“When morning came, it was Leah! And Jacob said to Laban, ‘What is this you have done to me? Did I not serve with you for Rachel? Why then have you deceived me?'” – Genesis 29:25

O Holy One of Abraham and Isaac
and of my husband-now-by-fraud, Jacob:

Hear my prayer.

My veil is now cast off. But will he view
my face by flickering lamplight, or
instead will he embrace me knowing that
I am my sister. How could he not know?

I shiver here, O Holy One, for fear
of what he’ll do upon discovering
he’s been deceived. My face has never pleased
him. Will he break it in his rage?

What am I doing here? My father claims
I need a husband and to be the first
to wed, before my sister does, and so
I stood a-shaking in the gown and veil.

My sister, I am sure, wept bitter tears
which I imagine I could hear during the vows,
and which I still hear echoing
within this dark and stifling room.

God, here I am, compelled to wed,
and soon I’ll be compelled to mate,
and then I’ll be compelled to bear,
and bear resentful eyes of sister and of him.

What can I do? Where could I run?
Perhaps I’ll speak to him, but to what end?
The deed is done – except the deed, of course –
and who will credit anything I say?

Oh, God. There’s laughter in the hall.
My father’s voice, and his. Dear God.
Preserve my life this night from violence,
and bring me safe to morn.

Perhaps a dawn will come, some day,
when Jacob, Rachel, and myself will laugh
as Jacob laughs outside the door,
and then we’ll weep for all the pain we’ve borne.

Quick, God! Oh, spirit me away!
I dread this night, and fear the morn,
and cannot see beyond these hours
a future brighter than this unlit room.

He comes.

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 29:15-28, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year A, Proper 12 (17).

The image is Jacob and Laban with Rachel and Leah, artist unknown (Bologna, Italy, 17th cent.) Image posted by https://clevelandart.org/art/1939.666.a, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=77173131.

“No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.” – Matthew 13:29-30

Such a simple story, Jesus. But I have to say
that life is much more complicated than you’ve said.

We are not seeds, you know, that can be labeled
“good” and “bad.” A person wobbles like a child’s toy
through life, a nod to good this moment, leaning to
the bad the next. No simple good and bad.

We need no enemy except what we call up
ourselves to sow the bad amidst the good.
Those who claim “good” know well their ill within
and evil souls have shown the signs of care.

We’re more complex than this, your tale,
suggests. We struggle so against the ills
around us and we struggle with the ills within.
How much we’d welcome weeding in our fields!

But…

If life is much more complicated than
your story, how much harder would the task
of weeding be, when wheat and weeds are all
the same, and each may bear good fruit some day.

Your story may be simple, Jesus, but
its lesson holds. Our lives are far too wound about
with good and bad, with health and ill, to separate
them in the here and now.

May we, someday,
bear good fruit.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 11 (16).

The image is Les Sataniques. Satan semant l’ivraie (The Satanics: Satan Sowing Tares) by Félicien Rops – photo by Hans Joachim Neyer (Hrsg.): Felicien Rops. 1833 – 1898. Katalog der Ausstellung im Wilhelm-Busch-Museum Hannover 17. Januar bis 21. März 1999. Hatje, Ostfildern 1999, ISBN 3-7757-0821-9, Abb. 61, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12525528.

“Cast out this slave woman with her son; for the son of this slave woman shall not inherit along with my son Isaac.” – Genesis 21:10

O God who values children, how could You
applaud this hideous, this (dare I say it)
visibly unholy plan to send a mother and
a child out to die near Beer Sheba,
and of all places, this the Well
of Seven, this the Well of Oaths.

What of the oath a parent makes to child
when he is born? What of the oath a mistress
lays upon herself when making one a slave?
What of the oath a man should owe
to one with whom he has conceived a child?
What of the oaths pure decency demands?

Instead an oath to Sarah’s son is paramount.
Instead You credit Sarah’s oath to see her son
to elevation. Instead You make another oath
to make another nation from another child.
Could not You value these two lives
for Ishmael’s life, for Hagar’s life itself?

