The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. – John 1:35-37
How peculiar.
It’s not so startling for a shepherd to be following a lamb in all its wandering immaturity. But for adults now seeking spirit, for a growth developing within: How is “Lamb of God” attracting? How is “Lamb of God” inviting? How is “Lamb of God” revealing?
Still, John the Baptist recognizing Jesus (majesty concealing), summoning disciples from his gathering to Jesus’ circle only just beginning, made the “Lamb of God,” inspiring, the “Lamb of God,” empowering. So “Lamb of God”: now following.
How peculiar, and how right.
A poem/prayer based on John 1:29-42, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, the Second Sunday after the Epiphany.
Side by side they march across my media screens: the images of travellers who, bearing gifts, will praise an infant in all ignorance of how his royalty will manifest, and
The images of violence incited by repeated lies, of broken windows, hangman’s noose, Christian symbols raised in blasphemous approval of both praise and blame that went too far.
On this Epiphany I pray for an epiphany, for light to penetrate the hearts lost in the shadows, for wisdom to once more display itself in giving, for a jealous would-be ruler to, for once, step down.
While power battles power still (if with less flash grenades and tear gas clouds), I’ll turn in prayer to One who manifested perfect power in its weakness: a radiant love that flickered like a star.
Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice, because the abundance of the sea shall be brought to you, the wealth of the nations shall come to you. – Isaiah 60:5
Teach me to recognize radiance, O God. Teach me to revel in brightness of spirit. Teach me to raise up my voice in rejoicing for radiance seen with the soul, not the eyes.
Teach me to recognize radiance, O God. Teach me to gain it in greatness of heart. Teach me to glorify generous spirit, the radiance seen with the soul, not the eyes.
Teach me to recognize radiance, O God. Teach me to mirror a magus of old. Teach me to make free of marrow and mind, and the radiance seen with the soul, not the eyes.
A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 60:1-6, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Epiphany.
But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. – Luke 2:19
Treasuries, they say, are filled with gold. The mansions of the powerful protect the rooms whose contents build the edifices which enclose them.
A treasury, they tell me, is the due of you, dear child, a message from the heavens (though it strangely smells of sheep), and so I lay your well-wrapped form in straw.
An angel spoke to me, he did, and told me not to fear. I thought his greeting odd, but much odder was his word, to tell me that I would become the mother of a King.
A mother I’ve become, but what royal babe is so conceived to summon those suspicious eyes? They’ve followed me for months, though not to Bethlehem.
A mother I’ve become, as witnessed by my groans and pains, by midwife, by my worried Joseph, by the ox whose manger I’ve now stolen for my infant’s bed.
The bloodied rags have vanished, whisked away by midwife’s hands. I tell you, it is hard to hold to memories of angels as a child crowns.
They came, then, those poor wanderers of the fields, abandoning their flocks by night to see a child in a manger. A child. A Savior. A Messiah King.
They spoke of angels singing in the skies, they spoke of glory shining all around them, and they spoke of peace, God’s peace, for all.
In honesty, I’d like to know the reason that the angels sang to shepherds, not to me, this night, since Gabriel’s words have faded in this place.
I’d like to hear the angel once again assure me that the treasury of royalty will be my son’s someday, that he will grow and thrive and save and rule.
For now I must content myself with angels’ echoes in the voices of the poor. For now I must content myself with pondering their words within my heart.
An inn without a room. A stable and a manger. Angels’ voices echoed. Son, your treasury tonight contains no gold. Instead, it is your mother’s heart.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 20:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, the Nativity of the Lord (Proper I).
“Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.” – Matthew 1:18
What should I, could I say? His mind had closed. His ears had stopped. No words I’d say would sway him. What could I, should I say?
I tried; you know I tried. I knew the difficulty of belief, e’en with the confirmation of by body – What could I, should I say?
He stomped away. I knew that, unbelieved, I’d be abandoned – quietly but sure. What could I, should I say?
The very morrow he returned much chastened by a dream. It’s nice to be believed, I said. What could I, should I say?
But Joseph, damn your faith in dreams of angels, but refusal to believe the one who loves you. What could I, should I say?
And Matthew, you whose pen could not record a single word of mine, I wish you’d learned from Luke. What could I, should I say?
