“[Jesus said,] so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.” – John 17:26
I imagined I saw Jesus. He was kneeling by a river. I walked up close behind him. He didn’t say a word. “Oh, Jesus, have you heard of all the children who lie slain?” He never turned his head; he said, “I’ve heard.”
“Why are you kneeling by the river?” I demanded of his back. “There are children who need saving, there is evil beneath the sun. In churches and in grocery stores the blood must surely shout. He never turned his head; he said, “It shouts.”
“What will you do then, Jesus? Will the churches, temples, stores, and schools be stained with blood? Will we sup full of horrors every day of life?” He never turned his head; he said, “You shouldn’t.”
I fell down there beside him, and I found the river’s source as a torrent ran from Jesus’ streaming eyes. “How can you bear this suffering?” I begged him with my tears. He turned his head, and softly asked me, “How can you?”
A poem/prayer based on John 17:20-26, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Seventh Sunday of Easter.
“During the night Paul had a vision: there stood a man of Macedonia…” – Acts 16:9
“A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira…” – Acts 16:14
I’ve got to hand it to you, Paul. Some of us struggle with visions. It’s hard to believe God’s directions sometimes. “Go here! No, not there. I mean here, over here!” It would be clearer if God didn’t use pronouns alone.
But you saw a man from Macedonia. (I’ve always wondered: how did you know? Was there a look in the eyes? Or a pattern of jewelry? Or an only-in-Macedonia, for-a-limited-time-only, get-it-now haircut!) You saw him. You said: “Let’s go.”
So far, so good. If my sense of God’s spirit were only so clear as to know which “there” was “here.” But “Come to Macedonia! Enjoy the sun! See the crowds! Hang out by the river and help us! Bring the word!” That even I understand.
Now here is where I really hand it to you, Paul. For there by the river in Philippi, leading city of the district, you found no men of Macedonia, but women. And their leader Lydia – was from Thyatira, near where you’d just been.
God’s visions can blind us, you know, when we read them as anything other than metaphor. You met a woman from Thyatira in Asia, not a man from Macedonia, and you recognized God’s promises fulfilled in her.
A poem/prayer based on Acts 16:9-15, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Sixth Sunday of Easter.
“[Peter said,] ‘If then God gave them the same gift that he gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I that I could hinder God?'” – Acts of the Apostles 11:17
Look at them, God. Look at them, Jesus. Listen to their voices praising your names. It does my heart good – well, mostly it does. It’s also made my heart stop, you know?
For a time it all seemed so clear – in retrospect, why should I have thought that? – with the Holy Spirit giving me words and gathering the people in.
We grew so fast! Not everyone was ready for our size. Well, nobody was ready for our size. Some thought they’d hide their selfishness within the crowd.
Our sharing started to collapse. We tried enlisting serving people then to serve. Who knew that they, like we, would call attention to themselves so fatally?
It seemed like such a good idea to take this trip, to visit Lydda, get the summons to relieve the grief in Joppa over Tabitha.
But now… a nightmare in the house of Simon. Scads of creatures I have pledged I will not eat, and a voice declaring these things clean three times, three times, three times.
I get it now. Whatever might be said about a wider diet, it’s a wider church that’s on the menu here in Caesarea, with Latin tongues extolling God.
But… what a shambles this will be. We’d barely started with our own, and they have hardly come together yet. We haven’t learned to truly love each other.
However deep Cornelius’ faith – I’m sure it’s deep – how will he find acceptance in Jerusalem? I find my heart is in my mouth right now to share his table, eat the Gentile meal.
That’s bad enough, as I think most will come around. This fellow Saul, the one who sees things differently, I have a feeling he will be their advocate as fiercely as he once denounced both them and us.
But…
These Greeks and Romans will reshape this church, and sometimes that will be just fine, a shedding of the weight imposed by ancient custom we no longer need and should not bear.
If only he were just a simple tradesman, this Cornelius, or worker of the soil, or fisher of the sea. Instead he is an agent of the Empire, oppressor’s instrument against us.
Yes, that will change this church, this Way. The day will come, I’m sure, when some will see us as oppressors, not oppressed, and ask if this is what our Savior taught, and how we love?
