The Shepherd of Erin: St. Padraic of Armagh (c. 390-461)

 

"I, Patrick, a sinner, a most simple countryman, the least of all the faithful and most contemptible to many, had for father the deacon Calpurnius, son of the late Potitus, a priest, of the settlement [vicus] of Bannavem Taburniae; he had a small villa nearby where I was taken captive. I was at that time about sixteen years of age. I did not, indeed, know the true God; and I was taken into captivity in Ireland with many thousands of people, according to our deserts, for quite drawn away from God, we did not keep his precepts, nor were we obedient to our priests who used to remind us of our salvation. And the Lord brought down on us the fury of his being and scattered us among many nations, even to the ends of the earth, where I, in my smallness, am now to be found among foreigners.

And there the Lord opened my mind to an awareness of my unbelief, in order that, even so late, I might remember my transgressions and turn with all my heart to the Lord my God, who had regard for my insignificance and pitied my youth and ignorance. And he watched over me before I knew him, and before I learned sense or even distinguished between good and evil, and he protected me, and consoled me as a father would his son.


Therefore, indeed, I cannot keep silent, nor would it be proper, so many favours and graces has the Lord deigned to bestow on me in the land of my captivity...

...And therefore for some time I have thought of writing, but I have hesitated until now, for truly, I feared to expose myself to the criticism of men, because I have not studied like others, who have assimilated both Law and the Holy Scriptures equally and have never changed their idiom since their infancy, but instead were always learning it increasingly, to perfection, while my idiom and language have been translated into a foreign tongue...
 
...But why make excuses close to the truth, especially when now I am presuming to try to grasp in my old age what I did not gain in my youth because my sins prevented me from making what I had read my own? But who will believe me, even though I should say it again? A young man, almost a beardless boy, I was taken captive before I knew what I should desire and what I should shun. So, consequently, today I feel ashamed and I am mightily afraid to expose my ignorance, because, [not] eloquent, with a small vocabulary, I am unable to explain as the spirit is eager to do and as the soul and the mind indicate...

...I am, then, first of all, countryfied, an exile, evidently unlearned, one who is not able to see into the future, but I know for certain, that before I was humbled I was like a stone lying in deep mire, and he that is mighty came and in his mercy raised me up and, indeed, lifted me high up and placed me on top of the wall. And from there I ought to shout out in gratitude to the Lord for his great favours in this world and for ever, that the mind of man cannot measure.

Therefore be amazed, you great and small who fear God, and you men of God, eloquent speakers, listen and contemplate. Who was it summoned me, a fool, from the midst of those who appear wise and learned in the law and powerful in rhetoric and in all things? Me, truly wretched in this world, he inspired before others that I could be—if I would—such a one who, with fear and reverence, and faithfully, without complaint, would come to the people to whom the love of Christ brought me and gave me in my lifetime, if I should be worthy, to serve them truly and with humility.

According, therefore, to the measure of one’s faith in the Trinity, one should proceed without holding back from danger to make known the gift of God and everlasting consolation, to spread God’s name everywhere with confidence and without fear, in order to leave behind, after my death, foundations for my brethren and sons whom I baptized in the Lord in so many thousands.

And I was not worthy, nor was I such that the Lord should grant his humble servant this, that after hardships and such great trials, after captivity, after many years, he should give me so much favour in these people, a thing which in the time of my youth I neither hoped for nor imagined.

But after I reached Ireland I used to pasture the flock each day and I used to pray many times a day. More and more did the love of God, and my fear of him and faith increase, and my spirit was moved so that in a day [I said] from one up to a hundred prayers, and in the night a like number; besides I used to stay out in the forests and on the mountain and I would wake up before daylight to pray in the snow, in icy coldness, in rain, and I used to feel neither ill nor any slothfulness, because, as I now see, the Spirit was burning in me at that time...

...And I know in part why I did not lead a perfect life like other believers, but I confess to my Lord and do not blush in his sight, because I am not lying; from the time when I came to know him in my youth, the love of God and fear of him increased in me, and right up until now, by God’s favor, I have kept the faith...

...Now I have put it frankly to my brethren and co-workers, who have believed me because of what I have foretold and still foretell to strengthen and reinforce your faith. I wish only that you, too, would make greater and better efforts. This will be my pride, for ‘a wise son makes a proud father’.

But I see that even here and now, I have been exalted beyond measure by the Lord, and I was not worthy that he should grant me this...But I fear nothing, because of the promises of Heaven; for I have cast myself into the hands of Almighty God, who reigns everywhere... 


