I didn’t want a divorce but I got one, Jesus. A broken relationship handed to a judge. No prison, but I’ve never been released.
So many gifts I’ve laid before your altar never certain whether there was someone I had hurt. But no, I lie. There was always someone whether I knew or not.
To reconcile, though – ah, there’s the rub. For now I’ll ask “On whose terms, precisely, Jesus? I have my injuries, my hurts. Who’ll make their peace with me? Who’ll listen to my terms?”
Don’t say it, Jesus. I know just what you’ll say to such a question; you’ve no need to say, “My terms.” Oh, go ahead. I’ll wait. Just say it… Oh. You did.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 5:21-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year A, Sixth Sunday after Epiphany.
You can stop right there, Jesus, after beatitude/blessing/makarios (Hey! I can pray in Greek!) the first. You know as well as I the poverty of my spirit.
No mustard seeds to see, no pearls beyond appraisal, no fields a-hundred-fold to view for you. Just sighs and bluster nearly equal there.
So you might want to think again about this notion you would make the realm of heaven mine. I can’t conceive of an idea much worse despite the virtues of the thinker.
For you to give the realm of God to me is just as ludicrous as if you gave the keys of heaven to a fisherman named, “Rock.”
Oh. That’s right. You did.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 5:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday after Epiphany.
In the manger of Bethlehem, the infant sleeps. On the Judean hillsides, the shepherds seek their flock. Which of the parents dozes? The father? The mother? Neither one? Both? Love made flesh, power made weak, Majesty made lowly, will soon awake in tears, Seeking the warmth of skin and blood and milk.
Let that infant grow within our hearts. Let that love take form within our purpose. Let that mercy take shape in what we make. Let that peace enfold those we embrace. Let that grace shine forth just like that star: Let the work of Christmas begin in me. Let the work of Christmas begin in us.
A poem inspired in part by Luke 2 and in part by “The Work of Christmas” Howard Thurman. This poem was written for the Christmas Eve meditation of December 24, 2019, at Church of the Holy Cross UCC, Hilo, Hawai’i.
“He promised me the Son of God, the angel did,” she murmured to the sweating, focused midwife. “Promise anything they will,” she answered, not noticing her charge had spoken with an angel. “Now push!” she cried. “And push again!” For in the cries of birth what angel could be heard?
At length the growls and the gasping cease, though night remains unblessed by silence. No. “The Savior has good lungs,” the watching Joseph notes and winces at his piercing tones, distressed by all this labor and this hunger and this cold, now swiftly stifled at the weary Mary’s breast.
“The angel promised me a Savior,” now she sighs as Son of God tries once and twice and squalls, frustrated, not to grasp the nourishment he seeks. She gasps, adjusts the infant’s head by order of the midwife, sighs. At last. The slurping sounds distract her as the midwife mops away.
“Angels, now,” the midwife sighs. “There’s all too few of them.” She gazes at the wincing man, wonders if this “angel” hides a demon, decides to take the mother’s word. “Come, angel. Pile up the straw behind your wife. He’ll nurse much better once her back is straighter.” “I’m not an angel,” says the man, redundantly. She knows.
“He promised me the Son of God.” Now Mary’s eyes arrest the midwife’s gaze. “Of course he did, my love,” she coos, finishes the cleaning, readjusts her gown. “They’re all the Child of God, you know, and this one is for you.” “Oh, no,” the mother says, as flatly as a waveless sea. “This One is for us all.”
A meager coin in hand, the midwife steps into the night. Another one convinced their baby is the Promised One, she thinks. What sorrow for his mother if he follows that drear road! She draws aside to let a band of grimy men pass by. One asks about a baby in a manger, “So the angel said.” She watches as they turn into the stable. Now: she wonders.
A poem based on Luke 2:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year A, Christmas Eve.
13th century manuscript illustration of picking cherries.
“When [Jesus’] mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.” – Matthew 1:18b
It’s all very well for me, you know. He gave the plot away, the evangelist did, for all his readers to know what Joseph could not: Mary told the truth.
I feel no gut-wrenched shock, no rising fire, no heart-destroying grief and pain to close my mind against the simple fact that Mary told the truth.
“Hey, Joseph,” I whisper over the centuries, “What need of angels visiting in dreams if you could only hold your faith and trust that Mary told the truth?”
What need, indeed? Except that I rely far more upon my keen discernment of the world’s condition. It took Matthew to assure me that Mary told the truth.
Officiously I do declare that voices often silenced – women, children, refugees – should be attended, but: would I have trusted Mary told the truth?
For love, perhaps. For faith, perhaps. For trust, perhaps. For God, perhaps. For obeisance of a cherry, then: Mary told the truth.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 1:18-25, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday of Advent.
All I want for your birthday, Jesus, is your mother’s dream. To see the lowly raised up high, the proud confused, dispersed. To see the drunk with power deposed, the hungry without hunger any more.
All I want for your birthday, Jesus, is the prophet’s dream. A desert blooming beneath the sun, a rainbow soaring above the sand, the rocks a-blossom, the weeds a-fruit, the shaken knees no longer afraid.
All I want for your birthday, Jesus, is to believe in ancient dreams. To trust in the promise, trust in the promises, trust in assurances repeated, repeated to Mary, through Mary, to me, through me.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 1:46b-55 and Isaiah 35:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary alternate reading and first reading for Year A, Third Sunday of Advent.
The image is The Visitation by Giotto di Bondone (1310s), found in the lower church of Saint Francis in Assisi, Italy – Web Gallery of Art: Image Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12219735.
Were I to descend to the riverside, John, fiery prophet, baptizing fiercely, were I to descend to seek holy forgiveness: What would you call me? A viper? A snake? What would you call me? A coward? A hoax? What would you call me? Irrelevant? Dull? What would you call me, religious authority…
And would I descend to the riverside, John, fiery prophet, baptizing fiercely, would I dare to seek holy forgiveness of you: Not knowing if you would bring shame to my name. Not knowing if you would despise my remorse. Not knowing if you would discount my devotion. Not knowing how deeply you see in my soul…
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 3:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year A, Second Sunday of Advent.
The image is a 19th century wood carving of John the Baptist preaching at the riverside in the Church of the Assumption and St Nicholas, Etchingham, England. Photo by Poliphilo – Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=80795653.
ordainedgeek 
