“See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil” – Eph. 5:15, 16.
Kairos interrupts tallied Chronos. A precise moment where Truth slices time in two, anew, the clock stills at 11:11 Chronos: finite numbers Kairos: eternal destiny Choose the interruption of Kairos; And leave behind the Chronos clock that enslaves. Time wasted with foolishness, He redeems time forever lost in Chronos. His clock, he sets to stand still at the perfect time. It's the eleventh hour...Kairos.
Chronos: fleeting time
chronologically measured, ticking, quantitative time.
Kairos: the fullness of time
God’s time, the right, critical opportune moment, permanent time.
Fish and Chips Day
“Now from the sixth hour until the ninth hour there was darkness over all the land. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” that is, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”
Fish and Chips Day In the midst of the beauty of Spring, on a religious day of lament was our fish and chips day. I remember my dad’s cuss words as he blew out dozens of eggs to hang painted shells on a freshly cut pussy willow tree. We ate a lot of scrambled eggs and went through crates of farm fresh Mennonite eggs. It was also the long church day that I dreaded and all I wanted to do was ride my bike and listen for the sounds of Spring and see the robin’s arrival. I did not want to go to church. But off we went, cuss words and all, in my newly stitched dress by a Nana who was nimble with her thimble. For a few days the annual Easter church dress masked the scabbed knee and concussion tom boy who always seemed to be up the wrong neighbour’s tree at the wrong time. This year’s Easter dress was white and covered in blue flowers. But the flowers quickly wilted with the showered holy water from the man of God who prowled the aisles. I made the mistake of sitting by my dad on the end of the pew. After the holy water shower, the holy man came back with his holy smoke. Waving around the thurible was trouble for a little girl with asthma at the end of a pew where the smoke billowed and the funeral incense dust blew up my nose and a-a-a-chew, I sneezed all over my little blue flowers. I inherited by Dad's sneeze and its a good thing he always had a hanky in his pocket for the kid who always seem to need it most. “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” I earnestly listened to the word of God, but I was hopelessly lost as to why God the Dad did not grab his son off the cross and just take him home. I assumed there would come an understanding when I became a grown up. The painted ancient white-haired God on the church ceiling looking down on his son surrounded by his holy angels put a deep fear in me. The holy man of church was not a very friendly one either especially when he went behind the heavy velvet purple drapes in the back that closeted the darkness called the confessional. I learned how to sin in there. I simply made up sins I did not do so I would make a rather grand first confessional. No, I did not find comfort and joy at church, nor a God I could know. I found fear there. After church, we piled into our worn-out station wagon to pick up fish and chips, wrapped in yesterday’s news. The sweet smell of ketchup and malt vinegar covered the funeral stench of the blue flowers, and I felt safe back at home on our front porch munching fish and chips. I saw my bike out on the front lawn and looked longingly at my Mom. Mom nodded, knowing full well she wished she could also escape her adult fears for a while. As I pedalled under the budding trees that would soon canopy the sidewalk, the dusk sky suddenly darkened. As I watched the swirling clouds, the sky turned a deep indigo and thunder rumbled as the deep blue blurred the line into purple. A shiver ran through me and a deep sense of awe overcame me as I watched the infinite sky change colour. The creator God of this sky filled me with longing to know him. The fear of the church God drained out of me and puddled beneath my feet. In my soiled blue flowered dress, I bowed my head on my bike’s little white basket and felt his stillness. ‘Truly, this man is the son of God.' Peace flooded over me as the sky released holy drops of rain. I raced home on my bike as real holy water gushed from the lit purple sky. A baptism of joy washed and cleansed the stench of the holy man’s incense renewing the blue flower. It was on that fish and chips day that I met a God I could know. The God of this sky, the creator of the beauty of Spring, the God who put his longing in the blue flower was the God I wanted to know. And on this fish and chips day I know him. I pray you know him too. Happy Good Friday!
“When the centurion and those with him who were guarding Jesus saw the earthquake and all that had happened, they were terrified, and exclaimed, “Truly, this man was the Son of God.”