...Behold now I commend my soul to God who is most faithful and for whom I perform my mission in obscurity, but he is no respecter of persons and he chose me for this service that I might be one of the least of his ministers...


...Therefore may it never befall me to be separated by my God from his people whom he has won in this most remote land. I pray God that he gives me perseverance, and that he will deign that I should be a faithful witness for his sake right up to the time of my passing.

For the sun we see rises each day for us at [his] command, but it will never reign, neither will its splendour last...We, on the other hand, shall not die, who believe in and worship the true sun, Christ, who will never die, no more shall he die who has done Christ’s will, but will abide for ever just as Christ abides for ever, who reigns with God the Father Almighty and with the Holy Spirit before the beginning of time and now and for ever and ever. Amen.


Behold over and over again I would briefly set out the words of my confession. I testify in truthfulness and gladness of heart before God and his holy angels that I never had any reason, except the Gospel and his promises, ever to have returned to that nation from which I had previously escaped with difficulty.

But I entreat those who believe in and fear God, whoever deigns to examine or receive this document composed by the obviously unlearned sinner Patrick in Ireland, that nobody shall ever ascribe to my ignorance any trivial thing that I achieved or may have expounded that was pleasing to God, but accept and truly believe that it would have been the gift of God. And this is my confession before I die."

(From The Confession of St. Patrick)

"Are You The One?"

During this morning's meditation I happened onto Matthew 11:2-6, which turns out to be extremely relevant to what's going on in the world currently. As so many others, I've been agonizing over the horrendous aftermath of the earthquake and tsunami for the citizens of Japan, and for the set-back of the freedom movement in Libya for the people there. Not to mention situations which appear regularly in the local newspaper and other media, and situations in my own family. So much suffering and sorrow!

John the Baptizer, in Matthew's passage, was in a similar dire situation: imprisoned and about to be martyred. He sends his friends to Jesus to ask a point-blank question, "Are you the One, or are we to look for another?" The implication is that John was in a bit of a doubtful mode. He'd spent the whole of his short life and ministry as the one who prepared the way for this man, who apparently was his own cousin. Early on, John was convinced that Jesus was Messiah, the One who, with fire and judgment, would set things right with the corrupt Jewish religious establishment in Jerusalem. Jesus hadn't, so far, displayed that sort of dramatic action. These days, however, John wasn't so sure if Jesus really was the One. So he sends his delegation to Jesus to seek clarification.

Jesus never gives him a "Yes" or a "No". He simply advises John and the others to look around and see what was happening, what was being done among the people: the blind were seeing, the crippled and maimed were regaining their mobility, those considered unclean were being completely restored. The answer to John's question, and surely to us who often ask the same question, seems pretty obvious. Or is it?

John Indermark makes this thoughtful observation:
"We may not ask Jesus outright, 'Are you the one?' Although occasionally when things go haywire at church or in our personal lives or in the world at large, maybe we do indirectly. Maybe we imply 'Are you the one?' when the question on our lips or minds is 'Is this all there is?' Maybe we wonder 'Are you the one?' when innocents perish or relationships unravel or health deteriorates, and all we can get out of our mouths and spirits is 'What's up with this?' For if Jesus is the one, they why all of this? Should we be looking for something or someone else? 
Challenging questions, to be sure -- as challenging as life itself. God in Christ is not offended or angered by our asking them, any more than Jesus was offended or angered by John's inquiry. God in Christ responds in turn with the summons to hear and see the answer for ourselves. To hear and see, in the most marginalized of places and persons, the signs of Messiah among us: in the restoration of wholeness, the renewal of life, and the gift of hope.
Do you hear and see such things? And if so, do you trust your life to the One who does them, who then bids you come and join him in Messiah's work? God does not tell you what your answer will be. The challenge of faith is to answer for yourself.
'Are you the one?' What say you?"  (From Gospeled Lives, Upper Room Books, 2008)
 

Empty Words

A couple of days ago on Facebook, one of my nephews made an observation about his college instructor's habit of ending a lot of explanations in class with the words "...and so forth...". I suspect that all of us probably use empty words such as these, more times than we're aware.

I'm struggling right now for motivation to complete four talks for a retreat in May. Try as I might, the thoughts that come and the words I write feel very much like the photo at the left..."Blah, blah, blah." It's not a particularly new feeling. It appears quite a lot in my daily attempts to pray. Has for a long time, come to think of it! The only way, so far, that I've managed to deal with it is to"keep on keepin' on".

