Poems

You Warned Us, John

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

John said to the crowds coming out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?” – Luke 3:7

Who warned us, John? You did.
We heard your words through others,
much as those you called “a brood of vipers” heard
your words through rapid rumor’s run.

We heard your warning through
the memories and tongues and pens
of those you had impressed with word,
with deed, with baptism, with righteousness.

We heard because they passed along
your warning that to wash with water would
not cleanse the soul, but full repentance, all
enacted, would receive the nod of God.

They came to hear themselves.
They came to learn how they might change.
They came to leave upon a road that might look like
the one on which they had arrived, but was a road made new.

They came. They heard. They washed.
They went away and told the tale.
More came. More heard. More washed. More told.
Soon one would come to wash though you would tell him, “No.”

You warned us, John, across the years.
But tell me, we who follow him whom you baptized,
have we been heedful of your warning? Do
we bear the fruits of righteousness?

I fear, old harsh-voiced friend,
that you would find us heedless of your words
despite our claim to follow Christ. I fear you’d rail
once more at broods of serpents writhing in the dust.

I fear it would not only be
the ones I judge as frauds,
or casual extortionists,
or simply selfish souls withholding all their wealth,

But also me, secure in my
self-righteousness, and satisfied
with my reputed rectitude.
What sins do I ignore, refuse to cleanse?

Shout on, old Baptist friend.
Across the years, through others’ words
I hear your call. Shout on, and by the grace of God
may I repent, and wash, and bear good fruit.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 3:7-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of Advent.

The image is John Preaching in the Desert, a mosaic in the series of the Life of John the Baptist in the Florence Baptistery, Florence, Italy (ca. 1225-1330). Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=41892069.

Stripped Down

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A painting showing a man with a long white beard in a prison cell holding a book and quill and looking at a sheathed sword.

“And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what really matters, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.” – Philippians 1:9-11

I am stripped down. I wait my fate.
What will it be? Will it be gain?
Will it be Christ? I will not choose,
except, of course, that I have chosen
by the words I’ve spoken,
by the things I’ve done.

I am stripped down.

I have been stripped of agency.
Another will decide my course.
I’ve lived in faith that God has set
my way, but set my way through me.
A crueler hand now rests upon the tiller
of my time. Does it grow short?

I am stripped down.

I struggle to bring influence,
to speak good news, for few
may hear me now. Is it hubris to
believe that they who hold me in
this place consider what I’ve said
and turn their souls toward Christ?

I am stripped down.

Thank God Epaphroditus has
recovered, though for him, like me,
to die is gain. For Jesus and for me
he’ll carry word to those I love
that… well, that I love them from the heart.
I am stripped down. What more to say?

Just that I love.

A poem/prayer based on Philippians 1:3-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Second Sunday of Advent.

The image is St. Paul in Prison by Rembrandt van Rijn (1627) – photo by anagoria, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27638749.

Aren’t You?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“[Jesus said,] Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory.” – Luke 21:27

I’m looking, Jesus.
I’m looking for those terrible disasters.
I’m looking for the sun-signs, moon-signs, star-signs.
Where is the earth distressed?
Where are the nations fuddled by the roaring of the seas?

I’m looking, Jesus,
and I’m finding all those terrible disasters.
The sun burns warmer on the sands than once it did.
Distressed, the earth would wrap itself in coolness,
water rising, inundating coastlines of both continents and islands.

I’m looking, Jesus:
where to find you?
The clouds still float along without your figure
stepping down to earth in glory and in power.
Where are you, Jesus, when the seas are salt with tears?

I’m looking, Jesus,
as disciples have been looking
for two thousand years, to see the reign of God
in light and thunderclaps and incense-scented wonder, but…
You’re just behind my shoulder, aren’t you?

A poem/prayer based on Luke 21:25-36, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, First Sunday of Advent.

The image is Christ Appears to Two Apostles in Emmaus by Duccio di Buoninsegna – The Yorck Project (2002) 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. ISBN: 3936122202., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3799693.

Paragon

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

The God of Israel has spoken;
the Rock of Israel has said to me:
“One who rules over people justly,
ruling in the fear of God,
is like the light of morning,
like the sun rising on a cloudless morning,
gleaming from the rain on the grassy land.”
Is not my house like this with God?