What will we tell them in that day? In welcoming the ones the Holy Spirit called, we welcomed also all the power we had feared, and holding it, rejoiced, as the Spirit drained away.
A poem/prayer based on Acts 11:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Fifth Sunday of Easter.
[Simon Peter] turned to the body and said, “Tabitha, get up.” Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up. He gave her his hand and helped her up. Then calling the saints and widows, he showed her to be alive. – Acts of the Apostles 9:40b-41
Just a moment, now… what’s happening?
Someone is here – no one has been in here in quite some time. I hear him breathing and… is that a murmured prayer? I think I’ll let my eyes stay shut and puzzle this thing out.
This doesn’t quite feel quite like my bed. That’s what I last remember and – oh, my! – I felt so bad. The aches, the failing strength, the fear. I struggled so to breathe.
Who is this man beside my bed? It’s not the doctor, sure. I know his sounds. Why is there no one else? What’s that I hear?
Beyond the door are quiet sobs, the kind I’ve made when weeping had near run its course, and the springs of tears were running low.
That’s Martha’s weeping; that is Miriam’s. Is Anna there? Joanna, too? The widows, then, my friends. But why are they not here, where this man is?
Could he be a physician, better than the one I had? So it must be. My breath is so much easier than it had been. Oh, yes.
Oh, now. His murmuring, his prayer has reached its end. Although my eyes are shut I feel his gaze, and… is that a smile I feel?
Then: “Tabitha, get up,” in soft but roughened voice, as if he was more used to shouts above the roaring sea.
Just: “Tabitha, get up,” and so I might just choose to let my eyelids rise – them first, you see – and take a good long glance at this more capable physician.
Yes: “Tabitha, get up,” but wait. Before I do, with all my friends beyond the door, one burning question to resolve: What is this I’m wearing?
A poem/prayer based on Acts 9:36-43, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Fourth Sunday of Easter.
Luke’s account of those attending the body of Tabitha lacks any names; I’ve used women’s names found in the New Testament for Tabitha’s friends. The story clearly states that Simon Peter asked everyone to leave him alone with her body. For whatever reason, the artists’ depictions of the scene routinely ignore this.
For three days [Saul] was without sight, and neither ate nor drank. – Acts 9:9
Well, that was quite a shock.
One moment I was striding, filled with confidence and rectitude, the next: Flat on my back, blinded by a light, deafened by a voice.
I suppose I needed such a shock.
Is there a greater barrier to learning something new than certainty? I fear not. I was so certain, knew beyond all doubt, that this Jesus movement was a fraud.
Well. I learned.
And now I wait and wonder: what is next? “You will be told.” Oh, good. And yet not good, for what may I expect of One whom I oppressed?
Or those who followed him?
How strange to find expansion of the soul in clouded sight? I had created my own spirit’s shroud, of course, but now I see.
Metaphorically, that is.
Now to be truthful, God, to whom I pray with greater clarity since vision failed three days ago, I thank you for this time of rest.
I am not ready for the tasks you might require of me, or the penitence I must perform for those who do not trust me.
Why should they, after all?
I am not ready yet for much beyond extended monologue to you, here in this house along the Straight Street of the city.
Here I will pray and breathe.
And when you find me ready, Lord, with eyes still dim, or eyes as comprehending as my soul, I’ll take your road.
I’ll follow you.
Amidst the daily noises of the street, what’s that? A knock. What’s that? The voices by the door. What’s that? A hand.
A voice that calls me: Brother Saul.
A poem/prayer based on Acts 9:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of Easter.
There is some suggestion in the writings of the Apostle Paul (he used that Greek version of the Hebrew Saul when writing his letters in Greek) that he did not fully regain his physical sight after this experience. In 2 Corinthians 12 he spoke of a “thorn in the flesh,” suggesting a disability without describing it. At the close of Galatians (6:11) he wrote, “See what large letters I make when I am writing in my own hand!” Though that might be due to unfamiliarity with using a pen, it might also be because of poor eyesight.
“Then [Jesus] said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.'” – John 20:27
Let’s pause, Thomas.
