“Therefore we ourselves boast of you among the churches of God for your steadfastness and faith during all your persecutions and the afflictions that you are enduring.” – 2 Thessalonians 1:4
Let me boast of the teacher whose time in the classroom was short, but whose time to inspire was longer and glorious and still… all too short.
Let me boast of the caretaker, rarely at worship because of her charge, but shining with spirit in every encounter, aglow with affection so clear in my memory.
Let me boast of the less-known, forgotten, ignored, whose passage of Earth left its light, instead of the powerful, wretched indeed, to leave us so broken in sorrow.
Let me boast of the saints.
A poem/prayer based on 2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Proper 26 (31).
[Jesus] also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt… – Luke 18:9
Truly you see that he is contemptible. Imagine a collaborator, a Quisling, a snake who slithers his way to take chicks from the nest. Such is this man, who is rich from his friends – if he has any, now, since he fronts for the Romans and seizes their substance for them and himself.
I thank you, Creator, that I have not fallen to such mean temptation or villainous deed. You’ll find that my substance is shared with my household. You’ll find that my giving to you is correct. You’ll find I am faithful in all of my doings. To you I give praise for your law and design.
Now listen, O Great One, as he struggles to pray. My studies have given me words fit for angels, to proclaim your glory as if my voice echoed the song of the heavens and heaven’s chorale. And he prays for mercy? Sure, mercy he covets, but we know his plea is yet more of his greed.
Truly you see that he is contemptible, in life and profession, in false piety. Let not his petition leave grit in your ears, but hear my thanksgiving and praise to your name. You, and you only, can judge your Creation. You, and you only, can say what contemptible is.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 18:9-14, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 25 (30).
“The sun rose upon [Jacob/Israel] as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip.” – Genesis 32:31
I had you, God. You know it. I know it. You saw you weren’t prevailing. You know it. I know it. And then you pulled a dirty trick! You know it. I know it. You pulled my hip right out of joint. You know it. I know it. It didn’t matter; I held on to you and held. You know it. I know it. You did not want the daylight to reveal you. You know it. I know it. And so you called for me to let you go before the dawn. You know it. I know it. “Oh, no,” I said. “You have to bless me first.” You know it. I know it. You did; you gave me a new name. You know it. I know it. A name about the struggle. You know it. I know it. And now I limp. You know it. I know it. But I won.
A poem/prayer based on Genesis 32:22-31, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year C, Proper 24 (29).
“Now the Arameans on one of their raids had taken a young girl captive from the land of Israel, and she served Naaman’s wife. She said to her mistress, ‘If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria! He would cure him of his leprosy.'” – 2 Kings 5:2-3
“…his flesh was restored like the flesh of a young boy, and he was clean.” – 2 Kings 5:14
The first of the miracles was a girl enslaved, who’d been torn from her home and forced to serve. She was not embittered. She retained compassion. She directed her “lord” to a prophet with power.
The general went to the king, and the king went and wrote to a king, who in fury and fear rent his clothes. By a miracle word reached the prophet, who said, “Send the general here to be well.”
With chariots and horses and servants he came, but only a messenger stood at the gate, for the prophet, miraculously still unimpressed remained in the house; directives he sent.
Now the general cursed and would fly down the road, back to his home with his malady still. “He told me to wash!” he denounced the directives, and he would have rejected the miracles, save…
That his servants (among them, assuredly, slaves) miraculously summoned their courage and said, “It’s too simple for you? You can do what is hard. Do the simple thing. See if it works.”
By a miracle the pride of the general faded. He listened to those whom the culture despised. He’d followed advice of a girl and a slave, now the wisdom of slaves took him to Jordan’s side.
In the washing, the general found his skin cleansed. A miracle true, a healing assured, his status restored. A miracle once more: He sought out the prophet. He raised up his thanks and he praised Israel’s God.
A series of miracles, built upon miracles, a general who thanked, a general who listened to slaves who cared and a prophet who ordered – But the first of the miracles was a girl enslaved.
A poem/prayer based on 2 Kings 5:1-3, 7-15c, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 23 (28).
[Jesus said,] “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” – Luke 17:6
Look, Lord, I have faith!
Sproing!
