Dw i’n wrth y modd, Pen Llyn. I am still in love with the people and place of the Llyn. However, I am not based in Conwy and Conwy Valley.
I am the vicar of a number of congregations. Beautiful and medieval. They have stories to tell. I hope that they are always stories of Jesus.
He was a year older than me. We played together in the carpenter’s shop. Our hands were honed and splintered by the tools and wood.
He got to do things before I did, taken to the Temple, learning the Torah, his rite of passage into adulthood. I was a little jealous, which brother is not. I rejoiced when I grew a tad taller than him; and when I could beat him in the race from the market to the workshop.
We comforted our younger brothers and sisters together when our father died. He let me lead the Kiddush, saying it was fitting that Joseph’s firstborn did so. He was always doing and saying strange things, but at that moment it did not matter.
We went into business together, and it was brilliant… while it lasted. We went to the Jordan River to hear our cousin John. He was always the religious one. Don’t get me wrong, we were a devout family. Both of us were baptised at the same time. It was strange, I thought I saw and heard something, but afterwards was not sure. People in the crowd were convinced, and were pointing at us; although afterwards, I thought they were just gesticulating at him.
He went on into the desert; and said the business was mine now. None of us heard from him for days, but then we heard rumours that he was teaching the people and giving them hope. I liked that idea. People always need hope. Then whispers that he staying with the wrong kind of people: prostitutes, tax-collectors. Eventually, I heard he was being critical of our leaders and our traditions; gathering others around him, claiming to speak in God’s name.
I did not know what to do. I did what any brother would. I got together our siblings and our mum and went to find him. We could not get into house where he was. After waiting for many hours, one of his followers, Judas came out, and let us know that he had said any who followed him was his brother, sister or mother.
I was angry – we had played, worked, argued, laughed and smiled together – and he seemed to be saying that all that counted for nothing.
I was angrier for Mum; but she seemed calm and peaceful.
He went to Jerusalem for Passover. Mum wanted to go, so I went too. It was my duty; someone had to act like they were the firstborn.
As he rode into the city that day, I almost believed he was the Messiah; although it is hard to believe that when at the same time you have images family races, meals and birthdays flashing through your mind.
Hosanna! to the Son of David. We were always proud that we were of David’s line.
He went mental in the Temple, and from that point on I decided to look after our Mum and have nothing more to do with him. I was asked by Mum to go the Passover celebration, but I would go in.
All of it happened in a blur. He was arrested and condemned. My brother! I was in the crowd, yelling for him.
I kept my distance from him whilst he was on the Cross. I wanted to go to be there, but could not. Only a handful of his followers were there. At least I watched. He gave our mum into the care of someone else.
Then he died. I was suddenly the eldest.
James and John took care of Mum, and told me to keep my head down. “The authorities might want to wipe out the family as well as his friends”, the said.
I stayed in a room by myself. Joses was in the next house.
I spent the day reading the Torah. I felt alone.
On Sunday, there whispers about the tomb
That is all I need, I thought.
It all happened too suddenly.
Suddenly, he was there – the Lord of glory; my brother Jesus.
He smiled
I smiled
He laughed
I laughed.
We patted each other on the back.
I looked into his eyes – and he read everything there is know about me and how I felt in my eyes,
Then he was gone
I thought I had better start acting like the firstborn, and with others I gathered people together; trying to make sense of my brother, the Messiah.
I even ended leading the Church in Jerusalem
With a brother like that, you never know what is going to happen.
Ymuno Ni | Join us
Friends of Bro Madryn is for those who want to support the work of the churches of Bro Madryn, whether you live in the locality or not.
By joining the Friends you will ensure that our buildings are maintained and ministry continues across the northern edge of the Llŷn Peninsula,
Bro Madryn encompasses the villages of Llithfaen, Pistyll, Morfa Nefyn, Tudweiliog, Edern, Llangwnnadl, Dinas, Pengroslon, Bryncroes, Sarn, Botwnnog, Llaniestyn, Llandudwen, as well as the town of Nefyn.
