So they read from the book, from the law of God, with interpretation. They gave the sense, so that the people understood the reading. And Nehemiah, who was the governor, and Ezra the priest and scribe, and the Levites who taught the people said to all the people, “This day is holy to the LORD your God; do not mourn or weep.” For all the people wept when they heard the words of the law. – Nehemiah 8:8-9

Could you not let them weep, Ezra?

Could you not let the tears fall for repentance?
I’m sure they had their share.
What person doesn’t?
Did you never weep to know your sins?

Could you not let the tears fall for relief?
Their labor was complete, the city wall
stood tall despite the efforts to disrupt it.
Did you never weep in triumph?

Could you not let the tears fall for awareness?
How few had ever heard the Law in part?
Complete? I’d venture there were none.
Did you never weep in ignorance dispelled?

Could you not let the tears fall for… loss?
Ah, yes, I raise that question, Ezra.
Did you recall another gathering,
with rain to match those families’ distress
to hear their marriages must break,
their spouses torn from homes,
their children cast away?
Where did they go, Ezra?

Where did they go?

I understand theologies of purity.
Exiled for three generations, searching for the cause,
you sought to build a faithfulness to last,
forestall another covenant in ruin.

But Ezra, it didn’t work, you know.
Deep faith has always had to struggle with
the mud, the mess, the muckiness of life.
Women and children cast aside? Mud of a different kind.

No, let them weep, Ezra. They’ve earned their tears.
They’ll strive for your perfection, and they’ll fail,
and so did you, and so do I, and so do all.
Alas, the parents’ sour grapes have set the children’s teeth on edge.

A poem/prayer based on Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Third Sunday after the Epiphany. I am indebted to Cory Driver for his reflection on this text which made the connection to Ezra 10:6-44.

The image is an illustration of Ezra 10 by Jim Padgett (1984), published by Distant Shores Media/Sweet Publishing, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18884444. I was somewhat startled to find this image, which captures some – not nearly all – of the heartbreak of Ezra 10.

“When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, ‘They have no wine.’ And Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, what concern is that to you and to me?'” – John 2:3-4

Oh, no. Don’t even. Don’t even think it.

I can see the whispers at the table.
I see indignant looks into the cups.
The arms would like to strain to carry them, and…
they don’t.

Now here comes mother. Surely not.
I’m just here to relax, to raise a glass
(now lighter) in honor of this day,
and pray a silent special prayer for them.

I did not come to play the host
reliable in lieu of host incompetent.
And really? Is it such an awful thing
the wine is gone? Just look! They’ve had enough.

They’ve had enough and more, you know,
because they’ve drunk the good,
the mediocre, and the bad to drain
these wineskins dry. There’s wine aplenty: all in them.

So, call me grumpy Jesus if you like.
It’s just three days since dripping
I arose to dove’s descent and prophet’s roar.
Not now, I say. I need a moment’s peace.

We came here, you and I, accompanied
by strangers (Was it they who drank the wine?
Well, by their smiles, they drank enough)
who say that they will follow me for wisdom and for life.

So what have I to do with them?
And what have I to do with this?
And what have I to do with you?
And what have I to do with anything at all?

Not now. Not now. Not now.

“His mother said to the servants, ‘Do whatever he tells you.'” – John 2:5

All right. Just… right. Just grab some buckets there
and fill those jars. Yes, those, The biggest ones.
All six. I hope they’ve got some water in them
or this part will take all day.

They’re filled? All right. Now dip
a pitcher in, and tell the steward that
there’s wine to serve again, and plenty
for the day to run into the night.

And woman – mother – can I have the time
I need to ask and answer who I am,
John’s “Lamb of God”? I swear by all that’s holy,
if I do not get that time, I will…

I will…

Well. Let’s just say that tables are gonna fly.

A poem/prayer based on John 2:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is The Wedding at Cana by Giuseppe Maria Crespi (ca. 1686) – https://www.artic.edu/artworks/2166, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=74197382.

“Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying…” – Luke 3:21

Rise from the water,
streaming droplets
patter in the stream.

