“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” – John 1:1
“For we observed his star at its rising…” – Matthew 2:2
Star-Creator discovered beneath a star, Planet-Former found over the curve of Earth, Human-Shaper nurtured in the womb of Mary, All-Embracer wrapped in mother’s tears:
Shine upon us.
Monarch-Ruler fleeing from a king, Word-Incarnate lacking human speech, Life-Light needing one to testify, All-Knowing yet unknown:
Shine upon us.
Spirit-Eternal in human flesh, Glory-Unbounded with a weary face, Life-Everlasting corpse upon a cross, Love-Transcendent unrecognized in a garden:
Shine upon us.
A poem/prayer based on John 1:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday after Christmas, and Matthew 2:1-12, the RCL Gospel Reading for Epiphany.
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.
The fear of Joseph, who had failed to find a shelter proper for the birth.
The fear of Mary, who had never birthed a child before, nor known her body to take charge.
The fear of neighbors, who awoke to sounds of labor echoing.
The fear of stable owner, wondering if father’s stormy brow meant violence.
The fear of midwife, all experienced with healthy births – and infant deaths.
The fear of all, when mother’s screams went silent, and the universe was hushed.
The fear of mother, marveling to hold a newborn who would not be comforted.
The fear of angels, asking if a band of shepherds was their audience.
The fear of shepherds, so the messenger said first, “O do not be afraid.”
The fear of singers in the heavens’ choir, lest heaven’s song lack harmony.
The fear of watchmen at the gate, confronted by the shepherd band.
The fear of seekers for the infant Christ, uncertain where to find the stable bed.
The fear of parents, shocked to see the hillsides’ wanderers had come.
The fear of parents, hearing angels’ words, which would the fear of monarchs generate.
The fear of monarchs, which would bring no celebration, only tears like rain.
The fear of sleeping child. Who can know what infants know? And who can say what infant Jesus knew of dusty days and stormy seas and quiet conversations by the water’s edge, of questions over meals and by a paralytic’s cot and in the shadows of the night, of lepers leaping thanks unspoken save for one, of baptism and Satan’s snares and stories told and proverbs taught and so much more, and so much more, all leading to an agonizing cross and to a tear-swept joyful dawn.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 2:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Nativity of the Lord, Proper I.
In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. – Luke 1:39-40
In those days, Luke? Say rather: “After her imagined life had been upset by visitation of an angel, Mary saw the pretenses of life too well, her friends and loved ones, neighbors, too, persisting in a sad semblance of ‘normal’ when the love of God was breaking in.
“She fled because her efforts to acquaint the villagers of Nazareth with blessing, with deliverance, were greeted with polite discount, with blank incomprehension, silent disbelief, and smirks that smack of shame and slander.
“She fled because she had no outlet for the wonder bottled up inside, no person who would recognize the glory. Who but one already bearer of a miracle would comprehend a miracle before her?
“So in those days she fled. When Mary stood upon the threshold of Elizabeth, received a wave of welcome, knew they shared in wonder, all the pain of others’ disbelief gave way, and in a flood of tears she praised magnificent reversal, pride dispersed, power humbled, humble lifted, hungry satisfied and wealthy leaving empty.
“For in the shared experience of grace, they built on love’s foundation, Mary and Elizabeth, to raise up faith and hope and joy that others would not see.”
Write that, Luke. It’s what you meant by, “In those days.”
A poem/prayer based on Luke 1:39-55, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Fourth Sunday of Advent.
John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance.” – Luke 3:7-8a
Lay it on us, John. We can take it. Here we are, this viper’s brood. Who warned us? You did. Here we stand to flee or rather, to repent. Lay it on us. What should be our fruits?
Say what? To share? To give an extra coat to someone who has none? To feed the hungry when we’ve eaten what we need?
OK. That’s fine. It’s not so hard at all. Now lay it on us, John. No punches pulled. We’re good.
Say what? Collect no more than what is owed? Do not defraud the customer or client?
I mean, okay, but really? That’s so simple. Childish, even. Lay it on us, John. Come on.
Say what? Do not extort by threats or accusation? Live on our wages, not on bullying?
But that’s too easy, John. It’s nothing more than we’ve been taught from infancy. Now lay it on us, John.
Say what? You’ve noticed how our closets bulge with clothes, our cabinets with food?
Say what? You’ve noticed how we set the prices just as high we can set?
Say what? You’ve noticed how so many threatened people find so little aid?
No, lay it on us, John. Ask us for something hard to do, because…
We’d really rather not do what is easy.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 3:7-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of Advent.
“n the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.” – Luke 3:1-2
“Excuse me, are you John son of Zechariah?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve got a delivery for you. Sign here.”
“What is it?”
“It says it is… let’s see… ‘The Word of God.'”
“Oh, no. I’m not accepting that. Take it back.”
“I can’t do that. It says it right here. ‘NO REFUSALS.’ It’s even in all capital letters.”
“What are you talking about? There’s no such thing as small letters in these days. Everything is capital letters.”
“It doesn’t matter. ‘NO REFUSALS.’ You have to accept it.”
“[Grumbling] I might have known this day would come. ‘Miracle baby,’ my parents said. That kind of thing always happens for a reason.”
“There’s an additional message for you here.”
“I suppose that’s marked ‘NO REFUSALS’ as well, huh?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Well, read it out. I’ve got my hands full of the Word of God here.”
“Okay. It says… Get yourself a camel’s hair outfit, move to the Jordan valley, and start washing people.”
“What?”
