Kitba tal-qassis Anglikan Jon Swales, mill-Gospel of the Wild Messiah
Miġjub għall-Malti minn Francesco Pio Attard
Il-Messija bla kwiet
għadu ma għejiex iterraq.
Imma issa
huwa jzappap fil-Ġisem tiegħu.
Din hi l-Knisja –
il-Ġisem ta’ Kristu,
miksur.
Hi l-Għarusa –
li magħha sar il-patt,
imsejħa,
imbierka biex tkun barka,
dawl tad-dinja,
belt fuq il-muntanja.
Imma din l-Għarusa
għandha l-ġrieħi tagħha.
Xi ġrieħi huma mqaddsa –
mill-ħasil tar-riġlejn,
mill-ġarr tat-toqol,
mill-qadi ta’ dawk li ħadd ma jarahom,
mill-irkopptejn li jinżlu fejn ebda sultan ma jitbaxxa.
Imma mhux il-ġrieħi kollha huma mqaddsa.
Xi wħud ġabithom hi b’idejha –
feriti tal-kruċjati,
tbajja’ tal-iskandli,
tax-xabla li ħatfet
meta nsiet is-salib.
U xi drabi –
dawn l-istaġuni
ta’ fedeltà u falliment
iseħħu flimkien.
Waqt li tagħti nifs il-ħniena,
taħtaf imperu.
Waqt li tmiss lil min ħadd ma jrid imissu,
imbagħad tagħti daharha.
Għarusa kkumplikata.
Għarusa fil-bżonn tal-fejqan.
Imma kulħadd jaf,
dan il-Ġisem miksur
xorta hu Ġismu.
Kristu ma jistħix
iġorr il-ġrieħi tagħha.
Imqar il-feriti skandalużi
jinġabru fil-grazzja.
Għax din hi l-Knisja midruba
mibgħuta f’dinja midruba –
dinja mħarbta mir-regħba,
fgata mill-kriżi tal-klima,
titlajja’ fuq l-irdum tal-kollass.
Hi ta’ kull kultura,
u bosta ilsna,
mużajk globali ta’ ħniena.
Hawnhekk kappella ta’ raħal żgħir –
bankijiet tal-injam,
kor dgħajjef
jgħanni bi qlub imkebbsa nar.
Hawnhekk katidral kbir –
ħnejjiet tal-ġebel,
xemgħt mixgħula,
talbiet qodma
jagħmlu eku fid-dawl mit-twieqi tal-ħġieġ.
Hawnhekk għarix taż-żingu –
l-Ispirtu jiċċaqlaq
mal-idejn imqiegħda
fuq il-morda u l-batuti.
Hawn quddiem ħanut fil-belt –
fejn l-ivvizzjati u l-artisti
jinġabru jgħannu salmi
li jwarrdu bla mistenni f’għanjiet ta’ hallelujah.
Hawn marċ ta’ protesta –
kartelluni fl-għoli,
dmugħ fit-toroq,
hekk kif għanjiet ta’ ġustizzja
jogħlew qalb il-gass tad-dmugħ.
Hawn dar ħiemda –
l-idejn ta’ xwejjaħ
iħaddnu fihom l-Iskrittura,
waqt li n-neputijiet
jitgħallmu l-istejjer
li jsawru r-ruħ.
Ġisem wieħed,
ħafna ġrieħi.
Vanġelu wieħed,
ħafna aċċenti.
It-tifrik tal-Knisja
għad irid jinbidel
fix-xquq
li minnhom jidħol id-dawl.
Fl-aħjar tagħha,
hi tibki ma’ min jibki,
tagħti isem lill-imsikkta,
wieqfa f’nofs il-kotra,
biex twaqqaf il-makkinarju tal-mewt.
Fl-agħar tagħha,
hi tinsa lill-Messija bla kwiet,
u l-barka ssir xkiel.
Imma xorta waħda –
l-Ispirtu jittajjar fuq l-ilmijiet.