The liturgy's readings for today (Isaiah 55:6-11; Psalm 34:15-22; Matthew 6:7-15) deal with words. I find the Psalm wonderfully consoling, given what I just said above: "When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears...and saves the crushed in spirit...the Lord rescues them...He keeps all their bones..." "Keep on keepin' on"! Both Isaiah and Matthew discuss words, Isaiah reminding us that, especially when we're at a loss for words, it's probably because God's thoughts and ways aren't our thoughts and ways...or his timing, our timing. He uses that beautiful image of snow and rain pouring down -- a very graphic one as I look out my window and see it in action! -- but not returning until "they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater..." So it is that God continually rains the Word down upon us in abundance. It's there even though we don't feel it, and if we continue to "keep on keepin' on", that Word "shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it", far beyond anything we could strain to imagine.

Matthew's advice is to "keep it simple". "When you pray, don't heap up empty phrases...your Father knows what you need before you ask..." He suggests using the prayer which Jesus taught the disciples, what amounts to the first alternative of two forms of the Lord's Prayer in the Book of Common Prayer.
I find that even too wordy, and prefer the second alternative used in The St. Helen Breviary:

Our loving God in heaven, holy is your Name,

may your reign come, your will be done, on earth as in heaven.

Give us today our daily bread.

Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.

Save us from the time of trial, and deliver us from evil.

Perhaps this is all simply to say what the Collect urges us today: "Grant to your people, Lord,...grace ...with pure hearts and minds to follow you, the only True God..."

"The Winter Of Our Discontent..."

There’s an old Bengalese proverb which says: “The heron is a saint as long as there are no fish in sight.” How well that describes our human inclination to temptation! On this first Sunday of Lent the Scriptures raise questions about testing/temptation, and our response to it. What kept coming back to me as I thought about the proverb in regard to the human situation and to the Lenten season was the phrase from Act I of Shakespeare’s play, Richard III: “Now is the winter of our discontent…” What more easily frustrates and discontents you and me than our constant state of being tested, tempted, and even more, our willingness so often to give in?

The writer of Genesis (2:15-17; 3:1-7) reflects on this. His account, rather than being a chronicle of how evil began, is really a story about relationships: good relationships which go sour because of temptation and selfish choices. God carefully, caringly, creates man and woman, personally breathing into them God’s breath, God’s spirit, the fullness of life. What becomes possible, because of God’s initiative, is a relationship between the Creator and the creature.

God surrounds the man and woman with every created and uncreated good, symbolized by “the garden”, a sort of park -- the Hebrew calls it bliss = eden -- and God enjoins the humans to take care of it all and to keep it. God makes them aware of only one thing with which God will not, cannot, endow them: and that is God’s own divinity, God’s all-encompassing wisdom, symbolized by the tree of life, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, which is off-limits. And that becomes the “fish in sight” which tantalizes the heron. A moral factor is thus introduced, for the humans are created beings, who live and labor as the Creator determines, not simply as they choose. To disobey God would be to violate the fundamental relationship boundary between being a creature and being the Creator.

But rather than really listening to God, the humans, aided and abetted by the doubt-creating serpent, are enticed to believe that they can improve on the Creator’s designs and actually cross over the boundary which God set up. Eve’s reply to the serpent’s question is a classic human instance of embellishing what God actually says. She says to the serpent: “We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden, but God said, ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.’” But God was very direct: “Any tree in the garden? Eat away. But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, don’t eat -- or you’ll die.” No mention of “fruit”, or of a “middle” area, or of any command not to “touch” the tree. By embellishing and adding to what God actually says, the human falls into the constant temptation that we all do, of presuming to dictate to others what God “really” says or what God “really” means, thereby allowing ourselves to skirt around God’s actual will for us; or to absolve ourselves from the great effort and painful honesty that it takes to discern God’s will, ambiguous as that always seems to be.

Further, the woman and the man just can’t resist the allure of being “like God, knowing good and evil”, nor the insatiable thirst of knowing everything, nor the will to be independent and self-sufficient.
Having already been given everything by God which a human being would ever need to live fully, they still aspire to all that’s desirable and compelling to the human spirit, to all those impossible dreams held out by the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life. “...She took of its fruit and ate, and...her husband who was with her...ate. Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew they were naked…” Thus begins the “winter of our discontent” as human beings, through testing, temptation, and vulnerability.

