Inspiration

People in Edinburgh familiar with my spoken-word performances will know that images often accompany my writing. Recently I performed my sequence Walking on the Water – inspired by Antony Gormley’s installation along the Waters of Leith, 6 Times. Using my own photographs as visual aids, and interspersing the six sections with Gregorian plainchant made the performance memorable, certainly, if a bit weird.

Combining aspects of the arts is not only important to me as a writer; it is essential to me as an artist. As well as engaging with all art-forms at some level, it is important to support other emerging artists. This year, I went to four end-of-year shows featuring work of students or graduands of our various art colleges. And what a treat it was!

At Edinburgh College of Art, I was able to visit all the departments, over several visits. Being slightly biased, I was particularly pleased to see work by people I know. In Illustration, I enjoyed seeing the intricate paper-cuttings of Alice Spicer. Alice is also a writer, and her work effectively combines both disciplines. alicebspicer.com

Another illustrator, Jode Pankhurst (who has illustrated one of my poems, which may or may not be published as you read this) combines illustration and ceramics to produce stunning, original and moving work. Call it favouritism, but her work was the highlight for me, and I urge you to visit her website. http://www.jodepankhurst.co.uk/

One work that especially caught my eye and (although I’m bored with this cliché) captured my imagination. Maria Hadam constructed pieces out of cassette tape, stretched in lines across white board frames. Some were very small, others large, and each contained something extremely beguiling; buried sounds, memories, and the transience of technology and life itself, shimmering and changing colour depending on where the viewer stood. I was fortunate to spend some time in conversation with the artist, whose website is here: http://www.mariahadam.com/

Deep in Leith is a hidden gem that I’d not visited before: the Leith School of Art. A friend who had a picture displayed invited me to the end-of-year show; a curious mix and wide range of talent and ability, from folk who are perhaps following a dream or a passion for art, and others who having completed a foundation level are destined for greater things, whether or not they go on to established Art Colleges. 

 

I cannot claim to know about the technicality of painting, but I’m picked out one artist whose work I found work profoundly moving on many levels. In her artist statement, Emily Ponsonby said, ‘Through multiple layers of oil, varnish and wax I aim to interpret the essence of my model’s personality and what makes them tick.’

I was immediately impressed by the scale and realism of these portraits, but failed at first to pick up on one essential element. My friend, who I eventually found in the warren of studios in this redundant church, said to me, ‘But did you smell the paintings?’ I confessed I had not. She told me, ‘They smell of honey.’

So we went back to view them, and at that point the artist was having her picture taken with the model of one of her pictures: a beautiful, rugged-looking man with a mass of grey hair and a beard – not the easiest of subjects – in front of his portrait. He was even wearing the same jumper! There was a feeling of pride, pleasure, and above all, a visible rapport between the artist and sitter. http://emilyponsonby.com/

In my conversation with Maria Hadam, at the E.C.A. show, we discussed how rarely people are truly moved by visual art, certainly not in the way other art forms move us. We are stirred by music, provoked by theatre; we laugh at comedy and weep in the movies (well, some do) Perhaps it is our sense of reserve: it would seem absurd to stand in a gallery, laughing at, applauding or sobbing in front of an installation.

And yet, when I returned to the L.S.A. in Leith to have another look at Emily’s paintings with fewer people around, I got up close to the picture, observed the way the layers of wax and paint were built up to give the work immense depth and intensity; and then I breathed in deeply (as a singer might) through my nose. Even more than the joy of seeing ‘Gerry’ in front of his picture, I was quite overcome and found myself welling up. Get a grip, I told myself!

But the thing that really moved me was the thought that this experience (unless I were to put my money where my emotion was and buy one) was ephemeral and, being of the moment, in that sense, unique. What’s more, her work spoke on more levels of eloquence than I can hope to articulate in writing.

Interpreting art, especially modern art, is hard. The Death-to-Death show at the Modern Art Gallery in Edinburgh is tough, since so much of it is provocatively weird, frankly. The multi-sensory experience of the Ernesto Neto installation is another example of how nothing needs explained when experiencing art (although, having heard Neto speak recently, he certainly has much to say, and every word is a gem!)

If the ‘artist’s statement’ should say anything, save explaining or justifying the work we may struggle to interpret, it should contain a glimpse of what has inspired them.

So, what inspires me to write? Art, life, a compulsion to make sense of the world and the transient experience of our short time on earth: all of these. But above all, it is people. As I go about galleries, museums, shops, or sit in cafés, on buses or wander the streets, I am soaking up stories, leaching lives, inhaling the air they breathe.

