that Si Smith’s set of now iconic images entitled ’40’ are now available again. You can get the whole set on this link. (If you would like the poetry that Chris wrote to go with the images, then drop us a line!)

As a taster, above is another image from the series, along with the accmopanying words below;

Find me O my father

Make me.

Take me back to you

My throat is cracked

But thirst is more

For you

My stomach craves

A food that feeds only this;

My soul.

So I walk

Desperate

Close to falling

Stumbling

To you

Today we welcome back Margaret Somerville, with her beautiful poem ‘Beyond’.

Margaret is the author of ‘When prayer doesn’t work’, one of the best books of prayer I have ever read. She works at the interface between different faiths, seeking to comb together stories of connection and commonality.

Beyond

In the field beyond right and wrong
where we chose to sit for a while
you showed me the scratches on your heart
where others had not understood
the way you see the world
and all that lies
between the muscles of survival.
I told you the secrets of my belief
of a god not named with words and creeds
and the blank spaces where others once had sat.

Here
beyond,
these sharings take shape
as fibers weaving into
friendship
gentle nods that bobble the head
open hands extended
eyes that scan farther than horizons
with unlimited
embrace.

by Margaret Somerville

This morning, perhaps in the wake of unfolding news from the a fresh explosion of violence in the Middle East, I awake thinking of Hind Rakab. For many, her story will come to represent the true meaning of these wars of revenge and colonalism. In case you don’t know what happened, read on (but you should be warned, This is bleak.)

On January 29, 2024 a five-and-a-half-year-old girl named Hind Rajab was murdered in the Tel al Hawa district of Gaza by the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF). Hind, her aunt, her uncle, and three cousins were fleeing in an automobile after being ordered to evacuate only to be targeted by an Israeli tank. Her fifteen year old cousin Layan Hamala phoned the Palestine Red Crescent Society (because that is what you do when your family have all been injured and lie dying all around you.) and was shot dead by a nearby tank during the phone call. An ambulance was sent to the site with permission given by the Israeli military who, nonetheless, bombed the ambulance killing two paramedics. Hind, wounded and pleading for help, spent over three hours on the telephone before the line went out of service. The whole thing was recorded on the Red Crescent telephone system. A little girl’s last moments.

Twelve days later the car was found destroyed with all of its inhabitants dead inside. According to later forensic analysis, 335 bullets were fired at the car. Some of the corpses had apparently begun to decompose.

Today we read that one hundred of boys and girls – perhaps some also called Hind – were killed in the American strikes on Iran. Perhap more were killed by the retaliation. These are not games. Not for girls like Hind.

As agents of the Kingdom of God we dance to the Spirit of peace. What might that mean for you today as you consume the news? At very least, may it bring rage. May it make us long for justice and a time when we look back and remember Hind and al the other little Hinds who died at the hands of powerful men.

The fruit of the Spirit is Peace

After the rain squalling
And the bombs falling
After the back stabbing
And the tongue lashing
After love is betrayed
And dreams disarrayed
When the knife cuts and slashes
After sackcloth and ashes
Comes the peace

After the tumours
And cruel vicious rumours
After bodies broken
And evil words spoken
After guns cease their shooting
Troops no longer jack-booting
With the grave trodden down
And the trees now turned brown
Comes peace

Even after the failure
Of life-long labour
And after deadlines missed
After the getting pissed
When the pressure’s done mounting
And it’s all over-even the shouting
When the race has been run
In the setting of sun
Comes the peace

When anger burns out
After faith turns to doubt
When we give up on walking
And wolf packs are stalking
When the money is spent
Safety curtains are rent
At the end of all coping
Even Polyanna’s done hoping

Even then
Will fall
My peace

Chris Goan, from ‘Listing’

Today we have a new poem by Steve Page – another one with big heart. It does that thing that Steve’s work often does, takes an idea, then inverts it to allow us to look from a different direction. If you need this poem more than most today, we stand with you.

By the way, Steve has a number of his books available via Amazon. If his words connect with you, take a look here.

