All I want for your birthday, Jesus, is your mother’s dream. To see the lowly raised up high, the proud confused, dispersed. To see the drunk with power deposed, the hungry without hunger any more.
All I want for your birthday, Jesus, is the prophet’s dream. A desert blooming beneath the sun, a rainbow soaring above the sand, the rocks a-blossom, the weeds a-fruit, the shaken knees no longer afraid.
All I want for your birthday, Jesus, is to believe in ancient dreams. To trust in the promise, trust in the promises, trust in assurances repeated, repeated to Mary, through Mary, to me, through me.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 1:46b-55 and Isaiah 35:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary alternate reading and first reading for Year A, Third Sunday of Advent.
Written for healing following the fatal shootings at the Pearl Harbor Naval Yard on December 4, 2019. The recording is live from an interfaith vigil at Church of the Holy Cross UCC, Hilo, Hawai’i, on December 5.
When will we find healing When the night is long? When will we find healing In something more than song? Bring your caring To make our healing strong. Bring your caring: Make our healing strong.
When will we love mercy As we know we may? When will we love mercy In the light of day? Bring your healing To make our mercy strong. Bring your healing: Make our mercy strong.
When will our humility Overcome our pride? When will our humility Blossom deep inside? Bring your mercy And raise our souls to care. Bring your mercy… Bring your humility… Bring your healing…
Were I to descend to the riverside, John, fiery prophet, baptizing fiercely, were I to descend to seek holy forgiveness: What would you call me? A viper? A snake? What would you call me? A coward? A hoax? What would you call me? Irrelevant? Dull? What would you call me, religious authority…
And would I descend to the riverside, John, fiery prophet, baptizing fiercely, would I dare to seek holy forgiveness of you: Not knowing if you would bring shame to my name. Not knowing if you would despise my remorse. Not knowing if you would discount my devotion. Not knowing how deeply you see in my soul…
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 3:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year A, Second Sunday of Advent.
I was putting the final touches to the sermon on Sunday morning in my study at Church of the Holy Cross. My brain was slowly turning to think about the children’s message – though I consider ideas through the week, the final story takes its final shape on Sunday morning.
It may not be the least anxiety-provoking method in the world, but that’s how it goes.
The usual calm of the morning suddenly vanished. Above my head, I heard the voices of the mynas suddenly rising in volume and intensity. The metal roof began to pound and thump as they beat their wings at one another, resonating like a great drum at me as I sat wondering below.
I’ve heard myna arguments before, but never anything quite this shrill, quite this loud, and frankly, quite this amplified.
Whatever the conflict was about, it seemed to involve several birds, each of them screeching with might and main. The pounding doubled and redoubled. The voices multiplied. Nobody was willing to give in, it seemed. It went on and on.
Suddenly, the source of the sound began to move. Slowly at first, and then accelerating, the screeches and pounding moved from my left to my right, sliding down the slippery slope of the aluminum roof toward the edge. I looked left in time to see the birds drop from the gutter to the sidewalk, still screaming at one another, but with the wingbeats now slowing their unplanned descent to the ground.
For a few seconds more the argument continued unabated, then abruptly ceased. Silence fell. Then the birds, as one and without a sound, took to their wings and flew off.
I promptly threw out all the ideas I’d had for a children’s message to talk about the mynas whose argument ended like this:
“Well, that’s not where I thought this argument was gonna go.”
“Do you remember what this argument was about?”
“Maybe we should take this up later?”
“Somewhere where it isn’t quite so slippery.”
They all knew what the future was supposed to be: a winner to the argument. Instead, the future turned out to be an embarrassed group of dusty mynas.
The future, I told the children, is not always what you expect.
In reflecting on the reflection, however, I realized that the future wasn’t what I expected, either. The image of a group of fighting mynas sliding down the roof had never occurred to me until I heard them doing it.
In the midst of our work and efforts, in the midst of our dedication to service and our commitment to creativity, in the midst of our solemn self-reliance that is so common and yet so foreign to nearly every faith tradition I’ve ever learned about, the subtle (or screeching) movements of the world around us may yet become the inspiration, or the direction, or the guide for our continued journeys. For if the mynas were surprised to find themselves dumped off the roof onto the parking lot, so was I. And if the mynas were surprised to find that a change in circumstance had wiped away their argument, so was I.
The future doesn’t always hold what we think it does. Our lives of faith don’t always look like what it think it will, either. The world may, from time to time, teach us where to go. The Divine may, from time to time, give us the ingredients for our imagination.