You pointed at this mulberry tree, and look!
Sproing!
It’s gallivanting all about, prancing on the shore. I know you said to tell it to take root, but look! What eye could turn away from jigging roots and twisting trunk, from limbs a-sweeping in the dance?
Sproing!
Now isn’t that great?
Sproing!
Jesus? Isn’t that good?
Sproing!
Look, Jesus, I admit that servants have to serve and all, but look! A leaping tree! The spray upon your cheek comes from its hula in the waves!
Sproing!
What happened to, “Well done, my faithful one” (now that I’ve demonstrated faith)? What happened to, “Your faith has made you well” – and in my case, not well, but great!
Sproing!
You really mean discipleship is not about the majesty of miracle, but finds its roots in gentler dance, in tender care, in humble healing, and in righteousness?
Sproing!
All right, Jesus. Mulberry, take your place. My place, it seems, is with the cranky and demanding healer.
A poem/prayer based on 17:5-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 22 (27).
“For thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel: ‘Houses and fields and vineyards shall again be bought in this land.'” – Jeremiah 32:15
O, Jeremiah, what a run you’ve had.
God called you in your youth, a prophet to the nations, destroyer, overthrower, whose words would bring the powerful down.
So to a people well assured their safety and their righteousness were beyond query, you announced they’d changed their fountains for a leaky cistern.
You spoke your words to Baruch’s pen, to read before the king and summon him and all the nation to repent, reform, renew. At king’s command your words were shriveled in the flame.
From summons to reform you turned to warning, warning of disaster unavoidable, while all this time the guilty prospered, and the linen loincloth festered in the earth.
You languished in the stocks and raised your plaint to God, whose flaming word would not relent within you, making you a laughingstock and grieving that you’d lived your life.
You watched your city fall, its leaders hauled away and into exile, a monarch’s uncle crowned as client king, and knew (as who would not) that folly’s day of triumph still was yet to come.
And now, confined by royal order in the palace guard, invading armies all around the city walls, you hear the Divine Word: Come, Jeremiah, buy a field.
Come, Jeremiah, buy a field, because though armies yet will harrow this beleaguered citadel, destroy its ancient temple, spatter it with blood,
A day will come when land once more will pass from family to family, from ancestor to progeny, and grain will ripen in the sun.
O Jeremiah, now I have to ask: Of all the things you suffered (cisterns, stocks, and ridicule), was anything so challenging as hope?
A poem/prayer based on Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Proper 21 (26).
“Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it?” – Luke 15:8
If my fortune were confined to just ten coins, well, Jesus, then I’d search and search to find the one I’d lost.
And if my flock were just a century, and one astray, because I treasure life I’d search until I found it safe and whole.
The trouble is, dear Jesus, that you’ve used the coin and sheep as if they represented people lost and disregarded.
If they were precious, we would seek. Because we do not seek, you know they’re not. Not precious to us. Not precious in the world we’ve made.
And there you are, lamp-bearer, there you are, sheep-seeker, for those we do not treasure are so precious in your sight.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 15:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 19: (24).
“Now he was teaching in one of the synagogues on the sabbath. And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years.” – Luke 13:10-11
Wait now, just wait. I know it hurts – I feel your pain. But now is not the time. The time will come when… it comes. Until then, wait. Just wait.
Wait now, just wait. I know you’re burdened – I carry it with you – But things are just not ready. You’ll have to carry it until the time is ripe. Until then, wait. Just wait.
Wait now, just wait. I know oppression harms you – I’m there with you. But hearts have not been opened. Hang on for just a little while. Until then, wait. Just wait.
“But the Lord answered him and said… ‘And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the sabbath day?'” – Luke 13:15a, 16
A poem/prayer based on Luke 13:10-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 16 (21).
“I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed!” – Luke 12:49-50
I do not see the flames alight and sweeping through the trees, charcoaling the grasses, clouding out the sun.
I hear their crackling roar in your frustrated voice, creaking with impatience, choking on anticipated smoke.
I do not see the water beckoning you forward, at once inviting and malignant, that will close above your crown.
I see the falling water, Jesus, streaking in the ever-present dust its path from eye to lips: the tracing of your tears.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 12:49-56, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 15 (20).
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