Ill being

Once in a while take a rest

from pursuing well-being

and practice your ill-being,

a time for holding your heart

in its sadness.

Then, when next grief springs up from the darkness,

you may be better equipped to bear the weight

and to use the now more familiar tools to shape,

to form your pain into something that includes a hand hold.

You will then have something that maybe slows the unfolding,

the unravelling that would come with uncontrolled mourning,

something that allows you to carry it with less stagger

as you walk through your trauma, and, while you’re no less sadder,

you may have greater access to that part of your heart,

that side of your grey matter that allows more focus

on where, in time, to lay that burden down.

Today we return to another station of the cross from The Many.

We are living in a time when the news is revealing how powerful men use vulnerable girls for sex and power. As the story of Epstein trickles out, as it is shaped and obscured, as men scramble for cover, we are left in no doubt about the world we have made, and whose interests are prioritised.

Which brings us back to the upside down power logics of the Kingdom of God, revealed for us in the life of Jesus, despite subsequent attempts to nullify and tame the wild beauty of love.

Hear our prayers

For all who’ve been told to stop crying.

For all who’ve been told their tears

were ugly, shameful, ridiculous.

For all who’ve sucked back tears.

Who’ve held them

in their locked hearts.

For all who cannot stop crying. 

For all who don’t know

how holy their tears are.

Hear our lament.

Today we have a poem from our friend and long time Proost contributor Steve Page. Steve’s writing is always playful but has a big beautiful heart, just like the man himself.

Typical Jesus

He was there, just where you wouldn’t expect him – typical Jesus. There he was selling the Big Issue while chatting with mates. I was just walking round to Sainsbury’s to pick up some milk.

I couldn’t stop, I had to get back for my 2 o’clock.

If I’d known he’d be there I’m not sure what I would have done – maybe gone the other way. You know what it’s like, you just want to get on, but he has this way of getting you to slow down. It just takes up your time.

So there he was. He knew I’d seen him, even though I kept my head down and kept walking, checking I had a carrier. It really bugs me when I forget and I need to decide whether to buy another bag for life or act casual with a two pint-er hanging from a finger, despite the numbing cold. I’m not sure if I felt relieved or guilty that he didn’t call out. I could see he was busy. It’s no big deal. We’d catch up another time.

As I queued for the self-service, I wondered if he’d still be there, and if he was, would it be impolite to just nod and keep walking. I had that meeting. I’d said I’d be back in time. And I really wanted to have enough leeway to make a cup of tea and get my head in the right space.

I was just thinking through my options when he popped up beside me as I swiped my nectar card. ‘Hey, matey,’ he smiled. ‘Can I walk with you? I know it’s a working day, so I won’t slow you down.’

I felt like he’d read my mind – maybe he had. I made a neutral sound, something like a casual agreement and we walked. I wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t end up taking all afternoon, so I thought I’d best say nothing.

He kept his word and didn’t slow me down. We walked and he talked about the stabbing. Everyone was. No-one I knew. A guy in his thirties just outside Sainsbury’s. He had walked to the Grosvenor, and they tried to help but it was too late for him. The police camped out all the following day.

I nodded, not seeing the point of adding anything. Like I said, it wasn’t like I knew him.

When we got to the corner, where the police tape still floated attached to the lamppost, he took my shoulder and made me pause. Then he gave me a hug.

You know his hugs – like warm memory foam. I really needed to get back for that call, but instead I stood and sobbed, like he knew I needed to.

Blast. That really messed up my plans for the afternoon.

No Proost lent Journey would be complete without Si Smith’s wonderful set of images known as ’40’. It was one of the most downloaded and used offerings during Proost’s history, but is not currently available- something we intend to change. At some point it was paired with a script/liturgy/poem by Chris. Here is one of the images, along with the accompanying words.

That night he stood alone before the moon. Listening again for the voice.

Straining again for the call.

His face shone with the reflected light. Sun to moon. Moon to face. And he started to hope again.

Now is your time my son.

In you are my hopes, my dreams.

In you is everything I am.

In you is all my love, all my mercy, all my grace.

Now is your time…and mine.