[Jesus said,] “But woe to you who are rich… who are full now… who are laughing now… when all speak well of you…” – Luke 6:24-26, excerpted
Oh, thank you, Jesus, for those comforting words!
“Blessed are the poor.” Did you forget “in spirit”?
“Blessed are the hungry.” “For righteousness,” you mean.
“Blessed are those who weep.” Didn’t you mean, “those who mourn”?
“Blessed are you when people hate you.” Isn’t it amazing, Jesus, that people could hate me?
Wait. What?
You have more to say? Oh, I don’t like that. Oh, no.
“Woe to the rich”? They seem pleased with their consolation.
“Woe to those who are full”? Well, sure they’ll be hungry again. And filled again, I’m sure.
“Woe to those who laugh”? Honestly, don’t we need more laughter in this world?
“Woe to you when all speak well of you”? Oh, that one stings. I want to be remembered well, and even honored, for…
Helping the poor gain the realm of God. Helping the hungry be filled. Helping the weeping find comfort. Amplifying the silenced voices.
Wait. What?
A poem/prayer based on Luke 6:17-26, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany.
The image is Blessed Are Those by Hochhalter, Cara B., from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=59299 [retrieved February 8, 2022]. Original source: Cara B. Hochhalter, A Challenging Peace in the Life and Stories of Jesus, 2019.
“…They caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break.” – Luke 5:6b
“When they had brought their boats to shore, they left everything and followed him.” – Luke 5:11
“What the…? The net is full of fish!”
“How can it be? We fished all night.”
We both avoided looking at the Teacher/Healer sitting in the boat. He’d probably be smiling. We knew that he’d be smiling. He’d probably start laughing if we saw his face.
“Clap on that line and heave!“
“I’m heaving, Simon! But we’re dragging the gunwale under!”
“We’ve got to get the fish into the boat!”
“Do we need to bring the water in as well?”
Oh, now he’s laughing. He’s ankle-deep in water and he’s laughing.
“James! John! Come help!”
“Are you crazy, Simon? They’ll laugh, too.”
“They can do all the laughing they like as long as they take some of the weight.”
They laughed, for sure, but they ran their boat into the water fast, and pulled like racers to our swamping craft.
“Hold on!”
“I’m holding! It’s not helping!”
They came alongside. The Teacher, laughing, tossed a line to them from the overflowing net.
“Haul away!”
“We’re hauling, Simon!”
“We’re hauling ourselves into the lake!”
We paused, panting, and considered our predicament. We hadn’t raised a single fish above the gunwale. Instead, the fish had hauled our gunwales down into the the waves. The water chuckled back and forth from stem to stern.
“James, take hold. John, take the oars. We’ll row back to the shore and deal with the net and the fish there.”
“Got it, Simon!”
“Andrew, row!”
I rowed. The Teacher’s mirth subsided, mercifully. James and John giggled between gasps. Simon’s arms could have been carved of stone. He might have modeled for a Greek sculptor interested in those ligaments and veins. I rowed, and each stroke carried us a fraction of what it should, dragged back by that overflowing catch of fish.
The net caught first, its bottom still beneath the keels. The boats grounded further out than we had liked, semi-swamped as they were. Simon shouted directions I can’t remember to roll the net’s silvery burden toward the shore. Eventually, the net and its wriggling contents rested on solid ground, except for those fish that had flung themselves back into the waves, where we, exhausted, let them go.
“Fear not,” the Teacher said. “I’ve got some other fishing for you to do.”
Simon, James, and John in bafflement stepped toward him. But… someone had to deal with all the fish, and clean the nets, and bail the boats.
“Go on. I’ll tend to this. Don’t worry.
“I’ll catch up.”
A story based on Luke 5:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany.
So they read from the book, from the law of God, with interpretation. They gave the sense, so that the people understood the reading. And Nehemiah, who was the governor, and Ezra the priest and scribe, and the Levites who taught the people said to all the people, “This day is holy to the LORD your God; do not mourn or weep.” For all the people wept when they heard the words of the law. – Nehemiah 8:8-9
Could you not let them weep, Ezra?
Could you not let the tears fall for repentance? I’m sure they had their share. What person doesn’t? Did you never weep to know your sins?
Could you not let the tears fall for relief? Their labor was complete, the city wall stood tall despite the efforts to disrupt it. Did you never weep in triumph?
Could you not let the tears fall for awareness? How few had ever heard the Law in part? Complete? I’d venture there were none. Did you never weep in ignorance dispelled?
Could you not let the tears fall for… loss? Ah, yes, I raise that question, Ezra. Did you recall another gathering, with rain to match those families’ distress to hear their marriages must break, their spouses torn from homes, their children cast away? Where did they go, Ezra?