It is a place of pilgrimage, solace, and hiraeth for many. By joining the friends you will be helping to ensure that Bro Madryn and its church communities remain witnesses to their faith and to being a place of welcome
Mae Ffrindiau Bro Madryn ar gyfer y rhai sydd am gefnogi gwaith eglwysi Bro Madryn, p’un a ydych yn byw yn y gymdogaeth ai peidio.
Trwy ymuno â’r Ffrindiau, byddwch yn sicrhau bod ein hadeiladau’n cael eu cynnal a’u gweinidogaethu ar draws ymyl ogleddol Penrhyn Llŷn,
Mae Bro Madryn yn cwmpasu pentrefi Llithfaen, Pistyll, Morfa Nefyn, Tudweiliog, Edern, Llangwnnadl, Dinas, Pengroslon, Bryncroes, Sarn, Botwnnog, Llaniestyn, Llandudwen, yn ogystal â thref Nefyn.
Mae’n lle pererindod, cysur, a hiraeth i lawer. Drwy ymuno â’r ffrindiau byddwch yn helpu i sicrhau bod Bro Madryn a’i chymunedau eglwysig yn parhau’n dystion i’w ffydd ac i fod yn lle croeso.
News letter
You will receive by email three news letters per year (in the autumn, before Easter and just before the summer)
Two will be general to Bro Madryn and a third related specifically to a church or churches of your choice
Devotional Material
You will receive a copy of our Holy Week booklet and a study booklet by email each year
Invitation to the Madryn Lecture
The first one will be given at Michaelmas 2025
The cost for being a Friend is £15 per year payable by Standing Order
Llythyr newyddion
Byddwch yn derbyn tri llythyr newyddion y flwyddyn trwy e-bost (yn yr hydref, cyn y Pasg ac ychydig cyn yr haf)
Bydd dau yn gyffredinol i Fro Madryn a thraean yn ymwneud yn benodol ag eglwys neu eglwysi o’ch dewis
Deunydd Defosiynol
Byddwch yn derbyn copi o’n llyfryn Wythnos Fawr a llyfryn astudio trwy e-bost bob Blwyddyn
Gwahoddiad i Ddarlith Madryn
Bydd yr un cyntaf yn cael ei roi adeg Gŵyl Fihangel 2025
Y gost am fod yn Ffrind yw £15 y flwyddyn yn daladwy drwy Reol Sefydlog.
Contact us and ask for a standing order form, preferably at the email address below.
Cysylltwch â ni a gofynnwch am ffurflen archeb sefydlog, yn ddelfrydol yn y cyfeiriad e-bost isod.
Ffrindiau | Friends Bro Madryn
3 Llys Madryn
Morfa Nefyn
Pwllheli LL53 6EX
kevinstuartellis@churchinwales.org.uk
Holy Saturday – what do we do we this day and how do we preach on it.
In many ways, we struggle to know what to do with this day. If you are like me, I arrive at Holy Saturday tired. This Saturday is a day I could do without. I think in many ways it is because it is a day of nothingness, and therein is its uncomfortability.
It is easy to make it a day of waiting. In one sense that is nonsense. I am not sure those who had followed Jesus from the Galilee to Jerusalem were waiting. If they were waiting, they were waiting to see when they might escape. Their dreams had been shattered. They were not reflecting on the last week. It would have been excruciatingly painful to do so. And there was not yet anything to look forward to. Dead messiahs did not rise from the dead, especially ones who had so clearly been deserted by God. (In a week that has seen the report of further discoveries of scrolls by the Dead Sea, I am reminded that there are references within the scrolls of a Messiah being hung on a tree and cursed. Of course, this is something developed by Paul and was probably used by Jewish apologists arguing that Jesus was not the Messiah).
For Mark, Holy Saturday is none day, Luke and John follow him – only in Matthew has some activity. It is not however done by the disciples, rather it is by those who had sought Jesus’ execution. It is the bizarre case of the party of purity working on the sabbath by speaking to the Gentile (and presumably unclean authorities) to ensure that there is a guard set on the tomb. It is about control. In some ways this makes me smile, the authorities still need to control Jesus to ensure that Jesus body remains where it is.
