Into the deep, the waves, the weep, the homes
The farm, the soul, and time, and fear, the known
And unknown. Few, we traverse winter’d wilds
Valleys shadowed by death and devil and dire
Despair. Arctic explorers encased in,
Capsized often by our own woes, our sins
Yet still we go, no expertise nor ease
But dressed in place, in time, in fear, in leaves
Whose shade will speak the healing of the deep
Valley, and farm, and soul, and fear—our sheep
His sheep, caught in purgatorial ice
We warn, and warm, and weep, set free, invite
To catch themselves aflame in Mercy’s pyre
To be transformed, burnt through, and sealed by fire.
When I started writing poems about my ministry life, poetic forms like the sonnet terrified me, and my first attempts were painful. It wasn’t until I started to study the common meter of hymns like Amazing Grace that it started to click, and I gave it another try.
“The Parish” is a sonnet, composed in my best attempt at iambic pentameter with an aabb rhyme (or half-rhyme) scheme. For me, it is a vision of ministry that has, for many evangelical churches, been lost – a ministry saturated in real places and real people. The work pastors do, especially in smaller churches, is like that of “arctic explorers” who travel into real places, valleys, stories, people, souls, and homes. A parish is a real place, not a placeless ministry. It is a calling that roots us. The arenas of our spiritual sparing are the “the waves, the weep, the homes/The farm, the soul, and time, and fear, the known and unknown.” We find people caught in “purgatorial ice,” (the constant, cold middle of malaise) who need led to Mercy’s pyre (the cross) to be “transformed, burnt through, and sealed by fire.” The message we share is not a placeless message, but one which promises to our parish, to the real places and people, “the healing of the deep/Valley, and farm, and soul, and fear – our sheep”.
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Revival and Renewal 
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