I’d like to judge You, God, but I cannot.
I’ve wondered if, like Hagar, I could bear
to see my child’s life come to its end.
I’ve tried to comfort those whose children
died and known that mine had not.
If anyone can judge You, it is they.

In humble, grateful, timid words
I offer you a whispered thanks,
for when the harshest wilderness
was all I saw and knew, I found
beyond all hope and bitter fear,
You’d dug a well of water.

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 21:8-21, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Proper 7 (12).

The image is Hagar and Ishmael by George Hitchcock – Hindman Auctions, Chicago, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=90805891.

“And not only that, but we also boast in our afflictions, knowing that affliction produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.” – Romans 5:3-5

Stop talking, Paul.
You had me there at
“We have peace with God.”
That’s good. That’s great.
That’s all I want (or need?)
to hear. Stop there.

You can’t just stop
there, can you?

“We boast in our afflictions” –
but complaining isn’t boasting.
“Affliction produces endurance” –
unless it kills your spirit, Paul.
“Endurance produces character” –
it also fosters hubris.
“Character produces hope” –
is hope the same as resignation?
“And hope does not put us to shame” –
well, Paul, I’m with you there,
as long as you do not expect me
to assume I’ll get just what I hope for.

You can’t stop talking, can you?

Still, I’m grateful that you looped
back round again to God’s salvation.
We’re reconciled by Christ’s gift of self.
We’re saved because we share Christ’s life.

But now, be still – not Paul, but me.
If Tarsus’ famous correspondent can run on,
the same is true of those of us less known.
Stop, Eric, for we’ve made the crucial point:

We have peace with God.

As Jesus was walking along, he saw… (Matthew 9:9)
And as he sat at dinner in the house… (Matthew 9:10)
While he was saying these things to them, suddenly… (Matthew 9:18)
Then suddenly a woman… (Matthew 9:20)
When Jesus came to the leader’s house… (Matthew 9:23)

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
Just a pause at the table, just a quick word.
Look how he rises to follow your call!
How lightly his step echoes yours.

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
Your words will dance at the table with all.
“Why eat with these people? They know that they need me.
They know I am with them, God’s mercy bestowed.”

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
A father arrives; he has fear in his eyes.
“Skip quickly, Jesus, or my daughter dies.”
The dishes, untasted, rest cooling behind.

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly,
as need reaches out for your power to heal.
Stop quickly, Jesus, stop and assure her
her body, renewed, can flourish again.

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
Death has come quicker than your skipping feet,
but Death cannot hold what you have raised up,
and the little one joins in the dance.

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
From outcast to souls disregarded,
from parent to patient to mourners and on
for a moment, skip lightly with me.

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
I cannot hold you to my place and time.
Teach me the skipping, the light-footed step,
that carried your grace to each person’s need.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 5 (10).

The image (which includes the healing of the woman as well as the resurrection of the daughter) comes from the Phillip Medhurst Collection of Bible illustrations in the possession of Revd. Philip De Vere at St. George’s Court, Kidderminster, England. Photo by Philip De Vere – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44393013.

“God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good.” – Genesis 1:31

Well, God, what is good?
Hold on, I’ll see.

When Earth was a chaotic void
amidst a formless universe,
You made the light, and see!
You called it good.

When sky and planet took their shapes
and water rolled alone,
You raised the land and blessed the sea.
You called it good.

When land and ocean bore no life
You whispered to the sands and rocks.
They sprouted greens and reds and blues.
You called it good.

When light was general, You rolled
its radiance into the burning stars,
and gentled night with moonbeams.
You called it good.

When Earth was green but silent
You scattered creatures in the sea and air,
from ocean’s depth to dizzying heights.
You called it good.

When land remained bereft of creatures You
supplied the lack of things that crawl or run.
They slithered and they leapt from pole to pole.
You called it good.