If it is not about waiting, is it about harrowing? I love the theology of Jesus vanquishing hell and am captivated by some of the iconography around it. There is a tantalising reference also in 1 Peter of Jesus preaching to imprisoned spirits (fallen angels, watchers), and there is reference to the Messiah doing this in Jewish literature written between the Testaments. Harrowing is not found within the Scriptures.
What if nothing is happening? What if it is a day when it looks like those opposed Jesus had won? I am not sure there is a problem. What if this day is a day when we live with the fact that God does not appear to be potent, but the opposite.
Rowan Williams suggested that we should not let ‘the alleluias of Easter Day drown out the cries of the crucified’. Similarly, we dare not just skip over Holy Saturday. To do so, almost pretends that Jesus was not actually dead. The early Christian statements of faith were always terse. The one found in 1 Corinthians notes, ‘he was buried’. There is a finality about that.
Many years ago, I wrote a piece called ‘Invisible Pain’ reflecting on a particular journey with childlessness in which I included a reflection on Holy Saturday. I argued that there was a sterility about the sealed tomb. The God of Holy Saturday (before the Easter Vigil) is ‘broken and wasted’ (Ellis, 2013, p. 143).
In some respects, it is a day that asks questions that do not call for answers. The disciples were silent. The tomb is too, but somewhere in the battered corpse in a Palestinian tomb the levers of redemption are working. We do not have the words though to explain this, and perhaps the sting for the preacher is that should lead people to silence and stay there with them.
As she cradled the battered body of her broken boy, Mary lifted her eyes to the heavens, from where help seemed not to come. Her lips moved and almost inaudibly, she whispered; my soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God, who is my salvation. These words spat out mingled with others that she knew from her Scriptures, I say to God, my rock, ‘Why have you forgotten me’ and ‘For you are the God in whom I take refuge; why have you cast me off?
As her tired hands held his cold ones, hope faded. The dreams that she had nurtured as his unborn body grew with her womb collapsed as her eyes took in the bloodied and beaten corpse. Hope had died. Her imagination as he had played with his brothers and sisters had soared as she had created a world in which injustice would be no more and Israel would be restored came crashing down as she held, in her arms, yet another victim of Rome’s intolerant justice.
Mary knew the stories of old: how God had rescued her ancestors. She had lived them through the celebration of Passover and the other festivals. She had seen in the vibrancy of her son that God still acted in the praises of those who could not see, in the dance of those who could walk and the breath of Lazarus, his friend. And yet, the hands that had shaped the mud to put on the eyes of the blind man and the feet that had partied at his bar mitzvah and at the wedding at Cana had been stilled. The lips that had tasted the wine and the hair that she had stroked when he was child and adult were palled and flat.
For Mary the stories of old could not take away the mind-numbing reality that death had come and for her would never be nothing at all. she remembered other deaths too, of Joseph; and what she would have given for that kind, strong and generous man to be with her now. She had lost Elizabeth and Zechariah too, and the wild man, John, with whom Jesus played in the Jordan when they were young.
The face of the ancient priest, Simeon, flooded unwanted into her mind. This is beyond piercing, more painful that could possibly be imagined. Nothing had prepared her for this.
It is hard to think of Mary like that. We do not do it very much at all. Good Friday has become mechanical; it has become a means of our salvation: our being made whole. We have stripped away from the Cross the corpse, as we have allowed the crescendo of our Easter alleluias to drown out the cries of the crucified and the agony of the mother who had lost her son. Death had been cleansed rather than allowed to remain jagged. Such torture has no part in our individualistic views of deliverance.
In being like this, we rob ourselves of reality and make our deliverance less than it is meant to be. Death is no longer allowed to be the last enemy; the one that angered Jesus at the grave of his friend. It is not something that then, as now, rips the heart out of families and mourning is invalidated because the man on the Cross is not allowed to be dead.
If he is dead, however, all sorts of possibilities are allowed to happen. That is a strange paradox, the possibilities of death. With the death of God’s Son comes not only the rumour of salvation; of the tangible probability that the older order of sin and death have been swept aside. What also comes is the opportunity to be vulnerable, to be human. For when we confront the deep darkness of death; then and only then can we accept our mortality and the sure and certain hope that we have been liberated.