Xorta waħda –
il-ħniena terfa’ rasha mit-trufijiet.
Xorta waħda –
il-Ħaruf li ġie maqtul
jeħodha lura d-dar.
Ħa tkun hekk il-Knisja –
onesta dwar il-ksur tagħha,
umli fix-xhieda tagħha,
bla kwiet fil-ħniena tagħha.
Mhux mużew ta’ qaddisin,
imma sptar tal-grazzja.
Mhux fortizza ta’ ċertezza,
imma poplu tal-patt,
midrub imma mibgħut.
Il-Vanġelu qatt ma kien nadif.
Għadu sal-lum bir-riħa tal-għaraq u t-tbatija,
tat-tiċrit u l-qawmien.
Mhuwiex hemm għal għajnejn it-televiżjoni.
Jinsab hemm biex jingħad minn taħt l-ilsien
fit-trufijiet.
Jinsab hemm biex jitkanta
minn dawk li baqgħu.
Ħa tkun hekk il-Knisja –
midruba,
bla kwiet,
u fidila.
Amen.
U amen mill-ġdid.
The Gospel of the Wounded Church
Rev’d Jon Swales, from the Gospel of the Wild Messiah collection
The wild Messiah
is not done walking.
But now
he limps in the Body.
Here is the Church—
the Body of Christ,
broken.
She is the Bride—
covenanted,
called,
blessed to be a blessing,
light of the world,
a city on a hill.
But this Bride
has scars.
Some wounds are holy—
from washing feet,
bearing burdens,
serving the unseen,
kneeling where no king kneels.
But not all wounds are holy.
Some are self-inflicted—
scars from crusades,
stains from scandals,
the sword grasped
when the cross was forgotten.
And sometimes—
these seasons of
faithfulness and failure
happen at the same time.
She breathes in mercy
and inhales empire.
She touches the untouchable
and yet turns away.
A complicated Bride.
A Bride in need of healing.
Yet even now,
this broken Body
is still His Body.
Christ is not ashamed
to wear her wounds.
Even the scandalous scars
are gathered into grace.
For this is the wounded Church
sent into a wounded world—
a world unravelled by greed,
choked by climate breakdown,
teetering on the edge of collapse.
She is cross-cultural,
multi-lingual,
a global mosaic of mercy.
Here is a village chapel—
wooden benches,
a fragile choir
singing with hearts on fire.
Here is a grand cathedral—
stone arches,
candles lit,
ancient prayers
echoing in stained glass light.
Here is a corrugated iron hut—
the Spirit moves
as hands are laid
on the sick and the suffering.
Here is a city storefront—
where addicts and artists
gather to sing psalms
that break in unexpected hallelujahs.
Here is a protest march—
banners raised,
tears in the streets,
as songs of justice
rise into the tear-gas air.
Here is a quiet home—
an elder’s hands
cradling scripture,
as grandchildren
learn the stories
that shape the soul.
One Body,
many wounds.
One Gospel,
many accents.
The Church’s fractures
may yet become
the cracks
through which light gets in.
At her best,
she weeps with those who weep,
names the silenced,
stands interruptible in the crowd,
interrupting the machinery of death.
At her worst,
she forgets the Wild Messiah,
and the blessing becomes a blight.
But still—
the Spirit broods over the waters.
Still—
mercy rises from the margins.
Still—
the Lamb who was slain
leads her home.
Let the Church be like this—
honest about her fractures,
humble in her witness,
wild in her mercy.
Not a museum of saints,
but a field hospital of grace.
Not a fortress of certainty,
but a covenant people,
wounded yet sent.
The Gospel was never clean.
It still smells of sweat and sorrow,
rupture and resurrection.
It will not be televised.
It will be whispered
at the edges.
It will be sung
by the ones who stayed.
Let the Church be like this—
wounded,
wild,
and faithful.
Amen.
And amen again.