"Now there was a man..." (Luke 2:25)

(Artwork by Grace MacLeod, used by permission)

"Now there was a man"
Who'd been told he would see
The awaited Messiah
Before his death came to be.

How long did he wait,
After receiving that word?
How many nights dreaming
Of that promise he'd heard?

How many prayers
Did this Simeon pray
For the great consolation
That seemed so far away?

Did so many visits
Feel like such a great price –
All those walks to the temple
In search of the Christ?

Who was this good man –
This man without tribe –
Who represented his nation
In all that he cried?

Surely it pained him
At times through the years,
But God's Spirit was with him
To collect all his tears.

But then the day came –
Though nothing set it apart
Except for one Child
Whom he knew in his heart.

The Spirit did tell him
That this was the Boy –
The awaited Messiah!
And it gave him such joy!

The parents brought doves,
As gifts of the poor;
Though they were richer than any,
And their acceptance was sure.

For the child that they brought
To present unto God,
Had just come from heaven
Where angels He awed.

The man longed to hold Him,
He had waited so long –
A lifetime of waiting for He
Who would right all that's wrong.

He said this was the One
Who would save all the world,
His life and his purpose was
Heaven's banner unfurled.

So how did he feel
With his heart now replete;
His heart overflowing;
His life's longings complete?

He would never stop thinking
Of that baby he saw,
And as he pondered God's goodness,
He felt nothing but awe.

© 2017 by Ken Peters

A Star at their Backs

What were they thinking

As they made their way home,

Their backs turned to the King

On which the bright star had shone?

On their long journey home,

As they looked back with awe,

Did their hearts feel pulled back

Toward the Child that they saw?

And when they were with Him,

Were they eager to stay?

A star led them to Him,

But what led them away?

They’d come far to see Him,

Somehow sensing His fame;

But He’d come so much further

With them as part of His aim.

Bowing low, they gave gold

To that humble young Boy,

Who would give them Himself

So as to bring them great joy.

They must've longed to find out

How His life would progress,

Never dreaming that one day

Their own nation He'd bless.

What had they witnessed?

Their memories were blurs.

They had gone forth as seekers…

To return worshippers.

© 2017 by Ken Peters

The Excitement of the Angels

Across the lofty unbridged void,
At God's great Throne above,
A host of angels were convened
To hear God's plan of love.

They heard how He would save the world
By sending His own Son.
They'd been called to speak of it,
And they must leave at once!

These mighty angels felt great joy
To be chosen and sent down,
They finally saw how God would save
The jewel of Creation's crown.

With excited hearts and blazing eyes,
They in set formations flew
Down from the heavens - like a flood
Of God's love for me and you.

They rushed urgently, eagerly!
They'd waited ages for this day.
Something planned from long ago,
Now they finally knew the Way.

Their destination was not grand,
Not a palace nor a crown;
Just a humble little pasturage
Outside a tiny town.

This luminescent heavenly troop
Looked not for crowds to grant a sight;
Just a few simple shepherds
Whom God took notice of this night.

Shepherds much ignored by most,
In a cold and lonely place;
Simple men God longed to draw
To receive His boundless grace.

The angels must have noticed
How fitting were these men;
The Saviour they would soon proclaim
Was a Shepherd just like them.

And these heralds must have also felt
A sense of buoyant mirth –
How would these sleepy men respond
When mighty angels hailed His birth?

They came upon them unawares,
Just resting with their flocks;
So to begin, just one shone forth
To reduce the initial shock!

That angel came upon them, lo –
As God's glory shone around;
The angel said, "Don't be afraid"
As the shepherds cowered down.

The angel shared good tidings, saying,
"All people" was who they’re for;
He said, "This day is born a Saviour,
which is Christ the Lord."

He told these simple, humble men
Of a Baby in a nook:
"Wrapped in swaddling clothes," he said,
"In a stable - go and look!"

Then suddenly! A multitude!
“Praise God!” the host did call.
"Glory to God in the highest, 
Peace and good will toward all!”

Silence of centuries broken,
By the sound of what was sung,
The choir smiled at the wide-eyed men
As they watched them rise and run.

The shepherds fled, eager to see
The Babe that had been sent,
Then the angels sped into the skies,
Eager to share how it went.

Myriad angels were at the gates
To welcome the heralds back,
And so loud was their rejoicing,
Some on earth said, "What was that?"

© 2017 by Ken Peters

The Boy who is the Word of God (A Poem about a Painting)

Boy Jesus in the Temple by Heinrich Hofmann (Luke 2:41-51)

This past November, I posted five poems that sought to articulate the facial expressions and body language of the five men surrounding Jesus in the above painting. Only recently did I feel that I had something I could write with my focus on the young Son of God named Jesus in the center of that painting. 