The Evangelist Matthew (4:1-11) tells us another story of the experience of temptation. Here, too, the test is to refuse to let God be God, to dis-obey, literally, to “stop one’s ears”, as the Latin root of the word implies, and to act contrary to what we, in fact, are: creatures whose being comes totally undeserved from the loving Creator.

Matthew portrays Jesus as the trusting and faithful Beloved of the Father. As one who is fully a human being, Jesus, instead of trying to usurp God’s place, professes his absolute and unshakeable trust in God. Again there is a dialogue, a conversation, this time between the Adversary, Satan, and Jesus.

In quick succession the tempter poses three tests. He first dares Jesus to prove that he is God’s Son by miraculously turning stones into bread. Jesus, quoting Deuteronomy, counters that God provides his every need, just as God did for Moses and the Chosen People in the Exodus wilderness. “He humbled you by letting you hunger, then by feeding you...in order to make you understand that one does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord…” (8:3)

The scene then shifts to Jerusalem, to the top of the Temple: the place of the Divine Presence. In a pious sham, the tempter quotes from Psalm 91, blasphemously suggesting that Jesus can prove how much he absolutely trusts God, as well as just how trustworthy God is, by simply throwing himself off the roof. “[God] will command his angels concerning you...On their hands they will bear you up…” Borrowing again from Deuteronomy (6:16), Jesus warns the tempter: “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.”

In the final temptation, Satan transports Jesus “to a very high mountain”. [Notice that Matthew has a propensity for mountaintop settings to proclaim important teachings!] Here the tempter offers a crass bribe of all the kingdoms of the world and their glory if only Jesus will abandon God and worship him. With a third and final quote from Deuteronomy (6:13) , Jesus repeats the definitive commandment: “Worship the Lord your God; serve God alone!”

The season of Lent and today’s Scriptures remind us that the disobedience of the humans in Genesis, thankfully, wasn’t the end of the story. “As by the one man’s disobedience,” Paul says to the Roman Christians (5:12-19), “the many were made sinners, so by the one man’s obedience the many will be made right with God.” Jesus, a human being like us, “tempted but without sin”, yet also a divine being, God’s beloved Son, makes it possible for us humans once again to recapture the original blessing, the deep reality of which we look forward to celebrating with all our hearts in Holy Week and Easter.

But it’s a hard-won reality. The “winter of our discontent” is a life-long warning of what cost the human race continues to pay for things to be set right again, of the cost which Jesus paid in giving his Blood, his human life, and of the cost which each of us must, in turn, pay as we struggle every day to be reborn from above.

Archaeologists tell us that the probable place where Jesus underwent his testing was near Jericho, the oldest town in the world, dating back more than 10,000 years: on a mountain named Jebel Quruntul, the “Mount of the Quarantine (= period of 40 Days)”, the “Mount of Temptation”. This harsh, bare mountain overlooks a winding road once used by Levitical priests. Jericho was and is a beautiful lush “paradise”, if you will, of food -- vegetables, dates, bananas, and citrus fruits -- and of water, from the Jordan River, four miles to the west, and from the underground tributaries. When Jesus wandered about during those 40 days atop Jebel Qurundul, he could see Jericho and all its wonders below. It would have taken him only minutes to go down and satisfy his hunger and quench his thirst. But his food, as he said, is “to do the will of the One who sent me.”

So here we are, at the beginning of another Lent, also being driven by the Spirit of truth, with Jesus, into the wilderness, the desert of Lenten discipline. The desert is the place of essentials, of the bottom-line. God bids us to withdraw to this place of spiritual inconvenience; in fact, God is wooing us to it. It’s the place of the unexpected. God doesn’t tip us off in advance as to what the desert of Lent has in store for us, and no two of us will encounter our desert in exactly the same way.

In her 1935 mystery novel, Gaudy Night, Dorothy L. Sayers captures what this all entails when one of her characters recalls “the ex tempore prayer of a well-meaning but incoherent curate, heard once and never forgotten, ‘Lord, teach us to take our hearts and look them in the face, however difficult it may be…’” The desert of Lent has its rigors. If you and I are really listening to the Spirit of truth, really obedient to the Spirit groaning within us, then we’ll face up to questions which need to be asked and answered:
- At this point in my life, what are my relationships like: with God? with others? with myself?
- What is it right now which particularly cries out and demands my spiritual attention and energy?
- How committed am I, really, to truth and honesty about who I am, humanly and spiritually?
- Where or from whom or what do I draw strength for coping with my day-to-day living?
- To what kind of ongoing conversion/transformation/redemption is God calling me at this time, especially in my relationships with others?

