This poem closed the Christmas Eve meditation at Church of the Holy Cross UCC in Hilo, Hawai’i, on Christmas Eve 2022.
May the infant born two thousand years ago, emerge again into our restless lives, to overturn the pretense of our egos, to comfort where we feel the stings of strife.
Awake the wonder of the Christ child, sleeping in that manger of our memory, as angels’ songs were echoed by the shepherds, to summon us from our complacency.
May hope rekindle in our weary hearts and faith revive within our flagging souls for Christ is born, and God’s salvation comes to make the world and all its people whole.
But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. – Luke 2:19
Treasuries, they say, are filled with gold. The mansions of the powerful protect the rooms whose contents build the edifices which enclose them.
A treasury, they tell me, is the due of you, dear child, a message from the heavens (though it strangely smells of sheep), and so I lay your well-wrapped form in straw.
An angel spoke to me, he did, and told me not to fear. I thought his greeting odd, but much odder was his word, to tell me that I would become the mother of a King.
A mother I’ve become, but what royal babe is so conceived to summon those suspicious eyes? They’ve followed me for months, though not to Bethlehem.
A mother I’ve become, as witnessed by my groans and pains, by midwife, by my worried Joseph, by the ox whose manger I’ve now stolen for my infant’s bed.
The bloodied rags have vanished, whisked away by midwife’s hands. I tell you, it is hard to hold to memories of angels as a child crowns.
They came, then, those poor wanderers of the fields, abandoning their flocks by night to see a child in a manger. A child. A Savior. A Messiah King.
They spoke of angels singing in the skies, they spoke of glory shining all around them, and they spoke of peace, God’s peace, for all.
In honesty, I’d like to know the reason that the angels sang to shepherds, not to me, this night, since Gabriel’s words have faded in this place.
I’d like to hear the angel once again assure me that the treasury of royalty will be my son’s someday, that he will grow and thrive and save and rule.
For now I must content myself with angels’ echoes in the voices of the poor. For now I must content myself with pondering their words within my heart.
An inn without a room. A stable and a manger. Angels’ voices echoed. Son, your treasury tonight contains no gold. Instead, it is your mother’s heart.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 20:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, the Nativity of the Lord (Proper I).
“Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.” – Matthew 1:18
What should I, could I say? His mind had closed. His ears had stopped. No words I’d say would sway him. What could I, should I say?
I tried; you know I tried. I knew the difficulty of belief, e’en with the confirmation of by body – What could I, should I say?
He stomped away. I knew that, unbelieved, I’d be abandoned – quietly but sure. What could I, should I say?
The very morrow he returned much chastened by a dream. It’s nice to be believed, I said. What could I, should I say?
But Joseph, damn your faith in dreams of angels, but refusal to believe the one who loves you. What could I, should I say?
And Matthew, you whose pen could not record a single word of mine, I wish you’d learned from Luke. What could I, should I say?
So silenced, I rely upon the child I bore to speak the words I spoke to him, and which he magnified. What could I, should I say?
He spoke of liberation and he spoke of resurrection and he spoke of God’s triumphant day. So can I, must I say.
Author’s note: Matthew did not quote Joseph in his Gospel, either – but Joseph takes all the initiative and makes all the decisions which carry the Holy Family from Bethlehem to Egypt to Nazareth.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 1:18-25, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday of Advent.
When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” – Matthew 11:2-3
The clarity that comes with voices in the clouds soon fades. The vibrant colors of the golden sun, the azure river, and the argent billows in the air transmute to foggy grey as time saps confidence. So ask the question, John, as well you may: “Are you the One? Or must we wait to see One you proclaim as I once proclaimed you?”
With you I bend my ear to the reply: Look well, stern messenger of God. The ones who could not see now see. The ones who could not hear now hear. The ones who, ill, had lost community and home have been restored. The poor are cheered to hear good news proclaimed.
And so we see, and so we hear, dear John the Baptist (caught in Herod’s snares), that one has come to claim anointing by the One, and not to seize a throne, or start a war, or set himself apart from us. He’s come to heal. He’s come to preach. He’s come to bring us freedom from the cradle to beyond the grave – a life for you, dear John, and me.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 11:2-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday of Advent.
