I hurt you?
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to.
I won’t do that again.
Can I make it better?
I hurt you?
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to.
It wasn’t my intent,
so it doesn’t hurt you.
Shall I do it again?
I hurt you?
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to.
It wasn’t my intent,
but how can it hurt you?
This couldn’t hurt anyone.
I’ll do it again.
I hurt you?
Oh.
I can live with your pain.
I’ll do it again.
Photo by Eric Anderson.
Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. – Luke 12 32
Are you sure that’s a good idea?
I am not capable of caring for a country.
I am not capable of managing a county.
I am hardly capable of pastoring a church.
I am barely capable of caring for myself.
I have no talent for a Realm of God.
I have no plans to sell all my possessions.
I will give alms, but I will set my limits.
All my wallets suffer wear and tear;
do You have storage space in Paradise for me?
See my treasure? There’s my heart
(as well You know).
“Dressed for action”? Sure, that happens,
eventually, on working days.
On my day off the risk is Yours to find
bewhiskered and unkempt Your servant.
I cannot claim to be alert or ready.
At least I am aware of this:
There is no point in waiting on a day.
There is no point in claiming, “You will come.”
Because You have already come.
Ready (or not) as I (or we) may be:
You’re here.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 12:32-40, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year C, Proper 14.
Photo by Eric Anderson.
My heart recoils within me; my compassion grows warm and tender.
– Hosea 11:8
What do I hear on the wind?
Is it the sighing of a dove?
Or the sighing of a deity
watching warmly, tenderly
as the Creator’s children stray?
What do I hear in the trees?
Is it resilience in motion?
Or the groans of a deity
swaying in unison
with the Earth’s moaning?
What do I hear on the waves?
Is it the rhythm of ocean?
Or the sobs of a deity
embracing the suffering
of all They have made?
What do I hear in the cosmos?
Is it the cry of expansion?
Or the wrath of a deity
frustrated with evil
beyond all endurance?
What do I hear in the Earth?
Is it the silence of affection?
Or a deity’s anger
cooling, reforming,
bearing us upon forgiveness?
What do I hear?
A poem/prayer based on Hosea 11:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary alternate first reading for Year C, Proper 13.
The image of Hosea comes from the Menologion of Basileiou, an 11th century illuminated Byzantine manuscript. Artist unknown – http://digi.vatlib.it/view/MSS_Vat.gr.1613/0141?sid=a7590df9b8aca22111c8359533716419&zoomlevel=4, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20645325.
[Jesus] said to them, “When you pray, say:…
And forgive us our sins,
for we ourselves forgive
everyone indebted to us.”
– Luke 11:2a, 4a
Teach me to pray, Jesus.
Teach me to pray to the One in Heaven.
Teach me to pray to the Hallowed Name.
Teach me to pray for a Peaceable Realm.
Teach me to pray for the Needs of Today.
Teach me to pray that You will Forgive.
Qualified forgiveness, of course.
It would hardly be right
if All and Sundry received forgiveness.
So forgive me only if…
Wait.
What?
If I forgive?
You have got to be joking.
Let’s take a good look at this.
Shouldn’t it be God, or shouldn’t it be You,
responsible for forgiveness here?
Can’t you make the choice?
Can’t you make the call?
Aren’t you far more dependable than I?
When you told bold Cephas
that he held the keys to heaven and hell,
did you tell him they were the keys to his own?
That grace received depends on grace extended?
Did you?
Good God, Jesus, don’t give those keys to me.
Seriously, don’t give those keys to me.
Damn it.
What’s that jingling noise?
A poem/prayer based on Luke 11:1-13, the Revised Common Lectionary alternate first reading for Year C, Proper 12.
The picture shows the Lord’s Prayer in two languages – Tahitian and Japanese – at the Church of the Pater Noster on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem. Photo by Ori~ – Own work, Attribution, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19733724
O Jesus, I can hear
the clatter of the crockery,
the puffing of the bellows,
the swirling of the aprons.
O Jesus, I can hear
the half-resentful voice
my sister raised to you;
I hear her dripping sweat.
And Jesus, I can hear the wailing
children, crying refugees,
groaning sufferers, weeping
hungry seekers after justice.
And Jesus, I can hear the silence:
Silence of the powerful.
Silence of the privileged.
Silence of the unjust judges.
What I strain to hear, sweet Jesus,
is your voice. I long to hear
the words of comfort, words of
challenge, words of love.
I long to hear the words
that will unbreak my heart
and melt it into Martha’s,
love showering in tears.
Hold me, Martha, as we weep
together for these words of hope.
I’ll tune my ears to hear your voice
declare your faith in life renewed.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 10:38-42, the Revised Common Lectionary alternate first reading for Year C, Proper 11.