Dust of travel swirls
in ochre ribbons
carried in the current.

Shivers in the sun
from unseen water
leaping from the skin.

Toes gripping at the mud,
legs straining at the bank,
emerging with a tiny slip.

Though newly washed,
the feet once more
wear soil on their soles:

The river silt,
the muddy bank,
the wind-blown dust.

Within a heartbeat
gritty sand alights,
defying wash and washer.

The tunic settles on
the dampened, dirt-streaked
skin, applying sediment anew.

A moment and the bather
is no longer clean, and
we wonder at the bathing’s purpose,

For what repentance
did the bather bring,
and what forgiveness need?

But look: the newly washed
re-sandaled takes another way,
into the wilderness.

A baptism of cleaning?
Not so much. But of direction?
Jesus chose the blessed way.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 3:15-17, 21-22, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, First Sunday after the Epiphany, the Baptism of Christ.

The image is Baptism of Christ by Mesrop of Khizan, active 1605-1651. Image from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=56064 [retrieved January 5, 2022]. Original source: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mesrop_of_Khizan_(Armenian,_active_1605_-_1651)_-_The_Baptism_of_Christ_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg.

After three days they found him in the temple, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. And all who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers. When his parents saw him they were astonished; and his mother said to him, “Child, why have you treated us like this? Look, your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.” – Luke 2:46-48

One day lost. He’s with Uncle. Or Auntie’s taken charge.

Two days lost. One day outward, one day back,
and no way to decrease the time. Messengers
from Marathon we’re not.

Three days now. Scour the inn, the streets
around the inn, the streets around the streets.
“Come child, have you seen my child today?
Or yesterday? Come child, speak quickly now!
If you do not, I must find one who knows.”

“He wouldn’t, would he?” “Oh, I think he would.”
The Temple. Right. Of all the places. Yes, he would.
Too tired to race, we clamber up the rising streets,
to gain the shadow of the outer courts,
the bustle of the moneychangers, cooing of
the doves, the lowing from the cattle stalls.

Around a corner, round a corner, take this bend.
We’d ask a guard, but visitors from Galilee
might get an answer from a backhand slap,
or worse, we’d get our son arrested.

The teachers and the scribes assemble in
these knots of deep discussion, picking at
the tangle of the faithful life, unbraiding it
to see if might be new woven into
tapestry, or if we make new knots
unweaving what was woven once.

Ah, there! We hear the piping voice, not
a grey-capped head, but a headstrong boy.
We stride, relieved, but fear’s receding wave
has left revealed parental wrath.
“Now, child,” (don’t jostle the Great Men)
“How could you do this thing to us?”

And he, still thinking like a scholar and a scribe,
returns a question to the question –
a tactic he will anger many people with some day –
“Where did you think I’d be but in my Father’s house?”

Quick glances pass between us, with a common thought,
a memory of angel’s promises,
of ragged shepherds claiming to have heard a song,
and marveling to this child in his feeding trough,
a memory of aged sages praising him
in this same temple all those years ago.

Well. First, we thought he’d be with us.
And then we thought he’d be with relatives
who’d come with us to celebrate the Passover.
And then we thought he’d still be at the inn
where we had stayed, or with the children of
the neighborhood, or not too far away.

And, child, if you ask, “Where would I be
but in my Father’s house?” then I shall ask
(and see, you’re not the only one
to answer questions with a question), “Son,
what is your Father’s house? Does God
live in this Temple, shining though it does,
with prayers and incense rising in the air?
Oh, no, your Father’s house is wider than
the world. Your parents find no clue
to finding you by knowing you are in
‘your Father’s house.'”

But we are too distressed with fading fear
and overwhelming joy to say such things.
We murmur “Thank you,” to the smiling scribes
and gather up our budding scholar in
our arms. Once more we’ll take the road
to Nazareth and home, and treasure what
we’ve heard within our hearts.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 2:41-52, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, First Sunday after Christmas.

The image is Jesus retrouvé dans le temple (Jesus Found in the Temple) by James Tissot (between 1886 & 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2007, 00.159.41_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10195808.