“…they were baptized by [John] in the river Jordan, confessing their sins.” – Matthew 3:6
Ah, baptist at the riverbank, I come to seek the power of the cleansing touch of water and of Spirit and of fire. Anneal my harrowed soul. Your words have burned their way into my heart and mind and I do not forget. Who warned me, John? Well, you. You with your party-breaking summons to the realization – hardly new but strong in its familiarity – that I have not kept steadily the prophet’s road, which is not straight, not even close, but winds through thickets and through thorns like serpent’s teeth.
I wanted, baptist, to step quietly into the muddy waters, duck my head in quick and studied piety, then stand and melt into my ordinary life once more as surely as the water dried upon my skin. The water I might thus ignore, but not your harshly calling voice. I shiver and I listen and I plan: to learn and follow, learn and follow, learn and follow Christ more faithfully today.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 3:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Second Sunday of Advent.
When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, [Jesus] said, ‘As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.'” – Luke 21:5-6
The flagstones and terraces, walls and pillars, the walkways and courtyards, collonades and shrines. Oh, look where the peak of the roof glows at sunset! Oh, look how the glory of God has been housed.
The stones seem so durable, set and enduring, but Jesus in sadness announces their fall. Eternity’s structures are not built with masonry. Instead, they are built on the soul.
It has been many days since I stood by the ocean and watched while this island expanded its shores. Incarnadine tendrils, dulling to sable, forming a delta of newly poured stone.
And that delta has vanished. It broke and it crumbled. The rocks of the ages could be counted in days. Since then new eruptions have fashioned the coastline anew and anew and anew.
Stone poured upon stone, broken to sand. Stone stacked upon stone – by human hands. They come and they go, they bloom and they fade – But oh, what glory that these things should be.
Fragile stones, enduring for centuries, collapsing in days, wrecked by malice, swept away by the sea. Fragile stones that stand for a moment: But oh, what glory that these things should be.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 21:5-19, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 28 (33).
Photo of the 2016 ocean entry in Kamokuna by Eric Anderson.
[The Sadducees asked,] “Now there were seven brothers; the first married, and died childless; then the second and the third married her, and so in the same way all seven died childless. Finally the woman also died. In the resurrection, therefore, whose wife will the woman be? For the seven had married her.” – Luke 20:29-33
Tell us another story, Jesus.
Tell us a story in which a woman is valued for what she brings and makes, and not because she bears a child to be the heir to one whom death has claimed.
Tell us a story in which a woman is treasured and housed and clothed and nourished because she is a child of God, and not because she is a womb for children.
Tell us a story in which a woman determines her home, her work, her speech, her course, and does not submit her careful conclusions to the random will of a man.
Tell us a story in which those thrust to the margins in casual cruelty rise strong in themselves, and claim their due place as wealth and privilege wane.
Tell us a story of resurrection, of life beyond these oppressing tears, of dancing angels, of children of God, of all who live and love in God’s sight.
Tell us another story, Jesus.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 20:27-38, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 27 (32).
“Therefore we ourselves boast of you among the churches of God for your steadfastness and faith during all your persecutions and the afflictions that you are enduring.” – 2 Thessalonians 1:4
Let me boast of the teacher whose time in the classroom was short, but whose time to inspire was longer and glorious and still… all too short.
Let me boast of the caretaker, rarely at worship because of her charge, but shining with spirit in every encounter, aglow with affection so clear in my memory.
Let me boast of the less-known, forgotten, ignored, whose passage of Earth left its light, instead of the powerful, wretched indeed, to leave us so broken in sorrow.
Let me boast of the saints.
A poem/prayer based on 2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Proper 26 (31).
[Jesus] also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt… – Luke 18:9
Truly you see that he is contemptible. Imagine a collaborator, a Quisling, a snake who slithers his way to take chicks from the nest. Such is this man, who is rich from his friends – if he has any, now, since he fronts for the Romans and seizes their substance for them and himself.
I thank you, Creator, that I have not fallen to such mean temptation or villainous deed. You’ll find that my substance is shared with my household. You’ll find that my giving to you is correct. You’ll find I am faithful in all of my doings. To you I give praise for your law and design.
Now listen, O Great One, as he struggles to pray. My studies have given me words fit for angels, to proclaim your glory as if my voice echoed the song of the heavens and heaven’s chorale. And he prays for mercy? Sure, mercy he covets, but we know his plea is yet more of his greed.
Truly you see that he is contemptible, in life and profession, in false piety. Let not his petition leave grit in your ears, but hear my thanksgiving and praise to your name. You, and you only, can judge your Creation. You, and you only, can say what contemptible is.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 18:9-14, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 25 (30).
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