For that Jesus has to be allowed to die. That is painful. Agony! An agony not just for him, but for us; for most us do not allow ourselves to be confronted by death.
The Shadow of Death has fallen.
I gave them both everything they wanted, spoken and unspoken. My boys were so different. The youngest wanted everything, so I gave it to him. I would always move mountains for my boys. The eldest looked at me with pity when his brother went, saying nothing. You do not have to use words to speak. I kept track of the youngest through friends and business contacts. He seemed to have lots of friends. I was glad of that.
I heard his friends began to drift away as his money ran out, and then I heard nothing. He seemed to have vanished. There was an ache in my heart. I sent out word I was looking for him, but there was nothing apart from silence. The leaders in the community thought I was mad to be looking. He has brought shame on you and your name, and upon us.
He dare not show his face here, they said. We will deal with him as our laws demand. I was silent. I desire mercy and love, not just obedience to a written code. I scanned the horizon day after day, watching, hope fresh each morning and dying each evening. My eldest still pitied me. We worked together on the land, but barely spoke.
As hope was fading completely, I saw a speck on the horizon. No bigger than someone’s hand. My heart pounded. I knew it was him. My heart sang with the song I had sung over him since before he was born. Closer and closer he came. Others saw him too. They looked at me and wondered what I would do. I ran, I danced, and ran, holding out my arms, enveloping him in my embrace. No one could touch him whilst I had him.
Father, he said. I shushed him. I asked my servants to get him some clean clothes, and shoes for his calloused feet. I washed them before he put the shoes on. I welcomed him, asking no questions. Knowing that others would have questions for me.
My eldest boy did not share my joy. In all the long years of being and working together, it seems he had learnt nothing from me. He disappeared into the night, and I long for his return.
(c) Kevin Ellis
Acts 17: 16-23
All evangelism is done in translation, even if the evangelist and those hearing share the same language.
Paul is in Athens waiting for Timothy and Silas to arrive. He is ‘deeply troubled’ by what he sees around him. I wonder when the last time I was deeply troubled by what I saw around me. John’s Gospel records Jesus as having been deeply troubled or distressed on at least two occasions, first when he meets Mary following the death of Lazarus, her brother. Some translations refer to Jesus being angry, and secondly at the last supper where he tells those around him that one of them will betray him.
Paul is disturbed by what he saw, and it motivated him to get on with the task without waiting for his colleagues.
He followed his pattern by going to the synagogue to meet with Jews and those who were God-fearers (those attracted by the worship of one of God and its practical outworkings). I wonder how often the worship I lead is attractive and at the same time reverent enough to raise questions.
Paul then also argued/debated with those in the public square. Here is one of the biggest challenges for me, he is misunderstood. Of course, it is easy to say to say that the Epicureans and Stoics misunderstood Paul. They did. Paul had been misunderstood before, in Lystra, after the healing of man who could not walk, Barnabas and Paul had been mistaken for gods. In that context they had been speaking different physical languages. It goes a little deeper, Paul was being understand in Athens in translation. As Christians we are called to be different, and our message is sometimes incomprehensible. The gospel is simple and clear but often deeply misunderstood. I wonder how much care I take to ensure that mistranslations are overcome.
Paul is taken then to the Areopagus. Those who had listened had thought he had been talking about two different deities. Paul proceeds to make connections between the gospel and what they understood. This led to a handful becoming believers. I wonder how much work I put into making connections.
It is striking that afterwards, Paul the man who lived his life in translation went next to Corinth, and resolved to realise that the message of the gospel is foolishness compared to God’s wisdom, and that in the cross we see the wisdom and foolishness of God meet as Jesus kisses a guilty world in love.
Let us be evangelists who worship God who reveals himself in Jesus.
Evangelists who learn to be troubled by what we see around us and respond by sharing Jesus.
Evangelists who reevaluate how we share Jesus, so that we do it better.
Evangelists who resolve to preach Christ and only him.
Amen.
I wonder who Jesus is to you? How do you think of Jesus?