The image is Russian; I regret that I cannot translate the attribution that follows: By Владимир Шелгунов – фотографии переданы представителем ИППО, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=33504499
Worried and distracted
by many things?
O, Jesus, if you knew!
Yes, if you only knew!
It’s not the bread and cookies
or the trays of snacks,
nor the fraying linens
or the dusty sills:
It’s the wailing children, Jesus.
It’s the hopeless refugees.
It’s the pain-wracked sufferers.
It’s the justice-denied and hungry.
It’s the comfortable oppressors.
It’s their eager lackeys.
It’s the ones determined
that they will not see injustice.
Worried and distracted
by many things?
O Jesus, if you knew!
But then, you did; you knew.
Breads and cakes forsaken,
I will shed my tears upon your feet.
How will we dry the moisture
lavished there from streaming eyes?
Hold me, Mary, as we weep
together for the long-awaited reign of God.
Unbind your hair, to wipe away
betraying symbols of our grief.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 10:38-42, the Revised Common Lectionary alternate first reading for Year C, Proper 11.
The image is Christ in the House of Martha and Mary, by Johannes Vermeer. Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21865869
Perhaps the music welled up from the deepest
liquid heart of Earth, a thudding planetary beat.
Perhaps the music rained down from the clouds,
a pitter-patter drumming, flowing sound.
Perhaps the music swelled as oceans kept the time,
perhaps the music eddied with the whirling cyclones,
perhaps the music sailed across the universe
upon the wings of light: to make the churches dance.
A storefront plate glass window was the first
to “step onto the floor,” reflections shifting, mazing,
scribing curves on the straight sides of the decal cross,
swaying side to side and back and forth.
On village greens and at the edge of prairies,
along the streets and in the city centers,
clapboards hummed as steeples bowed,
copper clappers tapping as they circled.
Stained glass sparkled, catching light, returning it
in new directions. Saints and prophets twisted
gracefully, plaster no longer rigid, marble arms
extending, reaching, drawing near, relaxed.
Granite groaned to twist and turn, towers bowing.
Magen David whirled. Crosses leapt. Buddhas bowed.
Tabernacles, altars, tables, all their leggy footwork pounded.
Minarets described a stately pirouette.
In praise of all creation, we could watch.
In praise of holy and celestial music, we could watch.
In praise of all this Goodness, we could watch:
To see the sanctuaries dance.
This poem emerged from work on a UCC Daily Devotional, one about individual people dancing for the joy of God’s love. It placed an image in my head, however, of the Church dancing – or at least of church buildings dancing.
Photo of Church of the Holy Cross UCC in Hilo, Hawai’i, by Eric Anderson.
“King’s sanctuary,” Amaziah said:
“A temple of the kingdom.”
“I am no prophet,” Amos returned.
“I am a herdsman, summoned to speak.”
Which is to say, O Blessed One:
“I am Yours. This place is Yours.
“This house is Yours. This voice is Yours.
Temple, sanctuary: these are Yours.”
And I, even I, for what it’s worth:
I, too, am Yours.
A poem/prayer based on Amos 7:7-17, the Revised Common Lectionary alternate first reading for Year C, Proper 10.
The image is a depiction of the prophet Amos in an 18th century Russian Orthodox icon, found in the Kizhi Monastery. Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3232602
“From the heights I call; will you listen? No?
Beside the road I call; will you listen? No?
“By the crossroad I call; will you listen? No?
Beside the gate I call; will you listen? No?
“Then at the entrance to the portals I cry out:
‘Be wise! Learn! Love righteousness! Grow!’
“Will you listen?
“No?”
Though she should delight
in God’s inhabited world:
Wisdom weeps.
A poem/prayer based on Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31, the Revised Common Lectionary first reading for Year C, Trinity Sunday.
Photo of “Gate of Wisdom” by Chong Fat – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5193511.
They called it, “an idle tale,”
these Followers of the Way,
these messengers of the Messiah,
these pillars of the Church.
They called it, “an idle tale,”
when Joanna and Mary and I
proclaimed the Word of the LORD
declared to us by angels.
Shall I call it, “an idle tale,”
when wind and fire and dancing tongues
awakened all these pillars
to their urgent calling?
Shall I call it, “an idle tale,”
when Simon affirms that
daughters prophecy – though he
did not believe our word?
I will not blame them for their “idle tale,”
but neither will I wait until
the Spirit’s fire dims and they
ignore the women once again.
A poem/prayer based on 2:1-21, the Revised Common Lectionary first reading for Year C, Pentecost Sunday. The poem also refers to Luke 24:1-12.
It comes from my wonder that Mary Magdalene is not mentioned the chronicles of the Early Church after Jesus’ resurrection.
The image is a panel of a stained glass window depicting the crucifixion of Jesus at the Eglise abbatiale Sainte-Walburge, Walbourg, France.
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