Making a whip of cords, he drove all of them out of the temple, both the sheep and the cattle. He also poured out the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. – John 2:15
After the uproar and dispersal, after the zeal and shouts, after the sheep and doves and cattle and bankers had been driven out:
You know what you’ll see in the Temple? The same thing we see in our Temples.
Tables replaced. Stalls re-erected. Coins re-stacked. Business resuming in God’s House.
A poem/prayer based on John 2:13-22, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Third Sunday in Lent.
[Jesus said,] “For those who want to save their life will lose it…” – Mark 8:35
Well. That’s just true.
It’s simply true that life will close for one and all no matter how we seek to manage and extend it. No human being lives their life on Earth and fails to die: including Jesus, as You well recall.
So that’s just true.
I grant you that by effort, luck, and with a spot of selfishness and pride, a person might extend their life or live in comfortable bliss, but You require every person’s soul of them in time.
So that’s just true.
In truth, I struggle more to see how offering myself, how giving effort, time, or wealth, how giving life itself, will lead to life.
You say that’s true.
And so I move upon a cracked and twisting path, one day embracing vanity, the next one striving for beneficence, as if the map were constantly redrawn.
You know that’s true.
O, reassure my heart, my Savior, that I might in constancy adopt Your course, not bribed by promise of new life, but tranquil and serene in hope.
May this be true.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 8:31-38, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Second Sunday in Lent.
God said, “This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth.” – Genesis 9:12-13
I’m grateful for the promise, Holy One, to never raise a flood to sweep all life from Earth.
I cannot quite forget, however, that you did not say we could not do this thing ourselves.
As tides rise higher around my island, testimony to the human hubris that grieves you,
I am grateful for the sign that you, at least, keep faith.
A poem/prayer based on Genesis 9:8-17, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year B, First Sunday in Lent. And, er, it’s written late.
Upon the mountain’s height the stones reflect the sudden glow, not gleaming from the skies as ordinary light. They are bedecked with sudden radiance that mystifies.
Now where there were four figures there are six, and two did not come up the earthen trail. Three faces wear astonishment transfixed to see the ancient prophets so unveiled.
The ever-daring one proposes booths until a booming voice imposes hush, for listening is like to admit truths far more than motion taken in a rush.
But were I there, I fear my faltering frame would hardly dare pronounce Messiah’s name.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 9:2-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Transfiguration Sunday.
In my weary moments, I wonder: What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?
Your followers (including me) have found some other path than yours. You, after all, relieved the pains of those you met, while we who claim your name impose such pain to “save” our comfort or our power or this sad deluded shout of “righteousness!” We shame the poor; we spread disease; we wrap ourselves in violence. Were I you, Jesus, I would think to shed this ill-named Christianity, to wash it away, perhaps, and start anew.
In my lonely moments, I wonder: What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?
Oh, sometimes I can feel your breath upon my shoulder, sometimes feel your hand upon my arm, yes sometimes feel you pulling me into a new direction. But. Sometimes when evening falls or sunrise lifts I sense no company, no strong companion, and I long to know once more the certainty my memory’s fragility retains so fitfully of your once-lucent clarity.
In my awestruck moments, I wonder: What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?
You could dance among the stars; perhaps you do. I would, I think, if I were you. You could speak and all the evils of this world would be resolved. Yes, bring the braided cords and clear the temple – well, unless you’d have to lay your sternness upon me. I’d settle then for mercy, thank you very much. No, with the ancient poet I repeat: What are human beings that you hold us in your mind; what are mortals that you care for us?
In truth, I have no ready answer for my weariness, my loneliness, or even for my awe. I can only be grateful, Jesus, that you have been with us – and are.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:21-28, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany.