In these last weeks, I have been inspired, vitalised, moved and thrilled by the new art I have seen, much of which has been greatly inspired. At its most basic, inspiration means ‘breathing in.’ Thanks to Emily Ponsonby, I must remember when I look at all art to breath in deeply, through my nose, and be inspired in every sense.

Humans Remain

I’ve said it before, but here goes.  The Bible, and especially the Gospel narrative, is a great source of inspiration to me.  Not least because there’s a lot of weird shit in there that no amount of warped imagination could ever invent.  This means that scripture must be open to an exceedingly broad interpretation, no matter what a person’s understanding or religious inclination may be.  Except to say that some interpretation is wrong (with scant apologies to those who disagree) – especially when the stories simply do not chime with the world we live in today. 

Last month, a letter was published in ‘the press’ (shame on them, but given that most newspapers are amoral why bother complaining or naming them: that is their modus operandi) publicly attacking the ministry of an ordained priest in the Scottish Episcopal Church.  Why?  Because she (shock, horror) is a woman.  I will, for what it’s worth, name-and-shame the letter-writer, a Mr Donald J Morrison of 85 Old Edinburgh Road, Inverness.  This man is a bigot, a misogynist, and a theologically-ignorant fool.  But don’t take my word for it: Google him, and make up your own mind.

http://bit.ly/15Uq2X2

Or, let me cite a couple of sentences in his pathetic missive, and allow whoever reads this to decide. Of the 196 women who are ministers in the Church of Scotland (according to his figures which I don’t entirely trust) he claims, “This is 196 too many.” He seems to think that “The very fact that they are women debars them from the Christian ministry,” and attempts to back this up with a Biblical quotation which he considers “best to hear what absolute truth has to clearly say.”  Apparently, a woman may be “elegant” (I think he meant to say ‘eloquent,’ which clearly he is not) in “public speaking, or proficient in her knowledge of Biblical theology” – again, I question his proficiency. 

It seems, according to Mr Morrison, “The only activity women are restricted from is teaching or having spiritual authority over men.”  And yet he suggests that women “may rise up and hold high office in a nation, just like Queen Elizabeth and as the late Mrs Margaret Thatcher did.”  That will be the present Queen, head of Church-and-State, and former (now deceased, for which I’m only partly glad: I’d rather she hadn’t been born) Prime Minister who was responsible for appointing Bishop Carey to be Archbishop of Canterbury.  Sure, the rot had set in by then, but the Evangelical ascendency in The Church must surely be blamed for the upsurge of aggressive, militant atheism in recent years.

The trouble is, as long as idiots are allowed to vent their views publically; while the various denominations of Christianity are permitted to operate outdated systems of institutionalised human rights violations; and while former Bishops and Archbishops sit in the House of Lords, we are seeing the disintegration of sensible Christianity and the strengthening of that most unholy alliance, Church and State.  Never were there two more incompatible bed-fellows than the Queen and Thatcher, but since disestablishing the Church of England would have seemed as anathema to Maggie as abolishing the Monarchy, so they remained, tucked up and – like all single-sex marriages, according to our deluded Mr Morrison, though not perhaps his choice of phrase – fucked up.

You’ll find his views on same-sex marriage equally derisive.  So, when the House of Lords discusses this, as if they are some kind of legitimate compass of morality, who do we have to put up with? Fucking Bishops who not only should never have been ordained, but who should not be given a seat in The House – least of all by a God who only exists to a limited coterie.  A cliché (but it’s true): the UK is the only one of two democrasies with religious clerics sitting in their Upper Chamber of Politics.  The other is Iran, but I don’t think they have got retired, defunct and idiotic Bishops.  

Take, for example.  Nazir-Ali, former Bishop of Rochester.  What an idiot.  Suggesting that the Queen would break her Coronation Oath by letting her Government vote for gay marriage!  Oh for fuck’s sake, Brenda: nobody gives a toss about your holy oath.  And the move to persuade Bishops to abstain from voting, in order to avoid this issue of disestablishment, makes a mockery of everyone involved – from The Queen right down to that ridiculous man in Inverness, who tells us that Her Majesty has no authority to advise him on matters of theology.  Sorry, Mr Morrison: it seems she does.  Unless, you’re up for disestablishing the Church, or abolishing the Monarchy?

