“[Jesus] said to them, ‘Go and tell that fox for me…'” – Luke 13:32
Many years ago and many miles hence, I’d follow the gravel track that ran between the cemetery’s graves, and out onto the trails that curved their way throughout the woods of southern Maine.
Before I’d reach the trails themselves, a grassy field rose up, just slightly, to a mound, and that was where the foxes had their den. I’d see the vixen guarding, and I’d grip the dog’s leash tight.
I’m sorry, foxes, that in another time and many miles hence, a prophet spat your species as an epithet, describing a cruel monarch who had threatened him. His deed was none of yours.
I’m sorry we dehumanize each other by insulting other species, as if they, if you, with your behavior matched the cruelty of a tyrant. Your prey dies for food. Our prey dies for pride.
I’m sorry, fox, and wolf, and pig, and bear, and vulture, too. The greed and violence we lay on you is ours, and ours alone. And so, I painfully write: “Go tell that human.”
A poem/prayer based on Luke 13:31-35, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday in Lent.
Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.'” – Luke 4:9-11
Forgive me if I laugh, deceiver. You may see a hint of smirk, I fear, upon my face. You ask me to jump down from this great height and let the angels catch me in the fall. What irony! Descending brings no trembling to me. Falling here is easier than rising, rising first upon a tortured torturer’s stake, rising second from a grave designed to hold me down. The angels then will watch and weep to see humanity’s malignity. Then, truly, they will catch my soul. Will catch it, heal it, lift it, raise it to heights greater far than these. Forgive me if I laugh, deceiver. You are nothing but a noisy gong, a clanging cymbal, knowing naught of human life, its rise and fall.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 4:1-13, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, First Sunday in Lent.
“[A man from the crowd shouted,] ‘I begged your disciples to cast [the spirit] out, but they could not.’ Jesus answered, ‘You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?'” – Luke 9:40-41
You left us, Jesus, you know you did. You left us watching as you climbed the mount with Peter, James, and John – that trio Andrew calls “the Trinity” (and thinks he’s funny).
Now while you all were gone, I think it’s fair to say, all hell broke loose down here. I’m glad you got and took the time to pray – you needed it for sure – but man! The crowds.
The crowds formed up and would not go away. Some wanted bread, like when you fed so many. Some wanted learning (or they said they did). And many wanted healing from their pains and ills.
We couldn’t cope. We couldn’t manage. Or, at least, we didn’t in the moment. We had done so well before! Going through the villages and curing diseases everywhere we went. But…
But not this time. This time our weariness prevailed. This time our tiny mustard seeds of faith had failed. This time our envy – why weren’t we a part of Andrew’s Holy Trinity? – sat upon our souls.
I’m glad you’re back, you and the Trinity, but secretly I wonder now if I am really one of yours, or if you’ve left the nine abandoned for the three. Your words imply you’ve borne us long enough.
So, Jesus, in the hope that you love more than three… So, Jesus, in the hope that you love more than twelve… So, Jesus, in the hope that you love me… I follow still, and swallow bitter tears.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 9:28-43a, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Transfiguration Sunday.
[Jesus said,] “But woe to you who are rich… who are full now… who are laughing now… when all speak well of you…” – Luke 6:24-26, excerpted
Oh, thank you, Jesus, for those comforting words!
“Blessed are the poor.” Did you forget “in spirit”?
“Blessed are the hungry.” “For righteousness,” you mean.
“Blessed are those who weep.” Didn’t you mean, “those who mourn”?
“Blessed are you when people hate you.” Isn’t it amazing, Jesus, that people could hate me?
Wait. What?
You have more to say? Oh, I don’t like that. Oh, no.
“Woe to the rich”? They seem pleased with their consolation.
“Woe to those who are full”? Well, sure they’ll be hungry again. And filled again, I’m sure.
“Woe to those who laugh”? Honestly, don’t we need more laughter in this world?