THE BOY WHO IS THE WORD OF GOD

Even now at this tender age,
He knows His Father's voice,
And says He needs to be
About His Father's business.
But does He truly understand,
The assignment He's been given?
Does this gentle, earnest boy,
Who is so eager
And so passionate
In His reflections on His Father,
Know that the business of His Father
Will one day cost His very life?
Can He see the distant cross
From this first of
Many Temple scenes,
Or hear the accusations
Of men who now
Stare at Him in awe?
What Scriptures have they opened
To inquire of this boy who is
The Word made flesh?
Are they reading of the Lamb,
Silent before its shearers,
Or of a people lost in darkness
Who see a radiant light?
That Light is shining bright this day,
As this boy who is the Lamb,
Who has spoken from the start,
Begins to speak at last, 
For all on earth to hear.

You can also hear the thoughts of the other characters in the painting at "Who is this Boy who Speaks such Things?"

© 2017 by Ken Peters

"Who is this Boy who Speaks such Things?" (A Poem about a Painting)

Boy Jesus in the Temple by Heinrich Hofmann (Luke 2:41-51)

At our son Nicholas' baby dedication, his grandfather, John Dean, presented us with a gift for Nicholas: a framed print of the above painting. As Nicholas grew, we kept the painting on display in our home, and to this day, I am still attracted to the earnest expressions of the five characters surrounding Jesus in the painting. Each one seems to be thinking something quite unique, and I have long wanted to attempt to write something about each of the subject's personal thoughts. Today I was so distracted by it, I felt driven to poetry! Below is my attempt to verbalize the expressions of those five men above. Each stanza is 30 lines long, and if you are intrigued enough by the painting to read the poem below, I encourage you to closely study and consider each man's face before reading the stanza about that man (you can click on the painting to enlarge it, and the stanzas begin with the man on the far-left).

WHO IS THIS BOY WHO SPEAKS SUCH THINGS?

TEACHER #1 
I do not trust that boy.
How can a child so young
Speak of such things
As though he understands?
What trick is this?
How does he speak
As though he knows
Mysteries long hidden from
Our learned minds?
Surely he has been tutored
By someone
Hidden from us now;
Someone who has
Put these words upon his lips.
These words cannot be his,
As though he were our teacher.
Why do the others listen
With such rapt attention?
Do they not see through
This irreverent masquerade?
This boy pretends to be so holy
When truly he is nothing;
He must be some mere servant,
And he speaks his master's words
As though they were his own.
Why should I listen?
Why should I consider
What he has to say?
I do not wish to look upon him.
I do not trust that boy. 


TEACHER #2 
I have never heard such a thing;
To hear a boy so young
Able to discuss such texts
With words of such clarity
Expressed with such certainty.
Who is this child?
What is his lineage?
Is his father here among us?
I must know how this lad
Will one day be employed,
For he could be of use to us.
But this is a thought
Too difficult to ascertain:
To know if this extraordinary boy
Could someday gather with us here
And somehow help us
Find our freedom 
From this wretched Roman rule.
Ah, but whatever be his fate,
I cannot help but feel
That I am but a shadow
Of the godly zeal I see in him.
I speak passionately of politics,
But he speaks so boldly
Of God's kingdom
That it causes me to ponder
If I have long been asking
The wrong questions,
And this boy knows the answers
That in my heart I truly seek.

TEACHER #3 
Yes, yes,
This truly is a boy
After God's own heart.
He reminds me of David, who
As a brave young shepherd-boy
Must have been much like this.
I feel this boy's devotion,
His affection for his God,
His heart of tender worship.
What a delight to hear him
Speak of things of God.
I am blessed this day
To have heard him here,
And I cannot help but wonder
What our God may have
In store for him.
Will God choose to use him
To turn hearts
Back to Him?
Surely I wonder
How this boy,
Who is so wise 
And yet so humble,
Will be used of God
In these restless days.
Yes, yes,
Surely young David
Could not have been
Much different than
This son before me now. 


TEACHER #4 
His questions are profound,
And then he gives the answers
That I have longed
To understand
Throughout a life of study.
He uncovers mysteries
As though they were
So simple;
Simple enough for
A mere child to understand.
I wish to discuss so much,
I have so many questions,
And am amazed at his understanding,
At the wisdom of this boy.
I have walked this earth
As though I thought
I was so wise;
As though I were
Some great counsellor,
A gift to God's children
Who esteem me so highly.
Yet now I feel
As though I am the child
In the presence of this boy,
And that he is my counsellor
Who teaches me so gladly.
He has awakened something
In my spirit,
And makes me hungry
To learn again.