Where did they go?
I understand theologies of purity. Exiled for three generations, searching for the cause, you sought to build a faithfulness to last, forestall another covenant in ruin.
But Ezra, it didn’t work, you know. Deep faith has always had to struggle with the mud, the mess, the muckiness of life. Women and children cast aside? Mud of a different kind.
No, let them weep, Ezra. They’ve earned their tears. They’ll strive for your perfection, and they’ll fail, and so did you, and so do I, and so do all. Alas, the parents’ sour grapes have set the children’s teeth on edge.
A poem/prayer based on Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Third Sunday after the Epiphany.I am indebted to Cory Driver for his reflection on this text which made the connection to Ezra 10:6-44.
The image is an illustration of Ezra 10 by Jim Padgett (1984), published by Distant Shores Media/Sweet Publishing, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18884444. I was somewhat startled to find this image, which captures some – not nearly all – of the heartbreak of Ezra 10.
“When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, ‘They have no wine.’ And Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, what concern is that to you and to me?'” – John 2:3-4
Oh, no. Don’t even. Don’t even think it.
I can see the whispers at the table. I see indignant looks into the cups. The arms would like to strain to carry them, and… they don’t.
Now here comes mother. Surely not. I’m just here to relax, to raise a glass (now lighter) in honor of this day, and pray a silent special prayer for them.
I did not come to play the host reliable in lieu of host incompetent. And really? Is it such an awful thing the wine is gone? Just look! They’ve had enough.
They’ve had enough and more, you know, because they’ve drunk the good, the mediocre, and the bad to drain these wineskins dry. There’s wine aplenty: all in them.
So, call me grumpy Jesus if you like. It’s just three days since dripping I arose to dove’s descent and prophet’s roar. Not now, I say. I need a moment’s peace.
We came here, you and I, accompanied by strangers (Was it they who drank the wine? Well, by their smiles, they drank enough) who say that they will follow me for wisdom and for life.
So what have I to do with them? And what have I to do with this? And what have I to do with you? And what have I to do with anything at all?
Not now. Not now. Not now.
“His mother said to the servants, ‘Do whatever he tells you.'” – John 2:5
All right. Just… right. Just grab some buckets there and fill those jars. Yes, those, The biggest ones. All six. I hope they’ve got some water in them or this part will take all day.
They’re filled? All right. Now dip a pitcher in, and tell the steward that there’s wine to serve again, and plenty for the day to run into the night.
And woman – mother – can I have the time I need to ask and answer who I am, John’s “Lamb of God”? I swear by all that’s holy, if I do not get that time, I will…
I will…
Well. Let’s just say that tables are gonna fly.
A poem/prayer based on John 2:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday after the Epiphany.
“When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him…” – Matthew 2:3
One year since some deluded, some deluding, some misinformed, some misanthropic stormed the halls of Congress, to retain a would-be Herod on his throne,
Revealing in an afternoon of rage the violence they credited to others, the hollowness of civic virtues claimed, the eagerness to claim the lie as truth, to curse the truth.
The rising of tide of wrath withdrew as evening – came in face of force – so legislators came once more to count the votes, and as they did, the injured sought relief, the grieving comfort.
King Herod missed his mark. The child he sought escaped, though wailing rose in Ramah where Rachel wept uncomforted. His rising tide of wrath withdrew though unfulfilled, without success.
Would Herod be assured to know his work was finished near Jerusalem’s height by Pontius Pilate after thirty years had passed? Did his corpse-teeth grin to hear the soft moan, “It is finished”?
Is our Epiphany to be that Herods rise, and Pilates rise, as tides of poison circling the globe? Oh, might see once more the One beset by violence, who died, indeed – and rose.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 2:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Epiphany of the Lord.
“Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying…” – Luke 3:21
Rise from the water, streaming droplets patter in the stream.
Dust of travel swirls in ochre ribbons carried in the current.
Shivers in the sun from unseen water leaping from the skin.
Toes gripping at the mud, legs straining at the bank, emerging with a tiny slip.
Though newly washed, the feet once more wear soil on their soles:
The river silt, the muddy bank, the wind-blown dust.
Within a heartbeat gritty sand alights, defying wash and washer.
The tunic settles on the dampened, dirt-streaked skin, applying sediment anew.
A moment and the bather is no longer clean, and we wonder at the bathing’s purpose,
For what repentance did the bather bring, and what forgiveness need?
But look: the newly washed re-sandaled takes another way, into the wilderness.
