I’m going to say something
that is incredibly un-cool,
so not-what-people-want-to-hear
that it borders on the controversial.
I want to be holy.

I can sense people’s reactions,
their reticence
as they take a step back,
looking confused and uncertain,
making a mental note
to give me a wide berth,
and writing me off
as a “Holy-Joe”,
a kill-joy,
someone to avoid.

But that’s not how I see it.
To me, being holy means
being whole,
being free to be
everything that God has always intended
that I can be.

Being holy means
learning to see myself
as someone who is lovable
despite my many flaws
and finding that,
freed from demanding perfection
from myself
I am free to love other imperfect people,
despite their flaws.

Being holy means
finding peace in God
and in myself.

The way that I see it
being holy
is not a burden;
being holy
sets me free.

©  Claire Murray, 26th February 2017

I used to feel a little envious
of St Paul.
God spoke to him
on the road to Damascus
in a way that so direct,
so clear.
Why couldn’t God speak to each of us
in the same way?
Wouldn’t that make our spiritual lives
so much simpler,
so much more straight-forward?

Only recently did I realise
that I have already had
my “road to Damascus” experience.
It came at a time in my life
when I felt quite desolate.
One day, when I wasn’t even at prayer,
I heard a voice saying softly,
“You don’t have to be perfect.”
“Yes, I do!” I countered.
“No, you don’t”, the voice replied, gently.
Then, for the first time in my life,
I felt the love of God.
I felt absolutely immersed in that love,
a love that felt eternal.
And, for the first time in my life,
I felt that I loved God in return.
I was totally overwhelmed
and was reduced to tears.

Looking back,
I realise that this was my own, personal
“road to Damascus” moment.
I am convinced that,
like St Paul,
I have been called by God
to give witness to my faith,
but it’s on an infinitely tinier scale.
I feel called to bring
a little bit of God with me
into every situation
in which I find myself.

I have had my “road to Damascus” moment
and it has changed my life
forever.

© Claire Murray, 28th January 2017

I’ve got the cold.
My throat is sore
and I can’t sing.
Luckily, I can still play the guitar
and so today
I stand with our folk group
as we provide the music
for Sunday morning Mass.

The time comes
for the Our Father,
a song that I particularly love.
Today I can’t sing aloud
but as the folk group and the congregation
all sing aloud
I find myself grinning in delight
and singing along in my head.

And I find myself wondering –
does God hear me
when I sing in my head?
And does my silent song, maybe,
make him smile?

© Claire Murray, 22nd January 2017

Have you ever wondered
whether God cries?

We cry for so many reasons.
Sometimes we cry tears of happiness
but usually our tears are the result
of fatigue or frustration,
fear or helplessness,
broken hearts or anger.

But, undoubtedly,
the tears that cause us the deepest pain
are the ones that we shed
in grief.

The death of someone we love
is heart-wrenching
and heart-breaking.
Our pain knows no bounds
and the tears flow.

What about God?
Did he cry
when his beloved son
died in excruciating pain
on a cross?

I don’t believe
that God cried.
I believe
that God screamed and howled in pain,
his agony reverberating
throughout the whole of creation,
turning day into night,
causing the earth to quake
and tearing the veil of the temple
in two.

We cry
and we are all created
in the image of God.
Jesus cried
and he was the son of God.

Maybe God cries too?

© Claire Murray, 9th January 2017