Votary of the Blue Flower: “They taught me longing–Sehnsucht; made me for good or ill, and before I was six years old, a votary of the Blue Flower.” ~ C.S. Lewis
“Speak to the people of Israel, and tell them to make tassels on the corners of their garments throughout their generations, and to put a cord of blue on the tassel of each corner.” Number 15:38
Hallowed hands stitch the silken thread Quietly the master weaver repairs the broken blue His indigo promise now hidden by the lure of the deceit tree The glamoured fruit clouds vision to see his majestic indigo that hugs the thin line in the genesis sign Jewelled indigo sullied with dirt-stained hearts cheapen the blue Purity less dignified, masked filters hide the truth of who, we have become We contaminate the sapphire treasure purposed with care so lovingly seeded deep within The solitary tree stands sentinel, rooted in its own strength The wood bends in honour from the burden of the one he carries Upon his limbs, bloodied see-through palms sew the mercy stitch The needle nails rust from bloody salted tears he weeps for his tarnished blue formed in him, through him, for him Lapis cries out for the gild of the Lamb The broken host bleats in compassion for his treasure The veiled gold vein reflects the bloodied blue spilled from the lance we shield Hardened hearts thirst for the glory to heal the exposed blue The blue blood sovereign king humbly offers cura through the blood of the lamb CURA! CURA! CURA! Imago Dei, now shattered glass mirrors who he formed from the dirt His image bearers hammer the healing hands deep into the humility tree carving both the limb and He, who mends our fractured clay hands Bloodied fists smooth the weaponed shards with fired gold Holy blue stained palms absorb and heal his splattered indigo HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! In brokenness, we still High above the rooted tree, redemption carefully lingers in his rise The canopied sky reflects the resurrected glory now pregnant with the rich indigo that drips down as rained dew magnifying the dust from which we came The risen heart overflows and bursts open with the sacred indigo blood restoring both sky and sea a mirrored reflection of the blue we were created to be Azure blows his kiss from high as the few kneel below And the wisdom of indigo opens vision to see anew the purity of his blue
Blue: the sacred, holy colour
“There they saw the God of Israel. Under his feet there seemed to be a surface of brilliant blue lapis lazuli, as clear as the sky itself.” Exodus 24:10
Cura: latin – to care – Our hearts put effort into who & what we care about. Our effort is where we find cura, our treasure.
“For where our treasure is; there our heart will be also.” Matthew 6:21
“Let it rest, and lie fallow.” Exodus 23:11
Parading through the tombs Osteon cries out, “dead man walking!” my stoic step trudges the graveyard path quietly echoing the dormant season of the hallowed dirt Fallow settles white dust blankets the plotted land of dry bones a cocooned season the earth must still Kairos quiets for the fruitfulness to renew the idle land sleeps for the dry bones to ready for the Word Fallow seeps deep into the bones unveiling the shadowed fruit that must be pruned, plowed under to nourish and renew my weary spirit A life’s foundation bulldozed, flattened exposes the rubble and becomes a public spectacle of broken skeletal remains The fallow season is upon and I too must sleep with the earth until his breath waters the dry bones awake that only He can renew I slumber in dreams that long for his breath to resurrect my spirit Kairos returns with the mist of his kiss that gently wakes the fallow His hand steadies as we survey the dormant mess of scattered dry bones that he created, living to house His home I see afresh, the burden of the dry bones so agape deep, I moan under the weight of his love for those he mourns awkwardly, I lift them high to see his love come down I mimic the ass that journeyed the bones from which I came the donkey was birthed a burden bearer I was born to see, but not to bear a gift of vision to point but not to carry home My heart could not hold their footing and buckled under the weight I had forgotten the husbandry yoke needed and collapsed at the dung gate scattering the dry bones He gently maneuvers through the graveyard of dry bones and brings us to the crossroad tree to behold, afresh the marker that gives life to the dry bones He visions me from the lens of his longing and asks, “can these bones live?” “only you know,” I whisper eyes wet, my vision darkly clouds of knowing the words to speak but not to bear He motions to see him bear the burden of the tree to know that he carries more weight than the ass his hands created to carry his own bones home He gives his living marrow in exchange for the dry bones that lie fallow "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani!" He breathes his last I inhale the fragrance of his exhale and drink in his perfumed sweat that moistens the fertility of the parched fruit seeds His naked skeleton resurrects the fallowed dry bones a new sound rattles as the army clumsily rises the fallowed dirt mingles with his spit He gently soothes the manna paste over my eyes to see His Kairos Word I must leave the burden bearing to Him to carry the dry bones home
Then he said to me, “Prophesy to these bones and say to them dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to Life. Ezekiel 37:4
So I prophesied as he commanded me, and breath entered them; they came to life and stood up on their feet – a vast army. Ezekiel 37:10
“I loved you, at your darkest.” Romans 5:8
My Coffin Confessional what boxed secrets lay hidden buried deep within the grave I pause, reflecting on my own heart's coffin buried deep above the grave Zephyr's breath exhales His words echo through the tombs "nothing is covered that won't be revealed or hidden that will not be made known..." convicted, I genuflect in the dirt with empty, open hands I lay down my offering of plastic flowers at the weathered cross a cracked marker for a broken life Zephyr whispers his word that rips the veiled box in two kneeling at the foot of the memorial stone I whisper my confessional tears wash the stone's plastic flowers communion breaks consecrating my coffin confessional that heals the stone's crack His Mercy whispers: "Forgiven, now go in Peace."
“Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.” Proverbs 28:13
“Forgiven, now go in peace.” Luke 7:48-50