Ignore, for now, the jealousy inside. They saw. You didn’t. That’s how these things go. Some are in the wrong place at the right time, others in the right place at the right time.
Pause and let it go, Thomas.
Did Jesus not show signs enough for anyone? Can you not leave to others this new sign? Must you claim it, too? How many would accept their friends’ report?
Just pause, Thomas.
For if you make a jealous declaration, demanding what the others all have seen, you risk commitment to the course they’re on, a course of hardship and of pain.
So think, Thomas.
This sight and touch will drive you far from Galilean lakeside breakfasts. It will take you over tossing seas to strangers who will, some, believe your words – as you did not your friends.
Just think, Thomas.
Your jealous energy will turn to zeal and you will find a sharpened spear awaits you there, three thousand miles from home. So pause. And think.
Before you speak.
A poem/prayer based on John 20:19-31, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday of Easter.
The video will premiere at noon HST on Good Friday, April 15, 2022.
These seven poems and the song are based on Scriptures associated with “the Seven Last Words of Jesus” – strangely, there are eight lessons. The video includes reading of the Biblical texts, reading of the poems, and performance of the song, “As We Bring Him Down.”
You strode those streets to teach, to worship and to heal. You strode those streets to cast the moneychangers from the Temple courts.
And now, with failing strength, you stumble up the street, too weak to bear the instrument of death. Where once you rode in festival parade they follow you to mourn for what has been and what will be.
I’m sure that Pilate knew just what he said. This is what happens to the ones who claim they have no emperor but Caesar. King of the Jews? Claim the title if you like, but know that title brings you only here, to die upon a cross, not reign upon a throne. So Jesus, claiming spiritual rule, will offer up his spirit to the Roman callousness and fear.
How strange a criminal, whose deeds “deserved” a death of torture, understood the reign of God much better than the priests, much better than the Roman Governor, much better than the monarch, better even than the ones who followed Jesus. “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” For Jesus, entry to that realm was not through gates of stone, but gates of death. Beyond those gates our eyes see only shadow, but to his, and to this criminal, the shadows have been thrown by brilliant light.
Your friends look on, O Jesus. See? Your mother Miriam: she weeps with Miriam and Miriam. She will not urge you to a wedding feast, not now, or prompt you to transform the vinegar of death into a vintage rich with life. Instead, as scarlet stains your hands and feet, you transform stranger into son, and woman into mother. Here amidst the panoply of power and of hate, you fill the purifying jars of love.
Who could not bear to watch from heaven? Was it the sun, ashamed to the Savior die? Was it the moon, unable to divert its gaze? Was it the angels who had praised Messiah’s birth? Or was it simply that the clouds must gather, too, and witness bear, and mourn, and weep?
Forsaken the Anointed One. It seems so strange that Son of God, Messiah should cry out in abandonment – or… Does it?
Do we not hear the question echo down the years, the centuries, and on, “I was your God, and you my people, and you turned away.” We worship a forsaken God.
I could not blame you, Christ, if you let “It is finished” be your final word. You only came to do us good, and we? We desecrated you, we desecrated the tree on which we watched you die.
I could not blame you, Christ, if you decided that we had rejected your salvation – for we did – and now could live in suffering – as we do. And you, who stood for truth, nearly let us live the lie, but you could not let “It is finished” be the end.
The calloused feet that trod the miles. The mobile lips the formed the smiles. The fingers that bathed his friends’ toes Are still – are unmoving – Are released from the world and its woes.
[Chorus]
Hold him gently as we bring him down. Throw aside the bitter thorn crown. Lay him in the cloth we could find. The world has been cruel to the kind.
The sparkling eyes that held yours in peace. The worker’s hands that feared no disease. The ears that heard more than we knew Are still – are unmoving – Are now just memory for a few.
[Chorus]
The open arms we have crossed on the chest Where the loving heart beats not in his breast. Draw the fabric across the dear face So still – so unmoving Oh to see it again. Oh to find such a place.
Then the disciples returned to their homes. But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. – John 20:10-11
Slow down, Mary.
