Don’t You Care?

“But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, ‘Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?'” – Mark 4:38

For once, it wasn’t me.
I’m known, of course, for saying all
the dumb things I could say to Jesus.
This time, it wasn’t me.

(And wouldn’t you know, the time
it wasn’t me, they left the culprit
unidentified. I ask you,
was that fair to me or not?)

No, I was busy with the flying rig,
and leaning hard to counter all
my lubberly companions who
knew nothing of the balance of a boat.

I thought it best to wake him, too.
I couldn’t calm the lubbers down.
Perhaps he could, and then old James
and John and Andrew might have saved the day.

Not even I, with all my lack of sense,
would dare to utter what he did
(I, too, will shelter here the guilty one).
“We’re perishing! Or don’t you care?”

Though rope ran slick along my bloody palm,
I winced to hear those words. I’d said them
to my mother once, and only once.
“I don’t believe you care at all!”

I knew that Jesus would respond
no better than my mother had.
Like her, he fixed the problem first,
the wind and sea subsided,

But then he turned that steely glare
upon us, one and all, even those
who never would have mouthed
those ill-considered words, and said:

“Why are you mewling cowards? Do
you ask me if I care? Have you no sense?
No confidence? No faith?”
And we said nothing back at all.

In truth, my confidence was lacking then.
I trusted in my seaman’s skills
in preference to God. But none of us
appreciated then what he had asked of us.

He asked us not to trust in him awake,
but trust in him asleep. He asked not to trust
in God when fiery pillars stride, but when
the way is still unknown.

He asked us not to trust in signs,
but in their absence. He asked us not
to trust in prophecy, but in
the new things prophets had not said.

We asked the question, “Who is this?”
as if the answer mattered more
than how we meet the challenges of life
encouraged by our trust in God.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 4:35-41, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 7 (12).

The image is Stillung des Sturmes durch Jesus (Jesus Calms the Storm), a relief on the exterior of the Stuttgart Stiftsckirche (Collegiate Church of Stuttgart), 1957, by Jürgen Weber. Photo by Andreas Praefcke – Self-photographed, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15039823.

Try Me Again

“And the LORD was sorry that he had made Saul king over Israel.” – Samuel 15:35

“Then Samuel took the horn of oil, and anointed him in the presence of his brothers; and the spirit of the LORD came mightily upon David from that day forward.” – 1 Samuel 16:13

Will you be sorry of my anointing, God?
How much regret do you bear for me?
How have I grieved you? How have I dismayed you?
Or rather, not how. But when. And how much?

Truly we serve you a very short time,
since our birth and our death are mere heartbeats away.
How much regret does one soul lay on you?
Does it burden you more as each person dismays?

If you are sorry of my anointing, O God,
I cannot be surprised. I can only confess
that I’m trying, and struggling, and failing,
and sometimes, I might do it well if you try me again.

A poem/prayer based on 1 Samuel 15:34-16:13, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year B, Proper 6 (11).

The image is David Anointed King by Samuel, (3rd cent. CE) reworked by Marsyas – Dura Europos synagogue painting : Yale Gilman collection, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5107843.

Home Divided

“And he called them to him, and spoke to them in parables, ‘How can Satan cast out Satan? If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. And if a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand.'” – Mark 3-23-25

We’ve seen so many times and in so many places just
how right you were back then.
Divided nations run to evils unimagined, but
so bitterly recalled.

You set aside the critics’ pointed accusation that
in healing, you performed
Satanic will by arts Satanic, too, which made no sense
as you so rightly said.

And then they brought you word: your mother and your brothers ask,
“How are you, brother, son?”
Kept back from you by the besieging crowd they could not see
how changed you had become.

“A house divided cannot stand,” yet you would break your home,
insult your family.
Had they not done the will of God who sent you? Were they not
still one with you in love?

A poem/prayer based on Mark 3:20-35, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 5 (10).

The image is Toute la ville étant à sa porte (All the City Was Gathered at His Door) by James Tissot (between 1886 and 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2006, 00.159.78_PS1.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10195908.

Proposal

Jesus bar-Yosef
House with a hole in the roof
Capernaum, Galilee

Dear sir:

In light of recent events which have damaged your public image, we offer our services as public relations consultants. We believe that we can increase your name recognition and your positive reputation.

To give you some idea of the value of our services, we would like to comment on two recent encounters that resulted in unnecessary conflict with significant public figures. You can evaluate our suggestions here and realize the benefits you would realize from a permanent business relationship with us.

We realize that your followers – or students; one of the things we’d like to clarify is their role in representing you and your ideas – were hungry while you were out walking with them that day. It is regrettable that they had not prepared for a trip. While we are not event planners, we recommend that you get some additional support to see that you are properly supplied.