Then You considered all this life
and made anew a pair like You,
created in Your image, and you blessed them.
You called it good.

From tiniest seed to leaf-crowned stem,
from drifting plankton to leviathan,
from wren to soaring albatross,
from smallest ant to elephant,

From woman on to mahu and to man,
from skin of ebony to cinnamon to tan,
from farthest north to deepest south,
from those who speak a myriad of tongues,

You called it good. You called them good.
You called us good. You called Creation good.
And we in foolish bravery would contradict
Your words, and claim that “those” do not deserve our care,

When You declared them good.

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 1:1-2:4a, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Trinity Sunday.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

“And a young man ran and told Moses, ‘Eldad and Medad are prophesying in the camp.'” – Numbers 11:27

“But others sneered and said, ‘They are filled with new wine.'” – Acts 2:13

Oh, what we would not give for prophecy with order.
These seventy we know.
These two we will ignore.
Oh, what we would not give for prophecy predictable.
Seventy selected
to tell us what we know.

Your Spirit raises prophets without due regard to order.
We’d all do well with twelve.
We’ve no great need for more.
With twelve we’d know the words before the prophets even voice them,
saving time, so much time
we might have to discern.

Why is the Spirit’s call so destructive of our order?
We know our daily ways.
We follow our set hours
Until a strident voice, just like the nails upon a blackboard
unsettles our assurance
and overturns our peace.

Oh, have your own way, Spirit, in the wreckage of our order.
They’ll call us drunk, you know,
Or they’ll run and tattletale.
With Moses, Peter, Matthias, we’ll join the Spirit’s order
alongside Eldad, Mary, Justus,
Medad – and Mary, too.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 2:1-21 and Numbers 11:24-30, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading and Alternate First Reading for Year A, Pentecost Sunday.

The image is Moses Elects the Council of Seventy Elders by Jacob de Wit (1737) – AQGtI5P6nkpYyw at Google Cultural Institute maximum zoom level, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21988106.

This lectionprayer gets a lot of inspiration from Maren Tirabassi’s Blessing the Dice and Barbara Messner’s Variations on Pentecost.

“So when they had come together, they asked him, ‘Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?'” – Acts 1:6

One question, Lord! Is this the time
to make the world we think it ought to be?

Instead of looking to the future, could
you not improve the world yourselves?

A question, Lord! What will we see
as long as eyes are straining toward you?

Well, if you focus on the cloud, you’ll see a mist,
but if you look in people’s faces, there I’ll be.

A question, Lord! Should we wait here
until the day of your return?

If you stay here, who will you tell
about the things I’ve told you these three years?

A question, Lord! If you’ll return just as you left,
should we not set our eyes upon the sky?

Look up as often as you will, but do look down
because you’ll trip and fall, you know as well as I.

A question, Lord! If you’ll return just as you left,
when will that be? How soon? How long?

Oh, friends. My love is with you still.
You’ll see me in each other, and in all.

A poem/prayer based on Act 1:6-14, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Seventh Sunday of Easter.

The image is The Ascension by Theophanes the Cretan (1546) – Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15611230.

This poem rose from imagining Jesus’ conversation with his disciples as he ascended like a press conference. Can’t you just hear them calling their questions as the distance increased?

[Paul said,] “For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.'” – Acts 17:23

We didn’t have an altar in
the church where I was raised.
A table bore communion’s bread
and cup before us all.

I’ve seen so many tables since,
and many bear the words
inscribed “In Remembrance of Me”
(oft covered by a cloth).

Since youth I’ve been in churches where
an altar takes its place,
but rarely do they bear a word,
but speak with just their shape.

I wonder: might the wisdom of
those ancient Greeks guide us,
and note upon our altars that
we could know more of God?

Or just, perhaps, revise the way
we spell the “altar” word,
and be prepared at every point
to “alter” what we know.

A poem/prayer based on Act 17:22-31, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Sixth Sunday of Easter.

Photo by Eric Anderson.