Poems

Jesus Wept

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

Child and Tear croppedAuthor’s note: This poem was written as part of a sermon called “When Jesus Wept” preached on April 2, 2017, at Church of the Holy Cross UCC in Hilo, Hawai’i.

Tears, come, and make your muddy traces
In the dust that yet adheres upon the visage
Of the Savior. Tears, come, as dust-caked voice
With muted tones inquires where he’s laid.
Tears, come, to join those springing from the eyes
Of friends most dear and of their comforters.
Tears, come, to stain the face of God.

Tears, come, because they do not understand.
Tears, come, because they fear when they need not.
Tears, come, because a few among them,
In just a little time,
May howl for your death.
Tears, come, because the road was long,
The body weary, spirit drained,
And who on Earth could hold themselves from weeping
In this sad community of tears?

Tears, come, because these are the depths of grief.
Tears, come, because the one you loved is gone.
Tears, come, because the resurrection has not happened yet,
Not the resurrection of the final day,
Nor the resurrection of today.

Tears, come, because we go to stand outside a tomb.
Tears, come, because we comprehend the paths of time.
Tears, come, because the grave of Lazarus,
Though opened, opens yet another tomb,
And they will carry you where you wish not to go.

Tears, come to testify to love.
Tears, come in solidarity with grief.
Tears, come to gather power for
A glorious resurrection.
Tears, come to anoint thee
For betrayal, for the trial,
For the torture, for the death,
For the tomb ahead.

Tears, come to Jesus’ eyes
And bathe his weary cheeks
With love, with grace, with awe.

Photo credit: The image is cropped from a photo by Giorgio Montersino, used by permission under Creative Commons license.

Inviting Questions

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

Duccio_di_Buoninsegna_-_Christ_and_the_Samaritan_Woman_-_Google_Art_Project

What would you ask of us, O Jesus, by
Our well of Jacob? How would you secure
Our trust, invite our glance to catch your eye,
Persuade us of your power by flesh obscure?

We keep the treasures of our souls at depths
Much like a well’s, and hide them even from
Ourselves. The treasures! Though our halting steps
You know from rising dawn to setting sun.

What may we ask of you, O Jesus, by
Our well of Jacob? What great secrets tease
From you, who’d see our downcast spirits fly
From mountain to the ever-rolling seas.

With questions let us comprehend your grace
That others may in you find, too, their place.

This poem was written for a sermon of the same title to be preached on March 19, 2017. As it happens, it didn’t make it into the sermon after all.

The image is “Christ and the Samaritan Woman” by Duccio di Buoninsegna, painted ca. 1311.

When the Tempter Quotes Scripture

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

tentaciones_de_cristo_botticelliThis poem was written as part of a sermon (of the same title) delivered at Church of the Holy Cross UCC in Hilo, Hawai’i, on March 5, 2017.

Did a quaking pulse accompany
You to the Temple’s zenith, Jesus?
With the Tempter?
Did your sandals slip or grip the cedar of the ridge?
Did your mortal soul take hold, just for a moment,
To protest:
“Tempter, you have lifted me too high”?

Ah, now you hear the words of sweet assurance:
“On their hands the messengers of God
Will bear you up,
No bruise will mar your angel-guarded feet
As gently they regain the comfort
Of the ground.”

Across the ages, words of Psalmist’s faith.
And did they challenge You to step, to leap,
To dive toward ground?
For just a moment, did you fail to see
The test it posed to God, and see instead a test
Of your own faith?

We know your story’s ending, Jesus,
How you deflected Tempter’s texts
And Tempter’s taunts
How you refused to put God to the test,
How you refused the bread and realms which were
In truth, your own.

We know this story’s end was the beginning,
Taking your unbruised feet to Galilee,
Samaria,
Jerusalem and Bethany and to the courts of Pilate
Where those feet were bruised and pierced by nails
For love
Of
Us.

Dust Prayer

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

kileaua-iki-sand-20161010“Remember you are dust, and to dust you will return.”

I’m not complaining, God, but I don’t feel like dust.
Sensations far more liquid dominate my body.
Perspiration trickles in the hollows of my spine.
I cannot count the instances of swallowing saliva.
I cannot count the welling tears of sadness,
Or joy, or simply yawning (wetly) at the close of day.
No, I don’t feel like dust. Like mud, perhaps, or clay
Unfired,
Unglazed,
Unfinished,
Unrefined.

“Remember you are dust, and to dust you will return.”

Liquid, then, or solid;
Dust and ashes, then, or dripping clay,
On this day of dust and ashes I recall
That none of this accreted star-stuff of my frame
Assembled to my own design or plan.
Yes, even though I eat and drink, sustaining skin and bone,
I do not, need not, supervise the flowing pathways
Which disperse the building blocks of me
To make
Me
Me.

Yes, I am dust, Your dust, O God:
Fearfully,
And wonderfully,
(And humbly)
Made.