But that, alas, isn’t likely to happen imminently.  So let’s do something different about this.  Gay marriage – the right for two people to publically declare their love for one another – is nothing to do with Christianity.  It’s about conferring what should be the inalienable right on all people, without prejudice, to participate fully in the society in which they live.  It is nothing to do with procreation, sexuality or bodily functions – although all of these are naturally a part of being human.  It is about recognising that love is what brings two people together, and that should be celebrated. 

Yes, Love.

Suffice it to say that, in the Bible, we are instructed to ‘love one another with a pure heart, fervently.’  In the spirit of pick-and-mix theology, we could easily find another quote to counter that. But that’s just petty.  Let’s look instead at the person of Christ, who was just an ordinary man, who did all the things that we do, yet had a vision of a world that could be lived in harmoniously by all, no matter what their beliefs.  Through love.  Unless, of course, they were hypocrites – like the ‘Church’ of his time.  And like the Church in our time.  And the government.  And me too, I guess.  I ought to love Mr Morrison of Inverness.  Perhaps I do, even though he’s a poor, deluded fool.  

And so to this month’s Canto from my poem-sequence, pointing out that Christ was only human. 

Twelve Tones of Blue

 

Canto VI:   The numbers of the beast; basic bodily functions, surely experienced by Christ.

Canto VI

Welcome to the Great High Feast;

I’ll gorge his flesh and rout the devil:

This is the human form to which we all relate.

 

The second number of the beast,

Shooting up through cold blue steel,

Enters the blood with an animal urge to procreate.

 

Of all the numbers does the least

Attractive seem the most primeval.

But didn’t Christ himself digest, procreate and defecate?

 



  

The Blog Spot

This week I will be going to (or will have gone, depending on when you read/read this) the “Literary Salon.”  Posh? Pretentious? Puzzling? Not really: it’s just a bunch of folk from all walks of Literary Life, from fledgling to famous, gathering in a pub on The Mound to network and chat.  Since the theme of this month’s Salon is blogging, I thought I’d give a wee ‘shout-out’ to the Edinburgh City of Literature who run this shin-dig (and to Napier University, and the Wash Bar who host it.)

Perhaps I should ask myself a few questions about my bloggery. Here’s one of those self-interviews that these blogger-types do…

Why do you blog?

Why do I write?  Writing is a compulsion; I can’t imagine not writing.  It’s my way of trying to making sense of the world, an attempt to understand life, and connect with people through my writing.  There’s no point in writing in a vacuum.  But if a writer plans to share their writing, whether through publishing, performing, or online, he or she should make the words readable, enjoyable, and well-crafted.  I use my blog, therefore, as a means of disciplining myself to write frequently and hopefully, better.

What do you blog?

Mainly about me; what I am doing in my writing, some examples of my work (usually poetry… I also write fiction and drama), and my views about topical or political issues. Each year I tend to have a theme.  Last year it was 26 Treasures; the year before was phone-boxes, and my dad’s Glasgow Schooldays.  This year, I am posting poems from my sequence, Twelve Tones of Blue on the 12^th day of the month.

Is this your first blog; do you contribute to other blogs?

At the end of my 26 Treasures project, I was invited to contribute to The Feast Bowl, the Museum of Scotland’s blog. Here it is:  http://feastbowl.wordpress.com/2013/03/22/26-treasures-a-year-of-sestudes/ I’ve written and contributed to other blogs that are no longer extant; one on the horrors of Sex Trafficking, as part of a project inspired by Stop The Traffik and Amnesty International’s Stop Violence Against Women campaigns.  There are many other organisations who champion this cause also.  I had another blog called Not Everything in Black and White… on which I posted some of my photography (before the days of Flickr) and quite a lot of angry ranting about the shitty world.  Not good.

How did you come up with the name for this blog?

For a long while, I languished behind the romantic idea of a writer sitting in a turret or an ivory tower playing out the angst of a suffering artist.  This had to stop.  This blog was my way of coming out of a long period of reclusion and saying to my friends: I’m back, I’m okay, I’m still writing. The Tin Angel is a reference to a Joni Mitchell song and the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz.  As the years progressed, I made this blog, and my pen-name, public.

Do you follow other blogs?