The public relations concerns arose when they began to pluck grain on the sabbath. Everyone knows that the followers of a religious leader will be properly scrupulous about following the sabbath regulations. Indeed, a higher degree of respect for those practices is simply expected by the populace. In the moment, it would have gone much better if you had said, “Not now, friends. We don’t have far to go. There will be something to eat soon.”

You were walking just a short distance, weren’t you? We’re confident you were.

Alternatively, as noted above, you could have redirected them to use their pre-prepared foods. Best of all, you might have carried some yourself, and distributed those to your hungry followers. Imagine the positive responses to your generosity!

Then there was the man with the hand. We acknowledge that you actually broke no sabbath regulation at all. You didn’t anoint his hand with oil, which is permitted by most authorities. You didn’t even touch it.

Our concern is with your interaction with the other religious leaders in the room. Granted, they didn’t say anything to you. You might have interpreted that as consent, rather than challenging them for hardness of heart. You might also have said, “Let us see what miracles God will do on the sabbath,” which would have been very pious and quite successful.

Best of all, you could have said to the man, “Come see me tomorrow and we will see what God will do. Today we will rest, and God will rest.”

Frankly, Jesus, he’d been living with that hand for some time. One more day would not have been a burden.

These two events, and a couple of others, have generated some opposition to you and to your message. We firmly believe that you can move past them to a better, more productive relationship with the public at large and with your peers among the religious leadership. We think that some circumspection in some areas, and more emphasis of some elements of your teaching, will really resonate with the population. In short, we believe you have potential and hope to represent you.

The proposal in full is attached.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 2:23-3:6, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 4 (9).

The image is Christ Heals the Man with a Paralyzed Hand, a mosaic in the Cathedral of Monreale, Sicily, Italy (late 12th – mid-13th cent.). Photo by Sibeaster – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4515630.

Redemption of the Rock

“But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them…” – Acts 2:14 

Has there been enough time to redeem me?

“You’re the Rock,” smiled Jesus. Oh, yes. I’m the rock.
Always first to reply, always first to be chided. They smirked,
those eleven, every time I was caught
being first to say things they were thinking in silence.

Can a month or two’s passage possibly remake me?

“You’re the Rock,” they have said since the day that he rose.
“You’re the first to have seen him” – I open my mouth
to remind them of Magdalene, then shut it again.
“You’re the Rock.” Well, at least we’re a dozen again.

I wonder what time could refashion a rock?

I told them my shame which the Teacher predicted.
How could I hide it? They’d heard, and they’d seen
the look on my face on that terrible morning
when the heart of the Rock was as brittle as flint.

Passover to Pentecost can’t be enough time.

They never have heard what the Teacher said to me
that glorious day when his death turned to life.
My flint heart had shattered, and molten, ran over.
What words could declare the forgiveness he gave?

But can I be reborn in these brief fifty days?

The wind rushes madly. Lights leap on our brows.
Only the Marys sit silent, serenely. We’re out in the street.
My God, we look drunk. I’m speaking a language I don’t think I’ve heard.
How can I explain what has happened to me?

Fifty days weren’t enough, but a moment transformed me.

Now they look to the thick one, the Rock, to say something.
I have no skill with words. I was trained to the net.
But Jesus stayed with me, and I recall some things.
I’ll start with this verse that he taught me from Joel.

I guess fifty days is enough to redeem.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 2:1-21, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year B, Pentecost Sunday.

The image is The Penitent Saint Peter by El Greco (between 1590 and 1595) – https://collection.sdmart.org/objects-1/info/1090, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=119297661. The eyes contain some of the apostle’s self-doubt which I’ve tried to express in this poem.

World and World

“[Jesus prayed,] I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one. They do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world.” – John 17:15-16

Between the orbit paths of Jupiter and Mars,
a horde of planetoids and rocks and dust
surrounds the Sun, tracing their ellipses
in a dance with gravity.

One speculation to explain these asteroids
is that, long, long ago, a planet strayed too close
to Jupiter’s titanic tides of gravity, and broke
into these countless rocky shards.

When worlds almost collide, sometimes
a world breaks up, and leaves the other
without scar or trace of impact made.
One shatters. One remains.

Your followers, dear Jesus, live in both a world
of harshness, folly, lies, and fraud, and in
the world of God’s creative grace.
They seek to speak the one unto the other.

Yet when these worlds collide, or when
they pass too close, which one will break,
and which endure? Which one reflect
the sun, which one be hard to see?

Oh, let it be the world of God’s creative love!
Oh, let it be the world of Christ’s redeeming love!
Oh, let it be the world of grace and truth!
Oh, let it be! Oh, let it be!

A poem/prayer based on John 17:6-19, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Seventh Sunday of Easter.