TEACHER #5
I have read this book
From beginning to end
Many times over,
And I have not the insights
This boy possesses.
How did he come by
This knowledge?
Who is this lad?
He speaks as one who
Not only understands
These precious precepts
But knows the mighty One
Who spoke them
From the fire and the cloud
Upon the mountain.
And there is love and awe
For Him in his eyes
That remind me
Of a zeal I once had
In my youth.
His voice is a sweet melody
That I could listen to
For hours;
Like an ancient love song
That reaches into my heart
And calls me back
From dry and distant formalities
To affections I once felt,
And feel again in the presence
Of this mysterious child.

© 2016 by Ken Peters

Reflections on a photo

After taking the above photo of a highway near my house and workplace, my friend Andrew invited me to write a poem about it. The thought had never occurred to me, but I thought I'd give it a try. As I pondered where to begin, I began to see things in the photo that the Lord had been speaking to me about for many months - perhaps years. The title is based on a quote from a movie in which the title character suddenly says, "I've come to the end of myself." What a great place that is to find oneself, for only there will we find true fullness in Jesus!

The end of myself

I’m done, he breathed

As he raced on and on

Unsure why,

Unsure where,

Comforted only

By the familiarity

Of a repeated path,

A repeated task,

That left his mark

Upon a familiar plain.

I’m done, he sighed

As he pressed on and on

Looking up,

Looking beyond

The lights too low,

Seeming stars that only

Imitated the One

He longed to see

And touch amidst

The unfamiliar void.

I’m done, he rejoiced

As he followed on and on

Sensing Him,

Sensing Life

In the One who

Shines so brightly,

Brighter than all

Competing lights,

Who says, “It is finished!”

As He looks upon our hearts.

© 2016 by Ken Peters

Just a Momentary Glance

Written after unexpectedly, and for the first time since the surgery, walking past the open doors to the ward on which my wife, Fiona, recovered from a kidney transplant four months ago...

Just a momentary glance,

And a million memories flood my mind.

I stop and stare

Down a never-ending hallway,

And yet the door at the end

Is all I see before me.

A door to a room

In which everything changed.

It is where it all ended.

It is where it all began.

Just a momentary glance,

And the tears well up.

People moving all about,

And I think of those who cared so very much.

Too many people to recall,

But one who is so easy to remember

Who gave all that he was able.

And it was enough.

It provided a brand new day

After such a long, long night.

Just a momentary glance,

And I'm filled with gratitude,

As I remember a never-ending saga

With a brand new beginning

That washes over every other thought.

A new life.

A new kidney.

New hope.

I stop and consider,

And thank the One who did the most.

© 2015 by Ken Peters

Fond memories of a man I never met, on this Day of Remembrance

My son Nicholas is fondly named after a man I never met. I've long wished I had known him. Ever since I found a book of his poems on my Dad's bookshelf when I was a teen, I'd wished that my great-uncle Nick had survived the war and that I could have had many long talks with him.

He was my father's father's youngest brother. My father's uncle. My great-uncle. A pastor who had known him before my Uncle Nick went off to war said that Nick Peters had one of the most cheerful spirits he had ever had the privilege of meeting. He said that "he was an inspiration too, for he had inherited an idealism and a mystical quality of mind from his Mennonite ancestors that kept him pressing upward, always searching for the meaning of things, always trying to understand."

Born two months premature in Russia in 1915, great care had to be taken to help him simply survive his first year of life. One of his brothers said that the war years of 1918-1921 made a deep impression upon his young mind and ended up giving him a rather serious view of life from an early age. In 1925, when he was 10 years old, he and his family (including my grandfather) fled Russia, traveling by boxcar and steamship, and moved to Grande Pointe, Manitoba, Canada. Once he had grown up, he traveled to many parts of Canada, working in gold mines in B.C., coal mines in Alberta and selling Electrolux in Sudbury, Ontario.

Eventually he volunteered for the Royal Canadian Air Force. He trained in Toronto in 1943 and was commissioned as Pilot Officer in May 1944. He left for England in July 1944. Eventually promoted to Flying Officer, and serving as a navigator aboard a reconnaissance plane, his plane was mistakenly shot down by a Lancaster sometime on the night of March 7, 1945, a mere 2 months before Germany surrendered on May 8.

On February 22, 1945, Nicholas wrote what would be his last letter home. The highlighted portion on the left says, "Have been here for about seven months now and expect to be back in four month's time but then you can't always tell."