I have to confess I’m not an avid blog-reader.  I’d like to mention three lovely writers, regular attenders at the Lit Salon, whose blogs I dip into from time to time.  Emily Dodd writes about her many projects, and how she obtained a joke about otter-poo at a Literary Salon! http://auntyemily.wordpress.com/  Caroline Von Schmalensee, http://carolinevonschmalensee.com/words-with-sounds-for-illicit-ink/  mentioned me on her website, in a piece about spoken words.  And Lynsey May, who writes about writing and the ‘turreted’ experience for a natural introvert.  http://blog.lynseymay.com/

All female writers, as it happens… I wonder if this is a trend in blog-land? Perhaps we’ll all find out at Tuesday’s Literary Salon?
http://www.cityofliterature.com/projects.aspx?sec=6&pid=27&item=484

May Magnify

According to Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, May Magnificat, May is Mary’s Month.  Like him, I also muse at that, and wonder why.  It’s no bad thing that, throughout the year, there are holy days to celebrate the mother of Jesus.  God knows, women get pretty bad press in the Bible, and the Church remains heaven-bent on discriminating against them.  Yet people ought to beware of giving Mary more significance than her simply being an ordinary mother of an extraordinary man.  While I accept her part in history, I certainly don’t buy the miracle-pregnancy in literal terms. A ‘virgin!?’

 

Why fasten that upon her,

with a feasting in her honour?

 

The cult of the virgin, along with celibacy and vows of purity, demonstrates that Christianity has long been hung up on sex, and sees women’s sexuality purely in terms of the male domain.  Motherhood, and all its connotations, should be celebrated within its own right.  Hopkins matches this to spring, and portrays Mary’s joyful celebration of pregnancy as a revelation of nature’s beauty:

 

All things rising, all things sizing

Mary sees, sympathising

     With that world of good,

     Nature’s motherhood.

 

Today Americans also celebrate Motherhood: it is ‘Mother’s Day.’ And in the Church, it is the feast of The Ascension (now commonly transferred from Thursday – presumably because nobody goes to Church in the week, let alone on Sunday these days.)  This strange event – Christ ascending into heaven, like a puppet on a string – is as unfathomable as the resurrection or the ‘virgin birth.’  Yet it seemed necessary on grounds of equality alone (believe it or not) to proffer a similar trip to Mary.

 

The doctrine of the Assumption enabled Jung to assert that man’s wholeness comprised both male and female elements. The latter he called the anima. In my Twelve Tones of Blue cycle, 'Canto V' pitches the persona in the female voice, pits the blue sky against the green sea, and lets all five sensory perceptions assimilate the scene.  The poem ends by recalling the annunciation, when Mary sang out with great joy: Magnificat anima mea – ‘My soul magnifies the Lord.’  

 

The magnifying of each its kind

With delight calls to mind

     How she did in her stored

     Magnify the Lord.

 

Okay, so Gerard Manley Hopkins says it better than I ever could, but here is my attempt at honouring Mary, and nature, and humanity.

Twelve Tones of Blue

 

Canto V

 

 

Drifting: suspended at the clear blue centre of things

Floating on the surface of a drum, underneath the lens

Of sky; salt on my tongue and the pungent skein

Prick the five fingers of every available sense

Until, rising from the azure profundity sings

An Assumption, out-shadowed by a vociferous paean:

 

                        Anima Mea, Anima, Anima Mea




 

Oh to be in Edinburgh...

By complete coincidence, I am in England now that April is here, on the day that those of a patriotic disposition, celebrate Saint George.  Better it is to commemorate The Bard on this day, and what better way that with poetry!  I would say, where better than Edinburgh, the City of Literature, my adopted home, and host to a myriad of spoken-word and poetry groups, events and opportunities.

However, as I said, today I am in England, and feeling sad that I have spent too much time away from my beloved Dunedin, missing some of my favourite events this month.  But all is not lost, thanks to the wonders of technology, the perils of plumbing, and the innovation of those Creative Types who pepper the Burgh with words, both spoken and printed.  Today, due to a temporary closure of their venue, the writer/performer collective Inky Fingers were hosting a virtual event.  Which means that, through the wonders of technology, I was there in Edinburgh, in Episode Two:

  http://inkyfingersedinburgh.wordpress.com/2013/04/23/virtual-open-mic-episode-2/

I recently tried to count on my (inky) fingers the number of spoken-word events that happen on a regular basis in Edinburgh.  I ran out of fingers.  Every one of them (the events, not my fingers) is different, distinct, and diverse, and no two events will ever be the same.  There has been plenty written about this vibrant scene: for example http://www.scotsman.com/scotland-on-sunday/scotland/peter-ross-the-bloodsport-of-slam-poetry-1-2841269 But while I’m feeling homesick for Auld Reekie, I thought I would name-check those on my 12-fingered list.