– 2 Samuel 23:3-5

My eyes no longer see as far as they once did.
My hands are creaky, laid upon the strings.
My knees and elbows crack, and truth to tell,
I’d rather spend the day in memory than rule.

The time will surely shortly come when I
shall make my bed in Sheol rather than
within this palace of my grandeur. No more
shall Abijag console me with her warmth.

But then, no longer must I listen to
the not-so-welcome words of Nathan. There
are benefits to dying. Such as making peace
with shame and guilt (if not with those I slew).

And so:

Was not my reign a paragon of right?
(Ignore the tales of rape and sons’
rebellion, though another looms e’en now.)
Did I not shine as dew reflects the morn?

Who now will contradict my words? They’ll hold
them close and celebrate how wise I was
when, near the end, I sang the truth
that earthly power, even mine, is judged by God.

How will they know that as I played
my fingers caught upon the strings, my voice
was husky with the tears that streamed, because
I knew the truth and then composed the lie.

A poem/prayer based on 2 Samuel 23:1-7, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year B, Reign of Christ.

The image is King David by Peter Paul Rubens (by 1640) – Corel Professional Photos CD-ROM, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10324682.

Hearts Sprinkled Clean… for?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“…Let us approach with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water.” – Hebrews 10:22

There are mornings when I revel in the water
which cascades along my form and carries off
the aggravating dust and clinging grime.

In likewise do I cast my grateful soul
into refreshment of a loving God,
who takes away the grunge, the guilt, the shame.

And then I step upon the shower mat,
to towel off the residue of cleanliness,
prepare to wrap my form in clothing for the day.

In likewise does my soul release forgiveness’ bliss,
replenished to the work which lies ahead,
and clothed (we hope) in righteousness’ array:

Provoking those around to love, to acts
of doing good, to mercy shared, to meet and raise
the courage of those souls who’d do the same.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 12:38-44, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 27 (32).

Photo by Eric Anderson

Her Whole Life

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A painting of a well-dressed African man putting gold coins in a jar while a slim African woman carrying a baby and with a basket on her head puts two small coins in the jar. Others watch.
The Widow’s Mite – Luke 21:1-4

For all gave out of their abundance, but she—out of her poverty—gave all that she was having, her whole life. – Mark 12:44, translation by D. Mark Davis.

You’d warned about them, Jesus, all those who
devour widows’ houses with religious obligation.
I wonder, did you think you’d see it happen
there in front of you, so poignant and so soon?

She dropped her life into the box or jar
and heard it ring, so tinny and so small.

I wonder that you found the words
to say to your disciples “She gave all.
She gave her life, all that remained.”
I would have been struck silent in my tears.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 12:38-44, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 27 (32).

I have written two other poems on this text: “Devoured” from 2021 and “All She Gave” from 2018.

The image is from JESUS MAFA. The Widow’s Mite, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48392 [retrieved November 5, 2024]. Original source: http://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr (contact page: https://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr/contact).

Many Tears

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 7 Comments
A stone statue face of a woman with two tears dripping from her left eye.

The world is filled with tears.
They spring from eyes emotion-swollen,
running down the cheeks
across the bare or stubbled chin.
The world is filled with tears.

The fountains spray their eloquence,
responding to the pains of circumstance,
of body or of mind,
of tearing of the fragile soul.
The world is filled with tears.

From other eyes the liquid leaps for joy
like ocean spray and seething foam,
a coruscating rainbow of delight.
The world is filled with tears.

Oh, Holy One, I do not pray
for you to dry our tears today,
but that we weep, relieved of fear.
Oh, let these be our tears.

The image is a detail of the figure of Mary Magdalene in the sculpture The Entombment of Christ in the Church of St. Martin, Arc-en-Barrois, France. Photo by User:Vassil – File:Sépulcre_Arc-en-Barrois_111008_12.jpg, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16942922.

First Commandment

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A brightly colored painting showing two women facing forward, both showing grief, with a third holding the shoulders of one from behind, face hidden. Two other women show signs of grief at right and to the rear.