A few months earlier, just before embarking upon his first flying mission, he had written to his brother Isaac: "There comes a time in the life of every airman who caters to the blue, when he is facing the results of his training. My time has come... I felt someone of the immediate family ought to know. I chose you. If I am reported 'Missing' you will understand that most of the 'missing' turn up again... It amuses me to think back on the way [we once] viewed the world. Many things have passed since then. Much has taken place; more than we, in our present state, could comprehend. We have toiled, struggled, and played, and Life as a whole has been good."

Uncle Nick was a poet, and what he wrote inspired me as a reflective teenager who was searching for meaning myself. I was 15, sitting on our basement floor book in hand on the day that I discovered the poetry of Nicholas Peters. It was also the day I discovered that the man who wrote such wonderful verse had been killed in service to this country long before I'd have had a chance to meet him. The following poem was written by Nicholas Peters on September 22, 1939, just three weeks after the onset of the war in which my Uncle Nick would die.

The Wars we Make

I gaze into the world with sorrowing eyes
And see the wide-abounding fruits of hate.
We fight, we say, for peace, and find
The wars we make
To be a spring of hate and source of future war.
Is there no peace for man?
No hope that this accursed flow
Of blood may cease?
Is this our destiny: to kill and maim
For peace?
Or is the 'peace' we strive to gain
A thin, unholy masquerade
Which, when our pride, our greed, our gain is touched too far,
Is shed, and stands uncovered, what we are?

Show me your light, O God
That I may fight for peace with peace
And not with war;
To prove my love with love,
And hate no more!

© 2009 by Ken Peters

A Creed for Postmodern Times

Having dug into Steve Turner's poetry for my previous posting, I couldn't help but to continue reading. And I happened upon a great poem that seems more relevant in the postmodern milieu of 2009 than it might have felt nearly 30 years ago when he actually wrote it.

I'm quite certain that many people in Canada today don't know the original meaning of the "stat holiday" they'll be enjoying this weekend. And among those who do realize that Easter is about celebrating the resurrection of Jesus, many arbitrarily reject the credibility of that historical claim based on their personal feelings and perspectives about God, and with minimal awareness of any supporting arguments for Biblical claims. In essence, people don't want to think about it. As Steve Turner says in the poem I posted yesterday, they're simply happy with chocolate bunnies and chicks. Don't bring up that uncomfortable talk of nails and blood. Don't bother them with historical documentation and logical conclusions.

In other words, "Don't trouble me with facts when I've already made up my mind."

That sort of approach to facts and to truth is not as modern as many critics of postmodernity might suggest, and it's well illustrated by this poem (from 1980) also by Steve Turner...

Creed

We believe in Marxfreudanddarwin.
We believe everything is OK
as long as you don't hurt anyone,
to the best of your definition of hurt,
and to the best of your knowledge.

We believe in sex before during
and after marriage.
We believe in the therapy of sin.
We believe that adultery is fun.
We believe that sodomy's OK
We believe that taboos are taboo.

We believe that everything's getting better
despite evidence to the contrary.
The evidence must be investigated.
You can prove anything with evidence.

We believe that there's something in horoscopes,
UFO's and bent spoons;
Jesus was a good man just like Buddha
Mohammed and ourselves.
He was a good moral teacher although we think
his good morals were bad.

We believe that all religions are basically the same,
at least the one that we read was.
They all believe in love and goodness.
They only differ on matters of
creation sin heaven hell God and salvation.

We believe that after death comes The Nothing
because when you ask the dead what happens
they say Nothing.
If death is not the end, if the dead have lied,
then it's compulsory heaven for all
excepting perhaps Hitler, Stalin and Genghis Khan.

We belive in Masters and Johnson.
What's selected is average.
What's average is normal.
What's normal is good.

We believe in total disarmament.
We believe there are direct links between
warfare and bloodshed.
Americans should beat their guns into tractors
and the Russians would be sure to follow.

We believe that man is essentially good.
It's only his behavior that lets him down.
This is the fault of society.
Society is the fault of conditions.
Conditions are the fault of society.

We believe that each man must find the truth
that is right for him.
Reality will adapt accordingly.
The universe will readjust. History will alter.
We believe that there is no absolute truth
excepting the truth that there is no absolute truth.

We believe in the rejection of creeds.

© 2009 by Ken Peters

A poem for the holiday weekend

A favourite poet of mine is a rather modern dude who used to freelance for Rolling Stone magazine in the 70's and who co-authored a book about U2 in the 80's. His name is Steve Turner. His poems have a freestyle sort of feel to them as he often mixes his British wit with cutting satire. Many of his poems also offer a refreshing perspective on many familiar spiritual themes.