Image by NASA/JPL-Caltech – https://www.jpl.nasa.gov/images/asteroid/20180723/main-animation-16.gif, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=71080744.

On Second Thought, Call Me Servant

“[Jesus said,] I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father.” – John 15:15

Pedant that I am, I have to tell you, Jesus, that
you’ve never called us servants.
Students, yes, and followers.
You’ve nicknamed some of us
(and isn’t Simon just the perfect Rock
(between the ears?)) but never
servants.

To tell the truth, I can’t recall you’ve called
us friends. It’s quite a lift
from slave to friend you’ve given us.
And all you’ve asked is that we love
each other as you’ve shown your love to us.
That’s your command: it makes us friends, not
servants.

I wish I were as sure as you that I
know what you’re doing, Jesus. I
don’t think that I do. If I’ve been quicker on
the uptake than our brother Simon Rock,
he’s not the brightest lamp within the room.
I hardly feel I know what friends would know, not
servants.

If I let fall the barriers I’ve used to hide
the things you’ve told us from my understanding, then
I know the reasons you have called us friends. And I’m
not comfortable with that. Friends are responsible
for what they do in friendship. They have to think
and act themselves, not wait for orders like a
servant.

On sound reflection, Jesus, might you
reconsider making us your friends? Might you not
step forth majestically in power? Then we,
your servants, rise with you, to rule
with humble title but substantial privilege.
Set our direction, Jesus, as your servants, not
your friends.

A poem/prayer based on John 15:9-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Sixth Sunday of Easter.

The image is a page from the Targmanchats Gospels (1232), ms2743 Matenadaran collection. Photo by Grigor – https://regionalpost.org/en/articles/a-treasury-of-medieval-thought-in-a-modern-institution.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=119401477.

I Fear I am not God

There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. – 1 John 4:18

Fear is not just about punishment, John.
Fear is also about being hurt.
Fear is about taking a risk.
Fear is about the unknown.

I fear punishment, of course.
The pain is not just the harsh words,
hard tones, spoken to me.
I punish myself as well.

I fear as well the hurt
that is not punishment,
but comes from accident
or malice done around me.

I fear to take a risk, of course,
because, deserved or not,
if risk turns into failure,
I will feel the pain.

And I fear the unknown
because who knows (I don’t)
what dangers lurk for me,
what hurts I’ll face and feel?

So John, I know that God is love,
rejoice that God loves without fear.
I live in love and fear.
I fear I am not God.

A poem/prayer based on 1 John 4:7-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Fifth Sunday of Easter.

Self-portrait by Eric Anderson.

Strange Defense

“[Peter said,] ‘This Jesus is ‘the stone that was rejected by you, the builders; it has become the cornerstone.'” – Acts 4:11

Your Honor, I am here accused. They say
I spoke of resurrection. Yes, I did.
They say I said this comes from Jesus, and:
I did. They say what you can plainly see.
I am no educated scholar, no
respected sage, no doctor of the law.

Because of this, they take me up before
you as an agitator who disturbs
the peace, the truth, the faith, the way, the light.
They say I should be silenced, voice unheard,
the things I’ve seen forgotten, left untold,
until no one remembers anything.

Were I to make a strong defense, I’d tell
you that your officers misheard our words,
misunderstood what little they had heard.
We made no claims like those of which we stand
accused. We spoke of resurrected hopes
alone, within this man who now can walk.

Alas, I make no strong defense. Instead,
I’ll make those claims again for you to hear.
In Jesus there is resurrection of
the body and of hope, of healing and
of joy restored. And neither John nor I
can hold our tongues from sharing this great news.

I’m sorry, in a way, that my defense
is only to repeat the offense that
has brought me here before you in this place.
I’m sorry that it grieves you, and I hope
beyond imagination, that it moves
you to a mercy given, mercy then

received.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 4:5-12, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year B, Fourth Sunday of Easter.

The image is a part of the Sarcophagus of Marcus Claudianus (ca. 330-335, Palazzo Massimo, Rome): Detail, The Arrest of Peter. Photo by Dick Stracke – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31956813.

Imperfect Children

Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. – 1 John 3:2

Once upon a time –
Or many times upon a time, I’m sure –
A child pooped while in the bath.

“Clay of my clay,” they thought,
and with the smelly umber made new art
upon the tiled walls,

Until the laughing, grossed-out parents
scrubbed it all away
and washed it down the drain.

We are your children, God,
imperfect still, inclined to build
our lives with grosser stuff than poop,

Uncertain when we’ll know just who
and what we yet may be,
and when we’ll be that one,

And when our grand creations stand
the press of soapy sponge and water,
to please ourselves and you.

A poem/prayer based on 1 John 3:1-7, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Third Sunday of Easter.

The photo of a bathtub is by L.M.Arias – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17573377.