We enter Lent with the hope that, by God’s grace, we may each be able to pray the Easter Collect with full awareness of what it means when it says: “Grant us so to die daily to sin, that we may evermore live with him in the joy of his Resurrection.”

"Who Am I?"

One time when Jesus was off praying by himself, his disciples nearby, he asked them, "What are the crowds saying about me, about who I am?"


They said, "John the Baptizer. Others say Elijah. Still others say that one of the prophets from long ago has come back."


He then asked, "And you—what are you saying about me? Who am I?"

Did Jesus always pray by himself? Did he kneel? sit? pray with hands extended? What did he say to his Father? Luke says that his disciples were "nearby". Nearby, as in setting themselves off from him? watching him? not engaging in prayer, but talking quietly among themselves? about him? or about what was going on among them, their families, politics, the weather?

The area in which Jesus lived and worked certainly was abuzz about him, according to the Gospel writers. The disciples indicate that some people had the idea that Jesus was someone other than himself: like the Baptizer or one of the memorable prophets. Why did they think that? Was he that different from them? After all, he was kind of a "local" boy!

Then the big question from Jesus: "What about you guys? Who am I?" How, do you think, they reacted? a double-take? nervous chuckles? embarrassment?  Simon Peter, says Luke, broke the silence:
"You're the Messiah of God." Did he really say that, out of deep conviction? or did Luke write those words for Peter to speak, in order to make a point?

The obvious consequence of the story for each of us is to hear Jesus' question as addressed to us: "And you--what are you saying about me? Who am I?" I wonder if you feel as tongue-tied as I do in honestly answering that at times? I mean, it's hard enough to try to answer that question about myself, much less Jesus! And I say "at times" because I don't think we answer it all at once, with one glib, pat answer. At any given time, I believe, we see different sides of Jesus, depending on our own situation/emotion of the moment. In a sense, I guess we're all trying to answer Jesus' question all the time, without ever really coming up with a 25-words-or-less response.

Hopefully, our living through the blessed days of Lent will help you and me get at least a little closer to some coherent response.

"Make In Us New And Contrite Hearts"

Almighty and everlasting God, you hate nothing you have made 

and forgive the sins of all who are penitent: 

Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, 

worthily lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness, 

may obtain of you, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; 

through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, 

one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

"You are dust, and to dust you will return." With this ancient formula, heard by Christians all over the world on Ash Wednesday as the sign of the cross is traced in ashes on their foreheads, we begin Lent. This symbolic act is both a solemn reminder of our being marked in Baptism "as Christ's own, forever", as well as an invitation to renewal. Ash Wednesday and, indeed, the whole Lenten season is a special time of repentance. Repentance, however, isn't some sick form of regret about past mistakes. Jesus, at the outset of his public ministry, preached: "Repent, for the reign of God has come". The Greek word for repentance literally means a change of mind, of heart, a change of spiritual presence in the heart. In Baptism we began to live in Christ, as Paul says. Jesus hints that to live in him is to be part of and to live in within the reign of God, for he says "The reign of God is within you." You and I know that we need to be called back continually to change our minds, our hearts, and to live within the reign, the presence of Jesus the Christ. 

Hopefully, this Lent will be a special season and time for us together to discover or rediscover the presence and peace of Jesus in our lives. The beloved prayer of St. Francis of Assisi (BCP, p. 833) expresses this theme so well, and can be a particular help to focus our thoughts during Lent.

One of Lent's traditional disciplines and the chief way in which we come to find God's presence and peace is to pray for it. We pray for all sorts of things: a sick relative, a dying friend, for inspiration on an exam, for the relief of suffering people throughout the world. St. Francis reminds us that, above all, in praying we need to pray for God. The focus of prayer isn't asking God for something, but asking that God be there, that God be present, in everything. Augustine of Hippo, a thousand years before  Francis, had exclaimed: "You have made us for yourself, O God, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you." Andrew Weyermann says, "We have a spirit that curves us into ourselves so that our every want becomes an insatiable need." We feel all sorts of compelling urges: to put ourselves first; to outdo any who oppose us or differ with us; for power and possession; to be needed. Even, and perhaps especially, when all those emptinesses have been filled and satisfied, at least momentarily, we still find ourselves reaching out for something more to ease the void and loneliness. But how do we ask for it? How do we pray? "We do not know how we ought to pray," Paul says.

