St George's Cathedral, Cape Town

A Meditation given by the Reverend Bruce W. B. Jenneker at the Lenten Taizι Vespers on Wednesday 1 April 2009

This man from Galilee,
the Rabbi of Nazareth,
he walks with a purpose and a clear intent.

His stride is strong,
his tread is sure,
he walks into his future.
He walks.

The way that stretches long before him,
step by step,
marked out, measured, assessed and appraised -
as one might walk off the size of a field,
a plot for building.

This way marked out he walks with resolute step,
pacing out the story of his life,
walking its meaning into field and meadow,
across city streets and village lanes.
He walks

His walking takes him into the heart of things.
It is not only to the end of the road that he walks,
that hill faraway, outside the city wall.
He walks into life tumbling into chaos
where people stumble, not walk,
where people fall, not walk,
where people cringe, and cower and cry, not walk.
Into it he walks.
These steps of his,
not far-reaching but close-coming,
not striding out and up and away,
but coming close, closer
to see, he walks.
to bend, to hear, to listen.

These steps,
a gentle treading, these steps,
so soft and near -
they draw a circle that makes this little here an everywhere
these steps so snug and close -
they make this fleeting moment forever

In the stillness bought by the urgent stride
he meets a desperate searching -
Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?
He has stopped walking now,
this is his place,
this is his spot on the way.

And as if in answer,
his arms stretch out to gather up the children
and bless them.
In innocence the answer is found,
in childlike faith and hope and love,
there the answers lie in wait.

This man from Galilee, the Rabbi of Nazareth,
he walks with a purpose and a clear intent.

His stride is strong, his tread is sure.
Can I follow him?
Will my cautious mind hold-back my feet?
Will my calves rebel and ankles lock
as he strides across the world in measured steps,
each one given and giving?

His stride is strong, his tread is sure,
Can I follow him?
Can my heart hold the dream that dances in his eyes
and flickers in his smile?
Can my soul abandon all its delightful captivities
for that freedom that is his,
the source of his unbounded gentleness,
the open place where his prodigal forgiveness resides.
Can I follow him?

I who keep such delicious score.
I who count the cost and reckon the spoils.
Can I follow him this man of Galilee
who sure of foot, and clear of eye,
walks.
Walks into life.

This man from Galilee, the Rabbi of Nazareth,
he walks with a purpose and a clear intent
that takes in its vast wideness both here and there,
both now and not-yet;
for his walking takes him not past but to,
not beyond but in,
the way of his walking is no by-pass or ring-road
his route makes everywhere just here -
where now a young man kneels.
This young man has never seen such quiet confidence,
has never known such tender strength,
such convinced assurance
and yet
there is such vulnerability here
born of the readiness to be last, the least and what's left.
What must I do to find the meaning of life, he asks,
how can I make sense of my days, my hopes my woes?

Break lose, the walker says,
pull up the anchor, throw away the moorings
and let the good wind carry you,
walk like you're sailing, light as air, unburdened celestial.

He walks, this man among men, he walks.
His stride is strong, his tread is sure,
he walks into his future, understanding and accepting.
No camel's girth and bony bulk to dare the press of the needle's eye.
He walks free and light of fear,
honed to his purpose by compassion
and streamlined for his task
by a kindness that is mother's arms and father's gentle care.

He walks, now by the lakeshore,
now across the mountain side.
He walks –
to call, to heal, to feed, to guide, to teach.
He walks -
into the places where bodies fall apart,
hearts break and spirits fail.
He walks to bring a hope and leave a courage,
he walks to kindle a spirit's waking and leave a new sense of purpose,
to rouse a weary soul,
to calm a troubled breast,
'Take heart,' he says.

He walks a stillness into the toil and stress.
He walks a calm into the turbulent mess.
Can I follow him?

Will my heat-oppressed brain
and my heart by nameless fears benumbed
unloose the harnesses of despair that hold me back,
unshackle the chains that lock me here in my nowhere
and hold me down in a past that ticks away my present?

And still he walks.
And still he walks.

Until he comes to the place where I have brought him.
It is I who have been his map and chart and compass –
it is I who have brought him here.
His devoted steps have followed the trail I laid -
my betrayals,
my lies,
my petty thefts,
my covetousness,
impatience, hypocrisy, rage and bitterness.
Around the hills of my arrogance
and through the valleys of my despair,
he walks.
And still he walks.

Until it brings him here,
to Jerusalem –
both his and mine.

The place of sacrifice –
where he will bleed and I be freed.

The place of power –
here, with wounds he will be covered,
and I by them I forever here recovered.

The place of agony and death –
for him a tomb and me a womb.
This man from Galilee, the Rabbi of Nazareth,
he walks with a purpose and a clear intent.

I am his walk,
his purpose
and his goal.

Will I follow him
and dare the risk of finding him
as he finds me?

Back to Sermons page

Mission and Vision | Services | Music | Ministries| History | Glass | Tour | Staff
Cathedral Friends | Publications | Links | Site Map | Home