In 1977, large swathes of the UK gathered around their televisions to watch ‘Jesus of Nazareth’. For many people, Robert Powell became the face of Jesus. With the music, the programme captured the imaginations of many. Robert Powell’s interpretation of Jesus, under the direction of Zefferelli, was almost other-worldly. Jesus was not like that. Jesus was rooted amongst real people in a context where people were under occupation, yet laughed, danced, and celebrated, as well as mourned, wept, and offered lament.
I remember singing in school, the hymn, ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild’. Jesus was gentle, but he also was strong, kind-hearted, yet firm. In this passage from the gospel, Jesus has just been confessed as Messiah. Jesus has ordered his friends to tell no one.
Jesus begins now to tell the disciples that he (Jesus) must suffer and die. This was not what was expected of the messiah. The messiah, the chosen one, had been long expected. Whispers of the coming of someone who would inaugurate the kingdom of God had echoed down the centuries. It was peppered throughout the Old Testament. Now he was here. Jesus stood in their midst. The excitement would have been palpable.
And Jesus bursts that balloon. Jesus was the Messiah. But he was a different sort of Messiah. No wonder Peter was shocked, perhaps even disappointed or angry. This cannot be. Jesus confronted Peter. You are not in tune with the thinking of God. In fact, you are thinking like the evil one.
Jesus goes on. If you want to follow me, you must take up your cross and follow. You must deny yourself. Jesus is, for Christians, not an optional extra, but some one who asks us for our everything, whilst at the same time walking alongside us.
When I was much younger, I remember being very upset. I was at home in Sheffield. My dad wanted me to talk to him. He was desperate for me to talk to him, to tell him everything. Instead of talking, I ran to the park in the rain. My dad ran after me. He was recovering from a cancer operation (I believe). My dad caught up with me as I sat on the grass in the rain. We sat in silence in the rain and he hugged me. That is how Jesus walks alongside us. That is the kind of God that demands our everything.
Tybed pwy yw Iesu i chi? Sut ydych chi’n meddwl am Iesu?
Ym 1977, ymgasglodd rhannau helaeth o’r DU o amgylch eu setiau teledu i wylio ‘Jesus of Nasareth’. I lawer o bobl, daeth Robert Powell yn wyneb Iesu. Gyda’r gerddoriaeth, daliodd y rhaglen ddychymyg llawer. Roedd dehongliad Robert Powell o Iesu, o dan gyfarwyddyd Zefferelli, bron yn arallfydol. Nid felly oedd Iesu. Roedd Iesu wedi’i wreiddio ymhlith pobl go iawn mewn cyd-destun lle’r oedd pobl dan feddiant, ond eto’n chwerthin, dawnsio, a dathlu, yn ogystal â galaru, wylo, ac offrymu galarnad.
Dw i’n cofio canu yn yr ysgol, yr emyn, ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild’. Roedd Iesu yn addfwyn, ond roedd hefyd yn gryf, yn garedig, ond eto’n gadarn. Yn y darn hwn o’r efengyl, mae Iesu newydd gael ei gyffesu fel Meseia. Mae Iesu wedi gorchymyn i’w ffrindiau ddweud wrth neb.
Mae Iesu’n dechrau nawr i ddweud wrth y disgyblion fod yn rhaid iddo ef (Iesu) ddioddef a marw. Nid dyma a ddisgwylid gan y meseia. Yr oedd y messiah, yr un a ddewiswyd, wedi bod yn hir ddisgwyliedig. Roedd sibrydion dyfodiad rhywun a fyddai’n urddo teyrnas Dduw wedi atseinio ar hyd y canrifoedd. Roedd yn brith trwy gydol yr Hen Destament. Nawr roedd yma. Safodd Iesu yn eu canol. Byddai’r cyffro wedi bod yn amlwg.
Ac mae Iesu’n byrstio’r falŵn hwnnw. Iesu oedd y Meseia. Ond roedd yn wahanol fath o Feseia. Does ryfedd fod Peter wedi cael sioc, efallai hyd yn oed yn siomedig neu’n grac. Ni all hyn fod. Wynebodd Iesu Pedr. Nid ydych yn cyd-fynd â meddwl Duw. Yn wir, rydych chi’n meddwl fel yr un drwg.