“Yep. That’s what it says. Camel’s hair, Jordan, washing.”
“Do I look like a camel’s hair kind of guy? I’m the son of a priest, for heaven’s sake.”
“Well, shouldn’t the washing and preaching be right up your alley?”
“Not in camel’s hair it’s not. Do you have any idea how much that itches?”
“Yes, which is why I’m not wearing it.”
“Good grief. What am I supposed to eat? Does it mention that?”
“Let’s see… locusts and wild honey.”
“I do not believe this.”
“‘NO REFUSALS.'”
“Right. Well. I guess I’ll look over this Word of God.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Anything else I can get for you before I leave? A thesaurus with synonyms for snake? Means of monarch-mollifying? A Messiah recognition kit? A dancing adolescent?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Yes, I know the last line is a pun.
Not precisely a poem and not precisely a prayer but still based on Luke 3:1-6, the Gospel lesson for Year C, Second Sunday of Advent.
Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near.” – Luke 21:29-31
I don’t give a fig for fig trees, Jesus. Tell me clearly what the future brings.
I know that changes in the wind forecast the rain, or sun, or clouds, or stormy blast that drowns or feeds or shields the fields, or lays them down in wind-swept rows.
I know that rumblings deep within the ground presage emergence of the fiery rock that ravages the things we’ve built and does what we cannot: make land.
And, yes, I know that human beings have a way of signaling the things they’ll do. I mean, sometimes they say it loud and clear and we, somehow, will not believe.
I even know that when I dare not say myself the compass point to which I’ll set my course, I’m pretty sure which ways I will not go, and that’s a good prediction where I will.
So it’s not ignorance of figs and leaves or strength of wind or human whim: it’s weariness, my LORD. The fig may speak; my spirit is too tired to hear its voice.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 21:25-36, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, First Sunday of Advent.
“If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting…” – John 18:36b
O Lord, a disingenuous remark, perhaps? There was some fighting in the garden when you were arrested, yes? When Malchus lost an ear, which you restored with just a touch.
It’s funny how nobody mentioned that before the Roman governor. It’s like the movie. “They cut off my ear!” “Your ear? Your ear is fine.” “Well. It got better.”
In the best taste? Well, no, perhaps. You told your old friend Peter to re-sheathe his sword, then he and they decamped while you were taken to the priests and then to Pilate.
Now, Pilate knew quite well just what to do with you, Messiah. Crush the serpent’s head; the rest will follow it to death. What need a trial for pretenders to Israel’s throne?
What need? The need for truth, of course, the truth that you defined Messiah unlike those before, or those to come. You refused to found your throne upon a frame of shattered bones.
Instead, you said, your reign’s foundation would be truth itself, and truth its sign, and truth its aim. To which the governor would scoff, attention gone, the bitter question, “What is truth?”
Another world you rule indeed, Messiah King, where those in power seek to rule in truth. In this our world – and Pilate’s too – the truth is clay to be reshaped as fits the day’s desire.
May we, unlike the governor who left the room, his question echoing unanswered, give the time and concentration to discern the truth. Truth’s Author waits for us to ask – and learn.
A poem/prayer based on John 18:33-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 29 (34), Reign of Christ Sunday.
“The LORD! His adversaries shall be shattered; the Most High will thunder in heaven.” – 1 Samuel 2:10a
Ah, Hannah, generous of you, to spread your thanks as broadly as a many-bristled brush, and not to concentrate upon the detail of your own distinctive celebration.
How dare we be so proud? We know that God has lifted up, and God has tumbled down the weary and the prosperous not once, but time and time again across the span of time?
Indeed, these days have found us humbled once again, at least we should be humbled now, discard vainglory’s claim to safety through the wonders of technology,
For all the care we take to trace disease, and all success to find the means to vaccinate the people, still the folly of humanity prevails.
Ah, Hannah! Pray for us, that this reversal might not bring us down to grovel in our pride, to weep at further graves, lament our lost communities and loved ones gone.
Yes, Hannah, pray for us, that this reversal might lay down our pride, so we can stand and raise each other up, to weep in joy that we discarded folly’s ways in time.
O help us hear, upon the flowing wind, the distant rumbles of salvation’s thunder, hope that peoples near and far may know God’s grace, and with their voices echo Hannah’s song.
A poem/prayer based on 1 Samuel 2:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Psalter Reading for Year B, Proper 28 (33).
The image is Anne, femme d’Elqana et mère de Samuel, priant (Hannah, Wife of Elkanah and Mother of Samuel, Praying) by Unknown author (10th century), found in the Psalter of Paris – Bibliothèque nationale de France (BNF). Cote : Grec 139, Folio 428v., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=14041273.
Note that both Jesus and the widow are in the background of the painting. The foreground features a religious official who resembles those Jesus described as liking to walk around in long robes and be greeted with respect.
“They devour widows’ houses…” – Mark 12:40a
“…But she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” – Mark 12:44b
So what was your expression, Jesus, when you called your friends to see the widow whose last coins had rattled down into the treasury collection?
Did you watch with soft, approving eyes, to see such faith, such generosity, such confidence of God’s aloha to relieve the crisis now at hand?
Or did your brow bear furrows of concern, of worry, for her poverty had now reached destitution, and her final meal had clinked into the box?
Or did you grind your teeth to witness on the Temple grounds the very thing of which you’d warned? For here a widow’s house had been consumed.
Oh, Jesus! Have you any teeth remaining in your jaws? Or do you lubricate their grinding with your tears? For still the widows bring their homes… and we devour.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 12:38-44, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 27 (32).
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