So silenced, I rely upon the child I bore to speak the words I spoke to him, and which he magnified. What could I, should I say?
He spoke of liberation and he spoke of resurrection and he spoke of God’s triumphant day. So can I, must I say.
Author’s note: Matthew did not quote Joseph in his Gospel, either – but Joseph takes all the initiative and makes all the decisions which carry the Holy Family from Bethlehem to Egypt to Nazareth.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 1:18-25, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday of Advent.
When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” – Matthew 11:2-3
The clarity that comes with voices in the clouds soon fades. The vibrant colors of the golden sun, the azure river, and the argent billows in the air transmute to foggy grey as time saps confidence. So ask the question, John, as well you may: “Are you the One? Or must we wait to see One you proclaim as I once proclaimed you?”
With you I bend my ear to the reply: Look well, stern messenger of God. The ones who could not see now see. The ones who could not hear now hear. The ones who, ill, had lost community and home have been restored. The poor are cheered to hear good news proclaimed.
And so we see, and so we hear, dear John the Baptist (caught in Herod’s snares), that one has come to claim anointing by the One, and not to seize a throne, or start a war, or set himself apart from us. He’s come to heal. He’s come to preach. He’s come to bring us freedom from the cradle to beyond the grave – a life for you, dear John, and me.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 11:2-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday of Advent.
“…they were baptized by [John] in the river Jordan, confessing their sins.” – Matthew 3:6
Ah, baptist at the riverbank, I come to seek the power of the cleansing touch of water and of Spirit and of fire. Anneal my harrowed soul. Your words have burned their way into my heart and mind and I do not forget. Who warned me, John? Well, you. You with your party-breaking summons to the realization – hardly new but strong in its familiarity – that I have not kept steadily the prophet’s road, which is not straight, not even close, but winds through thickets and through thorns like serpent’s teeth.
I wanted, baptist, to step quietly into the muddy waters, duck my head in quick and studied piety, then stand and melt into my ordinary life once more as surely as the water dried upon my skin. The water I might thus ignore, but not your harshly calling voice. I shiver and I listen and I plan: to learn and follow, learn and follow, learn and follow Christ more faithfully today.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 3:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Second Sunday of Advent.
When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, [Jesus] said, ‘As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.'” – Luke 21:5-6
The flagstones and terraces, walls and pillars, the walkways and courtyards, collonades and shrines. Oh, look where the peak of the roof glows at sunset! Oh, look how the glory of God has been housed.
The stones seem so durable, set and enduring, but Jesus in sadness announces their fall. Eternity’s structures are not built with masonry. Instead, they are built on the soul.
It has been many days since I stood by the ocean and watched while this island expanded its shores. Incarnadine tendrils, dulling to sable, forming a delta of newly poured stone.
And that delta has vanished. It broke and it crumbled. The rocks of the ages could be counted in days. Since then new eruptions have fashioned the coastline anew and anew and anew.
Stone poured upon stone, broken to sand. Stone stacked upon stone – by human hands. They come and they go, they bloom and they fade – But oh, what glory that these things should be.
Fragile stones, enduring for centuries, collapsing in days, wrecked by malice, swept away by the sea. Fragile stones that stand for a moment: But oh, what glory that these things should be.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 21:5-19, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 28 (33).
Photo of the 2016 ocean entry in Kamokuna by Eric Anderson.
[The Sadducees asked,] “Now there were seven brothers; the first married, and died childless; then the second and the third married her, and so in the same way all seven died childless. Finally the woman also died. In the resurrection, therefore, whose wife will the woman be? For the seven had married her.” – Luke 20:29-33
Tell us another story, Jesus.
Tell us a story in which a woman is valued for what she brings and makes, and not because she bears a child to be the heir to one whom death has claimed.
Tell us a story in which a woman is treasured and housed and clothed and nourished because she is a child of God, and not because she is a womb for children.
Tell us a story in which a woman determines her home, her work, her speech, her course, and does not submit her careful conclusions to the random will of a man.
Tell us a story in which those thrust to the margins in casual cruelty rise strong in themselves, and claim their due place as wealth and privilege wane.
Tell us a story of resurrection, of life beyond these oppressing tears, of dancing angels, of children of God, of all who live and love in God’s sight.
Tell us another story, Jesus.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 20:27-38, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 27 (32).
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