You’ve made the trek three times this morn. Once slowly, drawn reluctantly but certainly to this one place, a garden you would water with your tears.
Slow down, Mary.
The second trip you ran with panicked feet, aghast with loss and injury. What had they done with Jesus? Death by torture – wasn’t that enough?
Slow down, Mary.
You might have beat the fisherman in that footrace, except you’d run the race before already, and the other one? Who could outrun the one that Jesus loved?
Slow down, Mary.
You sought their help. You might have guessed – I’m sure you did – that they’d no help to give. Now, Joseph might have known, and Nicodemus might have helped, but not these two.
Slow down, Mary.
Let them return, uncertain and afraid, until they bring their friends together. You: wait. Take one more look into the empty tomb. Ignore the words of angels.
Slow down, Mary.
If his disciples cannot help, nor angels, sweep your tear-swept eyes across the garden, and see if there is one who says your name, to whom you’d cling until the sunset comes.
A poem/prayer based on John 20:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate Gospel Reading for Year C, Easter Sunday (Resurrection of the Lord).
“Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, ‘Teacher, order your disciples to stop.’He answered, ‘I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.’ As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it…” – Luke 19:29-41
If you had brought the crowd to silence, Lord, and made the air to still so stones could speak, would they have cried aloud their praise? Or would they have, instead, shed tears of grief?
Red, flowing tears, as hot with loss as ever streaked a human face, as hot as those you tasted on the cross, as scarlet as the blood you shed.
They flow, these tears of Earth, today from vents beneath the salty sea, from fissures high upon the mounts and far downslope in forest glades.
You wept to recognize that people will not do the things that make for peace. The stones in chorus weep to see our violence laid hard on you.
And when the scarlet tears encounter salt, the heat of sympathy explodes in sand, black sand, gray cinder, groaning now to bear the land extending into sea.
Weep stones. Weep people, weep. Weep all Creation. In the confluence of scarlet tears and human tears we build new land on sable sand.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 19:28-40 (plus verses 41-44), the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Sixth Sunday in Lent, the Liturgy of the Palms.
Isaiah 43:16-21 with the reactions of the original author.
Maybe.
Thus says the LORD, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters, who brings out chariot and horse, army and warrior; they lie down, they cannot rise, they are extinguished, quenched like a wick.
Ah! I hear you, LORD. The army that destroyed Jerusalem shall find destruction like the chariots of Pharaoh overwhelmed by falling walls of water, extinguished surely like a wick.
Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old.
Wait. What? But you… But you just brought it up. And now you want me to forget what you just said? I… No. I can’t.
I am about to do a new thing;
All right. A something new. But I don’t see why I should spend the futile effort to forget the thing you did before, the thing you just recalled to mind yourself. You did. You know you did.
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
Well, since you ask… No! I don’t perceive it. It hasn’t happened yet. Um. Right? For here we are in Babylon and scattered round the circuit of its walls. We languish here as exiles from our homes, and all we see are walls and spears and brutal troops.
Now, we could do with a repeat of Exodus. A plague or two or three or ten, or wait: would you consider, for these Babylonians, to raise the volume to eleven? I have no doubt that Nebuchadnezzar will exhibit his hard heart as Pharaoh long ago.
I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.
Well, that will be a thing. I see. Instead of crossing water now, a waste of desert lies between the ill of our exile and the blessings of our homeland far away. So will you strand the Babylonians in wasteland waterless as we rejoice for lack of thirst?
The wild animals will honor me, the jackals and the ostriches; for I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people.
Now just a minute there. That doesn’t sound like rivers flowing just for us, and not for them.
the people whom I formed for myself so that they might declare my praise.
Now, are you sure this message is the one you really want me to proclaim? Because I see a central problem here with this “new thing.” The old thing worked quite well, you know? It got us out alive, and kept an army off our back. These flowing rivers sound quite nice, except that flowers and rushes will not slow pursuit.
Oh, bring us home and you can count on praise. But LORD, I just don’t see it. Nor will they. Call us weary of you if you like, but what will freedom look like when it comes, and when?
A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 43:16-21, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Fifth Sunday in Lent.
ordainedgeek 