The image is Christ heals the possessed by engraver Jan Luyken. In the Bowyer Bible in Bolton Museum, England. Print 4234. From “An Illustrated Commentary on the Gospel of Mark” by Phillip Medhurst. Section D. Jesus confronts uncleanness. Mark 1:21-45, 2:1-12, 5:1-20, 25-34, 7:24-30. Image courtesy Phillip Vere – http://wfurl.com/a6ea272 (.pdf) “An illustrated commentary on the Gospel of Mark”. By Phillip Medhurst. .pdf file, FAL, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9393722.
“And immediately they left their nets and followed him.” – Mark 1:18
Here you come again, O Jesus, striding on the (rocky? sandy? weedy?) shore to where I’m busy – busy, Christ, I tell you! – with the labor of your call.
And you – oh, you – you have another call, I’m sure, to summon me away from this old fishing style to some new one, from catching those… well, catching… what?
For if I am a fisher, then I fish the ponds of fish you’ve caught before, and rarely reach the waves upon the beach, and never stretch beneath the ocean billowing.
Instead, I try to show the long-caught fish just what it is to be a fish of yours, to be a fishing fish, a loving fish, a sharing-of-your-loving fishing fish.
As dear Mark left unspoken your persuasive words to Simon, Andrew, James and John, I wait within the silence yet to hear your summons to be…?
A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:14-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Third Sunday after the Epiphany.
“Nathanael asked him, ‘Where did you get to know me?’ Jesus answered, ‘I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you.'” – John 1:48
It was long ago, my Savior, that you called me out from under my fig tree. Neither then nor now do I pretend to understand just what you saw.
I strive, Redeemer, to become a person without guile – sometimes successfully. I’ve found your awkward knowing words and silences correct me more than praise.
Still, knowing what you know, you sent the call to summon me from shelter, and I came to come and see, and seeing, echoed those old words: You are the Son of God.
A poem/prayer based on John 1:43-51, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Second Sunday after the Epiphany.
The image is Bartholomew the Apostle by El Greco – lAHToi0sj3MVQw at Google Cultural Institute, zoom level maximum, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29844192. Nathanael, named only in John’s Gospel, has traditionally been identified with Bartholomew, one of the Twelve in Matthew, Mark, and Luke.
“John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” – Mark 1:4
I am more accustomed to proclaiming a baptism of forgiveness, Jesus, a baptism of the Holy Spirit, a baptism of renewal.
I am more accustomed to confining the language of repentance to my own inadequacies, imperfections.
But as the pictures flicker on the screens, and as the lies continue multiplying, then I know I must repent a frightened silence, and
I summon up the words of John. Repent, you brood of vipers, shed delusion, accept truth, and turn from violent desecration of the nation
that you claim to love.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:4-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate Psalm Reading for Year B, First Sunday after the Epiphany, the Baptism of Christ.
Far from a barn in Bethlehem in miles and in time, remembering the stories passed and wondering just how much was forgot, and how much lost, of Jesus’ birth that holy night.
Who will recall, in truth, the circumstances of this year? For though we think our times “unprecedented,” it is just a sign of swift forgetfulness, a well-established human trait.
The griefs so hard to bear will not be felt by our descendants, for we did not recall the sorrows of our ancestors, nor think to learn from their successes or their failures to protect ourselves from ill.
Nor will our children’s children hear of ti leaves waving gently in the breeze beyond the window’s Christmas glow. Why should they? They will have their own bedazzling sights and sounds at hand, their own deep scents to breathe.
Now my tree’s glow (in echo of ohi’a blossoming upon the slopes of Kilauea) takes on the shades of stone a-fountaining, a-flowing, and a-pooling at the mountain peak. This might be held in memory.
For this becomes a link between the distant island of Hawai’i and the inn of Bethlehem, the places where the Earth grows thin, and from the deepest places of the planet and the love of God there flows the light a-glowing bright.
Yes, here we have the breaking-in of grace: the one builds up the land and rises from the seas. The other builds up love and joy and peace, reclaiming souls from greed and other-disregarding sin. So come, Lord Jesus! Make the darkness bright.