Iesu yn mynd ymlaen. Os wyt ti am fy nilyn i, rhaid i ti gymryd dy groes a dilyn. Rhaid i chi wadu eich hun. Nid rhywbeth ychwanegol dewisol yw Iesu, i Gristnogion, ond rhywun sy’n gofyn inni am ein holl bethau, tra ar yr un pryd yn cerdded ochr yn ochr â ni.
Pan o’n i’n llawer iau, dwi’n cofio bod yn ofidus iawn. Roeddwn i gartref yn Sheffield. Roedd fy nhad eisiau i mi siarad ag ef. Roedd yn ysu i mi siarad ag ef, i ddweud popeth wrtho. Yn lle siarad, rhedais i’r parc yn y glaw. Rhedodd fy nhad ar fy ôl. Roedd yn gwella o lawdriniaeth canser (dwi’n credu). Daliodd fy nhad i fyny gyda mi wrth i mi eistedd ar y gwair yn y glaw. Eisteddom yn dawel yn y glaw ac fe gofleidiodd fi. Dyna sut mae Iesu yn cerdded ochr yn ochr â ni. Dyna’r math o Dduw sy’n mynnu ein popeth.
Bob dydd yn ystod mis Medi, am y 28 diwrnod cyntaf beth bynnag, rydym yn edrych ar Lyfr yr Actau ar draws Eglwysi Bro Madryn. Dyma’r ddogfen y byddwn yn ei defnyddio. Mae’n ddwyieithog (Cymraeg a Saesneg). Mae croeso i chi ymuno â ni.
Each day during September, for the first 28 days anyway, we are looking at the Book of Acts across Bro Madryn Churches. Here is the document that we will be using. It is bilingual (Welsh and English). You are welcome to join us.
Mae’n debyg bod y darlleniad o Eseciel 37 | yn un o ddarnau mwyaf adnabyddus yr Hen Destament |. Aeth at prophwyd i le diffrwyth. | Mae’n lle heb obaith. | Mae Eseciel yn cael ei denu i ddyffryn. | Daw’r geiriau am ‘dyffryn’ | a ‘plaen’ | yn Hebraeg o’r gwraidd yr un gair |. Mae posib fod y prophwyd yn cael ei gymeryd i’r lle y gelwir ef. | Mae cofio ein galwad yn bwysig. | Mae angen i mi gofio un fy un i ar adegau. | Deuthum i Fro Madryn oherwydd tri pheth. | Yn gyntaf, |sgwrs gyda’r archesgob. | Yn ail,| trwy gerdded o amgylch y ardal |, ac yn drydydd |, ymaflyd yn Nuw mewn gweddi.
Mae Eseciel yn cofio ei alwad|, ac yna caiff ei herio |. Byddai Eseciel ar unwaith y tu hwnt i’w gylchfa gysur |. Mae’n rhan o stori Duw weithiau | i fynd â ni |, ein gwthio, allan o ein barthau cysur |. Fel offeiriad |, byddai’n gwybod y byddai cysylltiad â chymaint o esgyrn | yn ei wneud yn aflan yn ddefodol.
Yn y lle anobeithiol hwn |, mae Duw yn gofyn cwestiwn i Eseciel |: ‘a all yr esgyrn hyn fyw?’ | Tybed sut byddech chi’n ateb cwestiwn o’r fath |. Yr oedd yn gwestiwn anmhosibl |, canys ymddangosai nad oedd ateb |. Mae atgyfodiad un corff yn rhyfeddol | a thu hwnt i ddealltwriaeth ddyn |. Roedd sêl y garreg | ar draws y bedd ar nos Wener y Groglith | a thrwy gydol dydd Sadwrn Sanctaidd | yn edrych fel anobaith a threchu.
Tybed pa gwestiwn y gallai Duw ofyn i mi fel offeiriad? | A all pobl Dduw ganu eto? | Gallai hwn ymddangos yn gwestiwn rhyfedd. | Beth allai’r cwestiwn ei olygu? | Wedi’r cyfan | mae sŵn y gân yn atseinio o gwmpas Cymru. | Mewn cymdeithas sy’n newid, | gall deimlo bod popeth yn newid ar wahân i’r eglwys. | Efallai, | fe allai ymddangos, fel petai, yr eglwys yn alltud | ac angen ailddarganfod ei llais unwaith eto. | A all yr eglwys ganu eto |, gadewch inni wrando ar Eseciel | i weld a oes ganddo ateb.