“One of the scribes came near and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well he asked him, ‘Which commandment is the first of all?’ Jesus answered, ‘The first is, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.” The second is this, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” There is no other commandment greater than these.'” – Mark 12:28-31

The scribe approved your words, or so says Mark,
and silenced all the snare-deploying crowd.
Yet he might ask (and yes, in Luke he did)
“Who is my neighbor to receive my love?”

Then you, Redeemer, might have said
(though you did not, or so says Luke),
“Look to the Book of Ruth, to what is written there:
‘I will not leave you. Do not press me.

“‘Where you journey, I will go.
And where you stop, there I will take my rest.
Your people shall be mine, and more:
Your God shall be my God.'”

A poem/prayer based on Mark 12:28-34, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading, and Ruth 1:1-18, the First Reading, for Year B, Proper 26 (31).

The image is Whither Thou Goest: Naomi and Ruth by Rupert Bunny – http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/360/rupert-bunny-whither-thou-goest.jpg/4079790, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=56415654.

A Cloak

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A corner of a cloak, tan in color, with tan and black fringe along the bottom and right edges.

“Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’ And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus.” – Mark 10:49-50

“How strange. Do you see that?”

“See what? Oh, that? What is that, do you know?”

“I think that it’s a cloak.”

“Who’d leave a cloak abandoned
in the road like this?”

“I wouldn’t. That’s the thing that keeps
a being warm at night.”

“Let’s take a look. Perhaps the owner is
not far, and if we raise it, they’ll come back.”

“What’s that? It rolled away into the dirt.”

“Hang on, I’ve got it now. Look: it’s a coin.
It must have been entangled in the cloak.”

“You know, I’ve seen a beggar here
with such a cloak. He’d plead for coins…”

“…Which people threw upon the cloak.
You’re right. This must be his. But where is he?”

“I can’t believe he’d leave without his cloak.”

“I can’t believe he wouldn’t comb the cloak
to find each coin.”

“He’s not here now… and if he left without
the cloak…”

“I don’t think he’ll return.”

A poem/prayer based on Mark 10:46-52, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 25 (30).

The image is a portion of an 1880s Maori man’s cloak, New Zealand, twined flax and wool pom-poms. Photo by Staff photographer, Rhode Island School of Design Museum of Art – https://risdmuseum.org/art-design/collection/mans-cloak-7502667, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=118531677.

Sign Me Up

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment
The image is "The Calling of the Apostles St. James and St. John." It shows two kneeling figures at right with a Jesus figure with halo standing at left holding his hand above their heads.

James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came forward to him and said to him, ‘Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.’ And he said to them, ‘What is it you want me to do for you?’ And they said to him, ‘Appoint us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.'” – Mark 10:35-37

While you’re at it, Jesus, sign me up for that.
For while I think I have one of the sittingest jobs there is,
(I sit in chairs and cars and at so many meals),
I’d really like to sit nearby to you and bask in glory.

Ahhhhhh…

Yes, I can follow you and what you do
to find my place in glory, banquet marvelous,
and if the places to your right and left
are occupied already, I understand.

Ahhhhh…

So though I share the indignation of
your other followers, I share as well
their thought that it should not be them,
but me, to sit at your right hand. Of course.

Ahhhh…

I’ve chosen to forget as James and John
did then, so long ago, that you’d been laying out
the likely forecast, which was stormy to be sure,
a blow to carry you up on a cross.

Ahhh…

I’ve chosen to ignore again your call
to servanthood and service. Humility,
not arrogance, displays your Way. I’d be
more comfortable, frankly, with my pride.

Ahh…

Instead, I sit dismayed. You’ve asked for all,
for more than I prepared, for more
than I have understood. It’s not enough,
but in this moment, it is all I have to give.

Ah.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 10:35-45, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 24 (29).

The image is “The Calling of the Apostles St. James and St. John,” print, Friedrich August Pflugfelder, after Johann Friedrich Overbeck (MET, 2004.451) (August W. Schulgen/ Josef Spithöver) – This file was donated to Wikimedia Commons as part of a project by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. See the Image and Data Resources Open Access Policy, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=60859225. Sadly, most artists’ renderings I could find of this interchange between Jesus, James, and John, favor Matthew’s version of the story, in which their mother made the request on their behalf.