Starting with Neu! Reekie! http://neureekie.tumblr.com/  This is an eclectic and highly popular evening. Another Red Squirrel-associated event is sadly breathing its last on May the 1^st, 10Red, at the Persevere Pub in Leith.  It will be sorely missed (as will its departing host, Kevin Cadwallender) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jhalxEd_rU0&feature=share

Not too far away from the Borders (of Leith) is another pub-back-room purely-poetry evening called… Caesura.  This nomadic group started in The White Horse, nipped round the corner to The Waverly, then found a new home in the Artisan Bar on London Road, where I will perform in June.

Shore Poets, who sound like they belong in down at the foot of the Water of Leith, in fact convene at Henderson’s at St John’s.  Featuring in-house poets, with live acoustic music, they have an ‘open mic’ evening this Sunday, so I will be doing a slot https://www.facebook.com/events/162376960593354/

 

There is no more fitting a description of what goes on at Rally & Broad than ‘spoken word cabaret.’ Hosted by Jenny Lindsay and Rachel McCrum, at the Counting House, with trips to the Bongo Club for the odd ‘slam,’ this is always entertaining, polished, and broad in so many ways. Look them up: https://rallyandbroad.wordpress.com/

 

A close relative is found in the adjoining bar, The Blind Poet, where the
appropriately-called Blind Poetics meet for open-mic and featured poets.  This year Blind Poetics have produced pamphlets, imaginatively titled “COLLECTION I” and “COLLECTION II” – both of which contain pieces by me.
https://www.facebook.com/events/453014101445640/.

 

In the Bongo Club, in its new premises deep in the Cowgate, the well-established story-telling collection Illicit Ink host themed evenings with treats.  The next one (again, featuring me) is called ‘Sleeptalking’ – which makes me wonder what the chocolate treats will be this month.  See: https://www.facebook.com/events/619187951428089/ or http://illicitink.net/events/ and here: bit.ly/1062CKb 

 

Storytelling is, of course, deeply embedded in the Scottish psyche, and
the Scottish Storytelling Centre is never short of events that do just that:  Café Voices, and Jo Caulfield’s Speakeasy to name but two; not to forget another, related event: Electric Tales, which is held at The Stand every month.  

 

And while I’m in storytelling mode, this event http://www.scottishstorytellingcentre.co.uk/events/event_display.asp?id=5314 sees two of my storytelling friends, Fiona Herbert and Calum Lykan giving a dark take on The Selkie Wife tale.

 

There’s always a risk in compiling a list. I’m bound to have left off some, and others are sure to pop up in time.  I’ve heard there’s a literary-happening in Thomson’s Bar on Morrison Street this Sunday afternoon, and there are countless writers’ groups who host reading events and performances.  All these are events that I’ve either performed at, or will soon, or hope to at some future point. 

So what the hell am I doing in England, now that April’s here? 

See below.

Who Could Be Blue?

The title of this entry refers to a Sondheim lyric from Marry Me A Little:

Who, who could be blue,

Knowing there’s you somewhere nearby.

When anyone feels your glow,

Their low has to get high.

Following my last rather serious post, I wanted to say that my low has been lifted by many encouraging friends.  It’s a truth universally acknowledged that any artist in possession of some form of talent must suffer for it.  This may not really be true, yet I find myself quoting Graham Greene with increasing frequency…
 

“I wonder how those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear which is inherent in the human situation.”

And so, I write.

It’s no surprise to me that in this Cruellest Month the ‘Art Hunter’ app launched by National Galleries Scotland features a ‘blue’ theme.  I became aware of this when I saw a painting from Picasso’s ‘blue period’ tucked among the 15^th/16^th Century European Masters at the National.  At the Modern, in From Death to Death the juxtaposition of work from the permanent holdings with pieces from the Daskalopoulos collection demonstrates darker elements of the human condition.  Rodin’s The Kiss, recently planted in Edinburgh, may seem to present an erotic celebration of life, but there is a sinister story behind it.  

 

And at the Portrait, The House of Annie Lennox shows the pleasure and pain of an iconic artist and talented musician laid bare. Next week, I will perform one of my poems in the Hawthornden Lecture Theatre, in the prize-giving event for Inspired? Get Writing!  Reading your own words in public can make you feel extremely vulnerable, but at least I feel confident that my poem was good enough to be awarded special merit in this extremely popular competition.  And, as coincidence has it, the poem contains an accidental reference to an Annie Lennox lyric: a ‘miracle of love.’ 

Sometimes I think it’s a miracle that Art and Love survive at all in this barbaric world.