Mae adfer cymaint yn anghredadwy. | Saif Eseciel mewn lle nad oedd gobaith. | Roedd ei ddychymyg wedi trechu |. Mae hyn yn bwysig. | Mae Eseciel, y proffwyd-offeiriad, mewn alltud. | Roedd pobl Israel wedi cael eu symud | o’r wlad roedd Duw wedi ei rhoi iddyn nhw, | a bydden nhw wedi bod yn brwydro i ddeall pwrpas Duw yn hyn o beth. | Yn ôl at y cwestiwn. | Mae dweud ‘ie’ | yn swnio fel bod y proffwyd yn camddeall y sefyllfa. | Ac, mae dweud ‘na’ yn ymddangos fel eich bod yn amau Duw. | Mae ymateb Eseciel yn syml: ‘ti’n gwybod’.
Mae Duw yn gwybod. | Mae Duw yn gofyn i’r proffwyd | broffwydo i’r esgyrn. | Waw! | Tybed beth fyddech chi’n ei wneud? | Tybed beth fyddwn i’n ei wneud. | Mae Duw yn wneud yr amhosibl. | Mae Duw yn gofyn i Eseciel fod yn bartner iddo | wrth wneud yr hyn sy’n amhosib. | Proffwydo! Siaradwch â’r esgyrn. | Eseciel yn ufuddhau.
Mae Eseciel yn broffwydo i’r esgyrn iddynt byw. | Bydd yr esgyrn yn cael eu gwau gyda’i gilydd unwaith eto | gyda gewynnau a chnawd |. Mae hyn yn hynod o wych |. Rwy’n dychmygu y byddwn yn teimlo’n ffôl iawn | pe bawn wedi sefyll lle’r oedd y proffwyd dewr | hwn yn sefyll. | Mae Eseciel yn siarad |. Wedi i Eseciel lefaru, | mae Eseciel yn clywed ac yn gweld. | Cyn i Eseciel lefaru, | mae’r proffwyd yn dychmygu. | Mae’n credu, ni waeth pa mor fregus yw’r gred honno |, y gall Duw weithredu.
Mae’n rhyfeddol o ran ei symlrwydd. | Mae Eseciel yn siarad, |gan ddefnyddio geiriau mae Duw wedi eu rhoi |. Ymddengys nad oes unrhyw emosiwn; ac yn sicr |, dim meddwl am swyno. |Yn syml, mae’r proffwyd yn ufuddhau. | Duw sy’n gweithredu.
Mae Eseciel yn clywed yr esgyrn yn ysgwyd |. Mae Eseciel yn clywed symudiad | lle na ddylai fod pob |. Yna | mae’r proffwyd yn gweld y geiriau a lefarodd wedi dod i fyw |. Rwy’n dychmygu y byddai Eseciel | wedi bod wrth ei fodd ac wedi dychryn ar yr un pryd |. Yna gorchmynnodd Duw i Eseciel lefaru eto |. Mae Eseciel yn siarad bywyd neu anadl i’r esgyrn.
Beth sy’n digwydd yma? |Yn union fel yn Genesis, | pan fydd Duw yn creu |, yn gyntaf, | mae Duw yn llunio dyn allan o’r ddaear |ac yna |, yn ail,| yn anadlu bywyd |; yma yn yr alltud |, mae dau beth yn digwydd. Mae Duw yn ail-creu | ac yna’n rhoi bywyd newydd trwy’r ysbryd.| Duw sy’n gweithredu, ond dewis help Eseciel |. Mae Duw a’r proffwyd yn cydweithio. |Gall Duw ei wneud ar ei ben ei hun |, ond mae’n dewis cynnwys Eseciel.
Ar ôl i’r esgyrn gael eu hail-wau | a bywyd wedi’i adfer, | dywedir wrth Eseciel fod yr esgyrn yn cynrychioli Israel |, a bod Duw yn bwriadu adfer Israel, gan eu gosod yn eu gwlad eu hunain unwaith eto. | Mae’n debyg bod yr alltudion | yn teimlo eu hunain yn ddiwerth |, mor ddiwerth | â dyffryn o esgyrn sychion. | Mae Duw yn datgan nad yw hyn yn wir.