“Woe to you when all speak well of you”? Oh, that one stings. I want to be remembered well, and even honored, for…
Helping the poor gain the realm of God. Helping the hungry be filled. Helping the weeping find comfort. Amplifying the silenced voices.
Wait. What?
A poem/prayer based on Luke 6:17-26, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany.
The image is Blessed Are Those by Hochhalter, Cara B., from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=59299 [retrieved February 8, 2022]. Original source: Cara B. Hochhalter, A Challenging Peace in the Life and Stories of Jesus, 2019.
“…They caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break.” – Luke 5:6b
“When they had brought their boats to shore, they left everything and followed him.” – Luke 5:11
“What the…? The net is full of fish!”
“How can it be? We fished all night.”
We both avoided looking at the Teacher/Healer sitting in the boat. He’d probably be smiling. We knew that he’d be smiling. He’d probably start laughing if we saw his face.
“Clap on that line and heave!“
“I’m heaving, Simon! But we’re dragging the gunwale under!”
“We’ve got to get the fish into the boat!”
“Do we need to bring the water in as well?”
Oh, now he’s laughing. He’s ankle-deep in water and he’s laughing.
“James! John! Come help!”
“Are you crazy, Simon? They’ll laugh, too.”
“They can do all the laughing they like as long as they take some of the weight.”
They laughed, for sure, but they ran their boat into the water fast, and pulled like racers to our swamping craft.
“Hold on!”
“I’m holding! It’s not helping!”
They came alongside. The Teacher, laughing, tossed a line to them from the overflowing net.
“Haul away!”
“We’re hauling, Simon!”
“We’re hauling ourselves into the lake!”
We paused, panting, and considered our predicament. We hadn’t raised a single fish above the gunwale. Instead, the fish had hauled our gunwales down into the the waves. The water chuckled back and forth from stem to stern.
“James, take hold. John, take the oars. We’ll row back to the shore and deal with the net and the fish there.”
“Got it, Simon!”
“Andrew, row!”
I rowed. The Teacher’s mirth subsided, mercifully. James and John giggled between gasps. Simon’s arms could have been carved of stone. He might have modeled for a Greek sculptor interested in those ligaments and veins. I rowed, and each stroke carried us a fraction of what it should, dragged back by that overflowing catch of fish.
The net caught first, its bottom still beneath the keels. The boats grounded further out than we had liked, semi-swamped as they were. Simon shouted directions I can’t remember to roll the net’s silvery burden toward the shore. Eventually, the net and its wriggling contents rested on solid ground, except for those fish that had flung themselves back into the waves, where we, exhausted, let them go.
“Fear not,” the Teacher said. “I’ve got some other fishing for you to do.”
Simon, James, and John in bafflement stepped toward him. But… someone had to deal with all the fish, and clean the nets, and bail the boats.
“Go on. I’ll tend to this. Don’t worry.
“I’ll catch up.”
A story based on Luke 5:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany.
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.
“When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him…” – Matthew 2:3
One year since some deluded, some deluding, some misinformed, some misanthropic stormed the halls of Congress, to retain a would-be Herod on his throne,
Revealing in an afternoon of rage the violence they credited to others, the hollowness of civic virtues claimed, the eagerness to claim the lie as truth, to curse the truth.
The rising of tide of wrath withdrew as evening – came in face of force – so legislators came once more to count the votes, and as they did, the injured sought relief, the grieving comfort.
King Herod missed his mark. The child he sought escaped, though wailing rose in Ramah where Rachel wept uncomforted. His rising tide of wrath withdrew though unfulfilled, without success.
Would Herod be assured to know his work was finished near Jerusalem’s height by Pontius Pilate after thirty years had passed? Did his corpse-teeth grin to hear the soft moan, “It is finished”?
Is our Epiphany to be that Herods rise, and Pilates rise, as tides of poison circling the globe? Oh, might see once more the One beset by violence, who died, indeed – and rose.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 2:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Epiphany of the Lord.
“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.
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