Let Us Pray
1
Dimly burning Lamps and bent Reeds
Isaiah 42:1-3 Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations. (2) He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; (3) a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice.
He sits at his table
the light fading
his lamp burning low
the reed pen in his hand blunt.
Many times that day he had taken such a reed pen
bent and blunt and crushed it up in his hand throwing it to the floor.
He hesitates this night
as faced with the despair of people
and evil of injustice
the cruelty of violence
and wonders.
What would it be like if God was here?
The real servant of God was here?
There were others
blind servants
deaf servants
so easily turning their faces away
impervious to the longings the hopelessness.
Surely a real servant of God would be not such a one as these!
He has seen it in the faces of men,
of mothers
holding tightly to their children
seen it in the faces of the children
wide eyed
uncertain, unsure.
Did he himself want at times to embrace them?
Reach out and bring some semblance of hope
some kind word
some gentle touch
that might,
just might waken some joy within them
within all who lived in the land of shadow.
It plays with his mind urgently
what would it be like he ponders if God were here
the real servant of God.
His lamp begins to flicker
as the oil runs out.
Time perhaps to sleep to escape from this nagging voice.
As on other nights he reaches out to
snub out its feeble glow
between thumb and finger
but tonight even as his hand reaches out
the weight of his people’s pain in his heart
he stops.
Reaching for his jar of oil
he gently, very gently
pours the life giving river into the shallow
cup.
Gently, very gently for should he be too
careless the flame would drown
and he watches as the flickering wick takes on new life
as the flame is renewed
flooding his page.
He picks up the reed pen
and gently ever so gently
straightens it
taking his sharp knife he trims the end
making it a worthy instrument in his hand.
Is it the light of the lamp
or some other
illuminating
inspiring
causing his heart to gush out in life
in restoration and hope
as he dips the restored read into his ink and writes:
“Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights… (3) a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice.”Isaiah 42:1-3
And are their tears in his eyes with the wonder of what he has just written?
Strange he thinks,
why this reed pen awoke something within him.
Worth nothing really this reed.
For the smallest coin he could purchase a fistful
fit only to be used and discarded
thrown away.
Like so many children?
Bruised reeds every one of them
acting out their pain
their anger
only as they have learned.
Looking for anything in all the wrong places
desperate for, but fearing one who will one day
come and take them in his hand, her hands
gently, every so gently
turning their abandonment
into a person of purpose
and dignity
that maybe from whose lives, great words
great hope can come.
Repairing that which man would discard to the scrap heap of life
releasing in them something of the potential
that was always within them.
His mind returns to the dimly burning lamp
and maybe the mother he saw the other day.
The child in her arms
her source of income
her own battered body slowly dying
needing only someone to love her
really love her.
Love her child, really love her child
before the flame dies in each of them
left hollow eyed
huddled in some black corner
of some black town
in some dark city
in some hovel in some forlorn part of God’s own.
He had seen them so snuffed out.
The invading armies
the pillagers
the users
the pushers
the greedy the abusive
the drunken.
So easy to do is it not?
Snuff them out so the smell of their dying
the smoke of death
the stench of despair
doesn’t disturb.
These dimly burning wicks!
And he saw another way
and another One
who would come
even as his hand reached out.
Seeing the potential yet, if only someone would care enough.
And as the oil trickles into the bowl
it happens.
Slowly but surely
a splutter not of death but life
as the flame finds fuel
slowly but surely
doing what it was created to do
shaped to do
placed to do.
Bring light!
and insight and a legacy
a word that will come down the generations.
And so He would come this One
not with angels wings
floating safely above
but in you and me
no longer false servants who hear but do not hear
see but do not see
rather entering in
touching,
restoring
refusing to discard
believing in a truer away
embracing these dying lamps
saying to the bent reeds
but it’s not over yet
and there is hope
and there is purpose yet for you.
Men and women
allowing their hearts to be broken by the things that break the heart of God.
Amen
Let us Pray.
Now unto God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit, be all the honour and praise. Amen