As Easter approaches, I'm reminded of a poem Steve Turner wrote about Easter that feels appropriate for our times.

It's called,
Christmas is really for the Children

Christmas is really
for the children.
Especially for children
who like animals, stables,
stars and babies wrapped
in swaddling clothes.
Then there are wise men,
kings in fine robes,
humble shepherds and a
hint of rich perfume.

Easter is not really
for the children
unless accompanied by
a cream filled egg.
It has whips, blood, nails,
a spear and allegations
of body snatching.
It involves politics, God
and the sins of the world.
It is not good for people
of a nervous disposition.
They would do better to
think on rabbits, chickens
and the first snowdrop
of spring.

Or they'd do better to
wait for a re-run of
Christmas without asking
too many questions about
what Jesus did when he grew up
or whether there's any connection.

© 2009 by Ken Peters

Old poems

I haven't had the time or inclination to write something new here lately, and when I found myself interested in reading a little poetry today, I ended up rediscovering a couple of my old poems that I'd written long ago, both of them inspired by trees serving as metaphors. I thought I'd share them here, and hope you enjoy them.

Standing in the Stillness

I stand among the trees
As one of them,
Imitating their stillness,
Longing to stretch upward
As they do.
Each trunk a naked form;
Twisted, gnarled, aged,
Vulnerable to axe or blade,
And yet oblivious;
Only stretching upward -
Heavenward -
Each day a little nearer.
And at their tops,
What regal clothes they wear!
Adorned in garments of green
Given from the sun above,
They gently wave their branches
In silent wonder
Of the sky which is their source.
There is simplicity here.
The gentle breeze whispers of it,
And this garden of wood
Embodies it.
It is to fix our gaze upward,
Whatever leaves may fall,
That we might find
Our Source
Of stillness
In the Son.

Our Lady of the Prairies Abbey, Holland, Manitoba

August 19, 1994

The Hope of Spring

Arms laid low

Across a frozen earth,

A dead, decaying trunk

Clings to lifeless leaves,

Desperate for the root

That gives them green.

There is no beauty

In its sagging garb,

And no springtime hopes

Of shriveled leaves becoming new.

Arms spread high,
Naked before God,
An old and noble oak
Has shed its garb
In autumn’s cold, persistent winds.
Its outstretched limbs
Have released their crown of leaves.
But in the wilderness of winter,
The life that flows within its grain
Provides the hope of spring.

Sturgis, Michigan
December 1, 2000


© 2009 by Ken Peters

Poems from the desert

When I was 23 years old, I lived in the desert of northern Sudan for nearly a year, doing work for Emmanuel International. It was an adventure to be sure. I was young and single, and probably thought I could be another Lawrence of Arabia. But in the midst of the excitement of camel rides, sand storms and practicing my Arabic were the unwieldy challenges of culture shock, team life, unfamiliar illnesses and 120 degree heat. Needless to say, I had my ups and downs over there.

It's probably fair to say that I'm still vulnerable to experiencing ups and downs right here in Winnipeg amidst the adventures of a dove on our window sill and meaningful times of prayer for Fiona, as well as the weighty challenges of disappointing doctor's reports and Fiona's ongoing illness.

But I'm happy to say that I don't fall quite so far as I used to when big challenges follow closely on the heals of encouraging times. I was reminded of that when after receiving some disappointing news from the doctor, as I was encouraging myself in the Lord about it, I recalled two poems that I wrote in Sudan amidst somewhat similar, though different circumstances. I realize that I was quite a different person when I wrote them, but I'll share them here in the order I wrote them.

Bitter Sands
The sand blew by
With ferocious intensity
It filled the sky
It cut the skin
I didn't care
I simply leaned against
A whithered tree
And squinted
At what I didn't know
For I knew not what
Lay beyond that blanket
Of bitter sand
I didn't care
I had wandered
Into a desert
To find peace
And contentment
The peace of the desert
Is the peace of death
And contentment
The contentment of a madman

Sudan
April 7, 1987


Whispers in the Silence
How clean the desert is! 
How pure in her golden radiance.
Where is man's mark within her?
Materialism?
Hedonism?
Commercialism?
She has filled her borders
With the power of her impeding presence
That man might find no room
To dwell in his customary comfort
Within her.
Yet she is welcoming to the humble,
Placing before him no obstacles
Save the challenge of her company 
And the company of her challenges.
Enter her company then,
Accept her challenges, 
And leave behind the confusion
And the noise
And the endless distractions
Of the world of man. 
Sit down in her silence,
And hear the whisper of God 
Speaking of peace
And quiet contentment.

Sudan
April 24, 1987


© 2008 by Ken Peters