As we journey through Lent, then, anticipating the joyous celebration of Jesus' Resurrection, we let the Holy Spirit of God and Jesus plead for us in groans which words can't express. We pray for a special measure of his presence: "Lord, make me an instrument of your peace." 

In praying thus, we ask two things: 1) "Make me in your presence. We've often used and heard these words "make me" as words of defiance, as a declaration of a war of wills. But in praying to our gracious Father, the words "make me" take on a new meaning. They express our choosing to hand ourselves over to God's presence, to allow ourselves to be created anew. Paul discovered such rebirth in the presence of the Risen Christ on the way to Damascus. For Francis, God's renewing presence took the form of a loathsome leper whom he nevertheless embraced. In Baptism each of us has become a new creation in God's presence. Each time we turn back to God and change our hearts, God stands with us, present, there. "Make me, Lord -- create me anew." 2) "Use me for your presence." No one likes to be "used", in the sense of catering to someone else's needs and desires, and being taken advantage of. Yet there's a sense in which we need and choose to be used for God's purposes. "Make me an instrument of your peace." It's similar to the player on the bench who asks the coach, "Use me." All of us need the assurance that we and our life count for something, that we're here for a reason. Paul expresses the reason thus: "God...through Christ...has given us the ministry of reconciliation...We are ambassadors for Christ..." We're bearers of the message of his presence and peace to all who come into our lives. Perhaps we can resonate with the thoughts of Thomas Merton's poem, The Candlemas Procession, as we embark upon our Lenten renewal:

Look kindly, Jesus, where we come,

New Simeons, to kindle,

Each at Your infant sacrifice his own life's candle.

And when Your flame turns into many tongues,

See how the One is multiplied, among us, hundreds!

And goes among the humble, and consoles our sinful kindred.

...Nor burn we now with brown and smoking flames, but bright

Until our sacrifice is done,

(By which not we, but You are known)

And then, returning to our Father, one by one

Give back our lives like wise and waxen lights.

 

"Woodbine Willie"

Geoffrey Anketell Studdert Kennedy came into the world in 1883 at Leeds, England, son of an Anglican vicar, William Studdert Kennedy. Geoffrey graduated from Trinity College, Dublin, with a degree in classics and divinity, then served parishes in Rugby and Worcester.

Kennedy volunteered as a military chaplain on the Western Front after the outbreak of World War I. Along with his ministry to the wounded and dying, he was remembered for his doling out Woodbine cigarettes to the soldiers, thus earning the nickname "Woodbine Willie".

Even a cursory reading of some of his many poems gives a clue to his literary skill. He published several volumes of religious poetry, one of them called Rough Rhymes of a Padre, based on his experience as a chaplain. A good example of his strength of character, compassion, and respect for his fellow soldiers comes through in his poem Woodbine Willie:

THEY gave me this name like their nature,

Compacted of laughter and tears, 

A sweet that was born of the bitter,

A joke that was torn from the years.

Of their travail and torture, Christ's fools,

Atoning my sins with their blood,

Who grinned in their agony sharing

The glorious madness of God.

Their name! Le me hear it -- the symbol

Of unpaid -- unpayable debt,

For the men to whom I owed God's Peace,

I put off with a cigarette.

In 1928 Kennedy published I Believe: Sermons on the Apostle's Creed. The Christian socialism and pacifism which influenced him during the war years was evident in his later poems and prose. He worked for the Industrial Christian Fellowship, on a speaking tour for which he became ill and died in Liverpool in 1929.

I was introduced to Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy's poetry almost 20 years ago by my late beloved friend and devoted evangelist in the Diocese of Northern California and elsewhere, Bill Hickinbotham. Bill was blind, but spoke eloquently and movingly from the heart whenever he addressed people. He memorized a number of Kennedy's poems, as well as some of the Epistles, which he could recite by heart. Whenever we shared a meal at a restaurant, Bill would inevitably great the waitress, kid her a bit, then ask "How are you?" He was predictably given the usual reply, "Oh, I'm fine." And Bill would gently look directly at the person and say, "No, I mean,...really... how are you?" It was amazing to see the rapport he often established that way, and how, even momentarily, it would become an opportunity for the person briefly open up and share something that was bothering her. Bill would always leave the person with a comforting word, not preachy, but very sincere, and a smiling demeanor. Much, I suspect, like the way Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy related to his soldiers.