Amen.

If We Could Love the Ocean

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

IMG_1212How can we love the ocean?
Its friendly waves deceive;
They rise to overturn and overthrow.
Its cooling depths will smother;
Its countless fathoms crush.
Its gentle surface warmth rises up
In thickening clouds
Which rage in rain and tempest.
So unlike us – or not so unalike?
If we could love each other,
Then we might love the ocean.
If we could love the ocean,
Perhaps we’d love ourselves.

The Wonders of the Sea

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

789C9037-A767-46EA-AD89-F54A843249C1The wonders of the sea are grand
The flowing wave which flings its diamond spray
Into the air, the glistening schools of fish,
The massive dignity of whales serenely swimming.

The wonders of the sea are tiny
A garden blooms within each pearl of water
And the ripples barely dampening the rocks along the shore
Glint merrily when lightly kissed by sunbeams.

This poem was written for a sermon on Ocean Sunday (Sept. 4, 2016): “Waves of Grace Command the Morning.”

I Wish…

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

IMG_1082I wish I had words to express my sorrow.
I do not.

I wish I had words to express my anger.
I do not.

I wish I had words to persuade the world.
I do not.

Only tears gathering at the corners of my eyes,
Tears insufficient to cleanse the bloodied shirts
Which could not shield the ebon bodies
Desecrated by lead.

I wish I had words to speak the bullets back to the chamber,
The fingers off of the triggers,
The guns back into the holsters,
The fear out of the hearts,
The aggression out of the speech.
I do not.

I wish I had words so all the world would know
And act as if it knew
That #blacklivesmatter.

But I do not.

In anger and in sorrow at the deaths of Alton Sterling and Philandro Castile.

Say Their Names

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

Say their names.

It was Saturday night in Orlando.
The night was filled with dancing,
Music whirling bodies merrily about the floor,
Laughing with loved ones
In common sanctuary,
When Death arrived, spinning bullets
Striking spinning dancers to the stone.
Rainbow festival yielded to one color, crimson.
Their names, accented with the Spanish
Of Caribbean islands or of South
American towns, spill haltingly
From my awkward tongue,
Because my voice is choked
With tears.

Stanley Almodovar III, 23
Amanda Alvear, 25
Oscar A Aracena-Montero, 26
Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33
Antonio Davon Brown, 29
Darryl Roman Burt II, 29
Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28
Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25
Luis Daniel Conde, 39
Cory James Connell, 21
Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25
Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32
Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31
Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25
Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26
Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22
Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22
Paul Terrell Henry, 41
Frank Hernandez, 27
Miguel Angel Honorato, 30
Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40
Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19
Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30
Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25
Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32
Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21
Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49
Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25
Kimberly Morris, 37
Akyra Monet Murray, 18
Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20
Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25
Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36
Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32
Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35
Enrique L. Rios, Jr., 25
Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, 27
Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35
Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24
Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24
Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34
Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33
Martin Benitez Torres, 33
Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24
Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37
Luis S. Vielma, 22
Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50
Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37
Jerald Arthur Wright, 31

As their friends and families mourn their murders,
Say their names.

IMG_1066

This Man Demands

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

Bernardo_Strozzi_-_Prophet_Elijah_and_the_Widow_of_Sarepta_-_WGA21919One meal remains, just one
To comfort us, my son and I.
I search the barren ground,
Aching for rain,
To find the fuel to bake
That last pathetic cake
For our memorial feast.

And, of course, he comes to me
Asserting hospitality’s demands.
Some water (in a drought, no less!):
All right, the well provides
(How long, I ask, how long?).
But then, another call
For bread, that he may eat.

I have no bread, demanding man.
I am a corpse too stupid to stop walking.
I have the makings of one meal
To bring brief comfort
To my son and I
Before the pangs of hunger
Take our lives.

What matter if I feed this man?
Our fate is written; we are bound for death.
So, I suspect, is he,
Fool foreigner demanding bread.
One meal alone I’ll share.
Perhaps he’ll linger long enough
To watch me die.

Hospitality demands.
Our straight poverty demands.
Time of drought demands.
Arrogance demands.
Death’s imminence demands.
This man demands.
This man’s God…
Gives.

Based on 1 Kings 17:8-16

 

A Sliver of Shale

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment
A sliver of shale and Johann Sebastian Bach

A sliver of shale and Johann Sebastian Bach

A sliver of shale
(at least, I think it’s shale),
A ceramic flower,
A vial of sand,
A thank-you plaque,
A pen which bears the likeness
Of Johann Sebastian Bach,
And coffee mugs which range
From “Failte (welcome)”
On to “Pastor”
With scarce a pause
At “Music Dude”;

Photos on the wall,
One hanging in a keychain:

These are
The tributaries
Of memory, O God.

May I ever feel the love
With which they passed
From others’ hands
To mine.

May I ever know the love
They represent
Is echoed, doubled,
Amplified a thousandfold
In You.

Amen.