The fourth in my sequence of poems on tones of blue is a mother, a parent, an artist, not simply letting the fledgling fly the nest but actively casting it out into the big, bad world.  You could say, throwing the baby out with the bathwater.  Joni Mitchel talks about the coyote who, having raised her young, reaches a point where she bites its nose and says, ‘off you go: fend for yourself.’  The poem talks about fours: the Gospel-writers (symbolically), the humours, elements, archetypes, and temperaments. 

Conspicuously absent, ironically, is the colour blue.  As Sondheim says,

          Long as there’s you with me,

          the only thing blue is the sky.

Twelve Tones of Blue

Canto IV

             Send them out!

            Into the four corners of the earth.

The blood-red earth, dry

but for the laughter

of the sacrificial ox, led

to its sanguine slaughter;

Yellow earth, inflamed

with the choleric rage

of the rampant lion,

Its mane a fiery crown;

Phlegmatic in the cool sky

the eagle's wits perceive -

swoops a green-coated catch,

gobs its guts for greedy chicks;

Over the blackened earth,

moist with melancholy bile,

the angel weeps in ludic

gravety for divine insanity.

          East and West, North and South:
          Send them! Send them out!

Suffering

Every year I surprise myself at wanting to write about how significant this week is in the liturgical calendar. Five years since distancing myself from The Church, I still find an immense resonance in the narrative of the Passion of Christ.  Our need to understand the myth of redemption, pitted against the struggles of our broken world, and the massive dramatic impact of the story continue to move me.

Last year, I used the ‘Fettenear Banner’ in the Museum of Scotland to reflect upon my reaction to Christ’s suffering. His heavily-flagellated flesh reminds me of the Isenheim alterpiece by Grünewald; the pliars tell the grim reality of the nails that pinned those crucified to whatever cross-shaped frame the Romans used. I spoke, in my poem, of the ‘spitting Jew’ – a gruesome depiction of how crowd-mentality can turn on someone and inflict inordinate suffering – often to assuage their own complicity or guilt.

These days we have tabloid journalists spitting vitriol; radio and television interviewers publicly humiliating people; and those who sit in judgement in our Law Courts applying the same demotic scourge that sells the papers, or, at least, makes headlines. There is, inevitably, hypocrisy within hierarchical Institutions.  All public figures whether priests, poets or politicians, teachers, actors or musicians are ripe for a whipping, stoning, or shitting-on from high.

Yet who may throw the first stone?  The 'one without sin' is what the Gospel tells us. Sticks and stones, spitting and hitting, slander and libel are all in the Bible, but I ask you: what right has a BBC journalist to call someone a ‘nasty piece of work’ – no matter what you think of the man in question?

We like to see the mighty fallen.  Even the words ascribed to the Mother of Jesus sung at the Annunciation tell us how God has (or will?) “Put down the mighty from their seat.” (Luke, 1) This – and the complex issue of who, or what, is God – may be open to interpretation, but the popular expression ‘playing God’ has some weight.  Who has the right to assume such a High Position?  St Luke, again, reminds us: “He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.”

There is a beautiful prayer (I prefer to say ‘poem’) in Church of England liturgy which says, “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.”  We all fail, of course.  It is part of our human condition.  But it is how we attempt to make sense of this failure, whether through faith in God, interpretation of the Gospel story, or belief in ourselves that gives us strength to continue.

Tomorrow, on Holy Saturday, my monologue Malchus Hears will form part of an Easter Play, CrossWords, being performed in Princes Street Gardens. It is about Peter who, we are told, chopped off the ear of one of the servants, as Jesus was about to be arrested.  In my ‘reading’ of this episode, Malchus hears the words of Thomas Traherne as they take Christ away.

I will not by the noise of bloody wars and the dethroning of kings
advance you to glory: but by the gentle ways of peace and love.

Thomas Traherne, Centuries of Meditation – I; 4.

http://thomdibdin.co.uk/easter-play-returns-to-princes-street/#.UVXOe2NxAhM.twitter

We all know that Peter, when the cock crew, was devastated, and wept bitterly.  Not only had he denied his friend, he had deceived himself.  He may have felt humiliated, but Christ – who lifts up the humble – loved him still.  Richard Holloway tells this story better than I can. http://amuchbiggerconversation.ning.com/conversations/resurrection

Can we forgive ourselves? I hope so.

Could Peter?  I think so.

Will ‘Society’ ever forgive?  I doubt it.  

And that is why this world remains broken, in spite of Christ’s suffering.