A all yr esgyrn sychion hyn fyw? | Dim ond ti sy’n gwybod |. A ellir torri’r beddrod wedi’i selio ar agor? Dim ond ti sy’n gwybod |. A all pobl Dduw ganu unwaith eto? | Dim ond ti sy’n gwybod |. Y mae y darn hwn yn Eseciel yn hynod |. Mewn lle diffrwyth,| mae bywyd yn cael ei ddwyn allan |. Gadewch i mi rannu rhywbeth personol gyda chi |. Mae llawer ohonoch yn gwybod bod fy mabi, | sydd bellach yn 21 |, yn cael ei fabwysiadu |. Ni allem gael plant biolegol |. Mae mabwysiadu wedi bod yn wyrth i ni |. Mae wedi newid fy mywyd. |Ysgrifennais y gerdd hon pan oedd fy mabi yn 12 oed |. Dw i wedi ei gadw yn Saesneg.|
Not flesh of my flesh
Not bone of my bone
But still miraculous,
My own
Never forget
For a single minute
That you not being from my loins
Has made me into a different kind of man
And a changed human being
Mae Duw yn gwneud pethau amhosibl |. Mae Duw yn dewis gweithio mewn partneriaeth â ni |. Mae’n her i’n dychymyg. | Fe wnaeth mabwysiadu bachgen bach fy helpu i ail-ddychmygu bywyd. | Fe’m gwnaeth yn fwy agored i niwed. | A all pobl Dduw ganu eto? |
Rwy’n gwybod dau beth sy’n bwysig |. Y cyntaf yw hwn.| Yn Efengyl Ioan |, mae Iesu yn dweud:| ‘ar wahân i mi, | allwch chi wneud dim byd?’ | Dydw i ddim yn credu | y bydd cynnal gwasanaethau ychwanegol | neu gyrsiau ychwanegol | yn dod â phobl ychwanegol i’r eglwys yn sydyn |. Credaf | fod gwneud lle i wrando ar Dduw |, a chael ein hatgoffa | na allwn wneud dim heb Iesu |. Mae’n sylfaenol i ailddarganfod sut i ganu, | ac yn wir pa ganeuon y dylem eu canu.
Yr ail beth | yw bod Duw yn ein galw i fod yn bartneriaid â’r dwyfol. | Mae hyn yn wych | Mae Duw yn dewis llestri gwan |i weithio gydag ef. | Yn nyffryn yr esgyrn sychion, |dewisodd broffwyd-offeiriad. |Yn y lle hwn, mae’n ein dewis ni.
Yn y lle hwn |, mae’n fy newis i. | Beth alla i ddod? | Rwy’n dod â’m deallusrwydd. | Yr wyf hefyd |yn dwyn fy ystyfnigrwydd Swydd Efrog |. Yr wyf hefyd | yn dod â’m dymuniad | i wasanaethu ac i weddïo |. Pan gyhoeddwyd fy mod yn symud i Gymru, | dywedodd merch fach yn fy eglwys yn Birmingham hyn |: ‘pwy fydd yn gweddïo drosom ni nawr?’ | Roedd y ferch fach yn gwybod llawer | am yr hyn y mae’n ei olygu i fod yn offeiriad yn eglwys Dduw.
A all pobl Dduw ddysgu canu eto? | I ateb y cwestiwn hwn mae angen i mi ddychwelyd i fan fy ngalwad, | ac ailddarganfod sut i weddïo. | Rwy’n eich gwahodd i ymuno â mi nawr a bob dydd. Gweddïwn.
Helpa ni i gofio sut i weddïo
Helpa ni i gofio sut i ganu
Helpa ni i dy ddilyn di heddiw a bob amser. Amen.
 | Phil Groom on Holy Saturday |
 | Elaine Evans on Cancelled: dealing with being… |
 | Alison Le Cornu on The enemy |
| Alison Le Cornu on I am afraid |
 | 1urcher on An Evangelical Apology |
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