Ninth Sunday after Pentecost
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56
by Allison Courey
This isn’t
where I expected
to land.
I thought by now,
I’d have a farm
near Winnipeg,
growing peas,
and kale, and sheep.
I thought by now,
I’d grow calendula,
make soap with kids
in forest school,
writing about it
for some
organic magazine.
Perhaps I’d be
a forest priest,
running retreats,
tilling the ground,
welcoming folks to come
and heal
with the goodness of the earth.
I thought by now,
I’d be in a place
with water so clean
it’d be like holy water,
pouring out to heal the land;
a place with rich, dark soil,
abundant food,
and tables filled
with friends
and children
and travellers.
But where I live
is down the mountain,
beyond the trains,
beside the steel.
They say the soil isn’t safe
for playing in,
or growing food.
They say that it’s
contaminated
with arsenic and lead,
leached there by a factory
up the road and under the bridge,
sitting on the water
like a foreboding storm.
And where I live,
the berry plants
do not make berries,
daffodils produce no blooms,
and corn absorbs the soil’s lead.
The water there is so unclean
they’ll build a box
to contain the sludge
leached by the factory
my fathers worked
a century ago.
My neighbours work at that same place,
one the night shift, one the day,
children caring for themselves,
no yards to play, no trees to climb,
just dust, and screens, and noise.
This isn’t
where I expected
to land.
But then I read
of Jesus’ boat on ancient seas,
seeking rest but finding storm,
finding crowds instead of peace,
heading to Bethsaida,
but landing
in Gennesaret.
If I were Jesus, I’d have turned,
gone back to sea,
corrected course,
and ended in
that quiet place
of calm,
and food,
and rest.
If I were him, I would have left,
and fed myself,
looked for rest beyond the noise,
and healing
from the land.
Cause he was tired;
as tired as any
factory worker
on my street,
returning home
from a double shift,
carrying an empty lunch box
with greasy hands.
But Jesus knows
that place is not
a spot you mean to be.
Place
is an orientation,
a lens through which to see the world,
a rest within,
like water so clean,
it wells up inside,
pouring over like holy water
to heal the people,
and the land,
wherever
we find ourselves.
And Jesus’ place was always rest,
like a fierce calendula pushing up
through the smallest crack
in the parking lot,
spreading roots and breathing life
in a place
we’d never expect.
And to that shore,
the people came
from far and wide:
sheep with no shepherd,
kids with no parent,
or just a little calendula
with nowhere
to root.
They didn’t know
who Jesus was;
they’d met his friends,
and knew that they
brought healing,
food, and rest.
In Jesus’ day,
the people felt
this heavy, concrete,
shadow of empire.
The empire said,
do not share food,
you can’t heal pain,
and rest is as dangerous
as a double shift
at the steel mill.
But Jesus lived
by different rules.
He took his friends
and got to work,
healing folks
and sharing food,
teaching them
that place
is a state of mind.
Place is how we
ground ourselves
in prayer, and peace,
a water source,
a spring so deep,
it can’t be covered
by dust, and screens, and noise,
even when we find ourselves
in a place
we didn’t expect.
So I got to work.
I got to work,
and hauled away
chunks of concrete,
revealing earth,
tilling compost,
watching as the rain
poured off my roof,
filling the barrels
lined up like soldiers
of healing.
I got to work,
and filled the soil
with wild things
to help it heal —
and at the park
we planted food;
and on the street,
we barbecued,
and with my kids,
I began to grow
calendula.
Calendula grows
in any crack,
with lead or none;
The petals make
a healing soap,
when from the soil
and with the water,
it’s mixed with rest
for tired hands.
Cause where I live
is down the mountain,
beyond the trains,
beside the steel.
And on my street,
the people feel
this heavy, concrete,
shadow of empire.
The empire says,
do not share food,
you can’t heal pain,
and rest is as dangerous
as a double shift
at the steel mill.
But we live
by different rules.
We know that place
is not a spot
you thought you’d land.
It can’t be bought
or be controlled
by banks, or storms, or fate.
Place is how we
ground ourselves
in prayer, and peace,
a water source,
a spring so deep,
it can’t be covered
by dust, and screens, and noise
even when we find ourselves
in a place
we didn’t expect.
So we follow Jesus
in Gennesaret;
we give out food,
and till the earth,
to heal the land
and offer rest.
We rally for a cleaner lake,
and healing air;
greener spots for kids and trees,
holistic soil, that can contain
the stuff
that gives us life.
Cause healing is for everyone,
on every street,
and Jesus says
that we need rest,
as much as the water
we drink.
On a street that grows
more garbage than food,
folks stop by our park,
watching amazed,
as zucchinis
welcome the bees,
squash climb trellises,
sunflowers shoot upward,
beans climbing their stems
toward the sun.
To this place, too,
the people come
from far and wide:
sheep with no shepherd,
kids with no parent,
or just a little calendula
with nowhere
to root.
They may not know
who Jesus is,
but they’ve met his friends,
and know that they
bring healing, food, and rest.
But this isn’t
where you expected
to land.
You thought by now,
you’d have returned
to pre-pandemic life.
You thought by now,
you’d have more kids
and funds enough
to pay your bills.
Perhaps you would
try something new,
like painting walls,
or study groups,
or a service that meets
at night.
You thought you’d have
a steady priest,
a group for youth,
and a nave at least
protected
from pesky squirrels.
Cause where you live
is up the mountain,
past the trails,
beside the station.
And on your streets,
the people feel
this heavy, concrete,
shadow of empire.
The empire says,
do not share food,
you can’t heal pain,
and rest is as dangerous
as a double shift
at the steel mill.
But you live
by different rules.
You know that place
is not a spot
you thought you’d land.
It can’t be bought
or be controlled
by banks, or storms, or fate.
Place is how you
ground yourselves,
in prayer, and peace,
a water source,
a spring so deep,
it can’t be covered
by dust, and screens, and noise,
even when you find yourselves
in a place
you didn’t expect.
So follow Jesus
in Gennesaret;
give out food,
and till the earth,
to heal the land
and offer rest.
Nikki, pray,
Irena, preach.
Brian, rest,
Anna, teach.
Jessica, heal,
Adam, lead.
Tracy, serve,
Shelagh, feed.
Nancy, grow,
Duncan, give.
Rachel, sing,
Prema, love.
For you are filled
with many gifts,
and you, my friends,
are not defined
by banks, or storms, or fate.
You, my friends,
are not defined
by changing trends
in church and life,
cause where you are
is who you are:
the people of God,
a people defined
by healing,
and food,
and rest.
So don’t be scared
by stormy seas,
bare cupboards,
surprising shores,
or even the illness
which starts to set in
after long, dry spells,
when life is hard
and nothing grows,
so folks lose faith
and then forget
where they belong
and why
they’re here.
For God, your God,
is with you.
As Jesus walked
with James and John,
Phoebe, Lydia,
the suffering ones,
so Jesus walks
with you.
Like native plants
with dormant seeds,
when soil’s good,
new hope will spout.
And to your ground,
rain will return,
and life will sprout
in every crack —
though the garden
will have changed.
Your soil will be
rich and dark,
good for growing
peas and beets.
People will stop
to watch amazed,
as zucchinis
welcome the bees,
squash climb trellises,
sunflowers shoot upward,
beans climbing their stems
toward the sun.
People of God
at Resurrection:
you have landed
at Gennesaret,
and it’s exactly
where Jesus is.
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