A baptism of cleaning? Not so much. But of direction? Jesus chose the blessed way.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 3:15-17, 21-22, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, First Sunday after the Epiphany, the Baptism of Christ.
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” – John 1:1
“For we observed his star at its rising…” – Matthew 2:2
Star-Creator discovered beneath a star, Planet-Former found over the curve of Earth, Human-Shaper nurtured in the womb of Mary, All-Embracer wrapped in mother’s tears:
Shine upon us.
Monarch-Ruler fleeing from a king, Word-Incarnate lacking human speech, Life-Light needing one to testify, All-Knowing yet unknown:
Shine upon us.
Spirit-Eternal in human flesh, Glory-Unbounded with a weary face, Life-Everlasting corpse upon a cross, Love-Transcendent unrecognized in a garden:
Shine upon us.
A poem/prayer based on John 1:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday after Christmas, and Matthew 2:1-12, the RCL Gospel Reading for Epiphany.
After three days they found him in the temple, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. And all who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers. When his parents saw him they were astonished; and his mother said to him, “Child, why have you treated us like this? Look, your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.” – Luke 2:46-48
One day lost. He’s with Uncle. Or Auntie’s taken charge.
Two days lost. One day outward, one day back, and no way to decrease the time. Messengers from Marathon we’re not.
Three days now. Scour the inn, the streets around the inn, the streets around the streets. “Come child, have you seen my child today? Or yesterday? Come child, speak quickly now! If you do not, I must find one who knows.”
“He wouldn’t, would he?” “Oh, I think he would.” The Temple. Right. Of all the places. Yes, he would. Too tired to race, we clamber up the rising streets, to gain the shadow of the outer courts, the bustle of the moneychangers, cooing of the doves, the lowing from the cattle stalls.
Around a corner, round a corner, take this bend. We’d ask a guard, but visitors from Galilee might get an answer from a backhand slap, or worse, we’d get our son arrested.
The teachers and the scribes assemble in these knots of deep discussion, picking at the tangle of the faithful life, unbraiding it to see if might be new woven into tapestry, or if we make new knots unweaving what was woven once.
Ah, there! We hear the piping voice, not a grey-capped head, but a headstrong boy. We stride, relieved, but fear’s receding wave has left revealed parental wrath. “Now, child,” (don’t jostle the Great Men) “How could you do this thing to us?”
And he, still thinking like a scholar and a scribe, returns a question to the question – a tactic he will anger many people with some day – “Where did you think I’d be but in my Father’s house?”
Quick glances pass between us, with a common thought, a memory of angel’s promises, of ragged shepherds claiming to have heard a song, and marveling to this child in his feeding trough, a memory of aged sages praising him in this same temple all those years ago.
Well. First, we thought he’d be with us. And then we thought he’d be with relatives who’d come with us to celebrate the Passover. And then we thought he’d still be at the inn where we had stayed, or with the children of the neighborhood, or not too far away.
And, child, if you ask, “Where would I be but in my Father’s house?” then I shall ask (and see, you’re not the only one to answer questions with a question), “Son, what is your Father’s house? Does God live in this Temple, shining though it does, with prayers and incense rising in the air? Oh, no, your Father’s house is wider than the world. Your parents find no clue to finding you by knowing you are in ‘your Father’s house.'”
But we are too distressed with fading fear and overwhelming joy to say such things. We murmur “Thank you,” to the smiling scribes and gather up our budding scholar in our arms. Once more we’ll take the road to Nazareth and home, and treasure what we’ve heard within our hearts.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 2:41-52, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, First Sunday after Christmas.
The image is Jesus retrouvé dans le temple (Jesus Found in the Temple) by James Tissot (between 1886 & 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2007, 00.159.41_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10195808.
The fear of Joseph, who had failed to find a shelter proper for the birth.
The fear of Mary, who had never birthed a child before, nor known her body to take charge.
The fear of neighbors, who awoke to sounds of labor echoing.
The fear of stable owner, wondering if father’s stormy brow meant violence.
The fear of midwife, all experienced with healthy births – and infant deaths.
The fear of all, when mother’s screams went silent, and the universe was hushed.
The fear of mother, marveling to hold a newborn who would not be comforted.
The fear of angels, asking if a band of shepherds was their audience.
The fear of shepherds, so the messenger said first, “O do not be afraid.”
The fear of singers in the heavens’ choir, lest heaven’s song lack harmony.
The fear of watchmen at the gate, confronted by the shepherd band.
The fear of seekers for the infant Christ, uncertain where to find the stable bed.
The fear of parents, shocked to see the hillsides’ wanderers had come.
The fear of parents, hearing angels’ words, which would the fear of monarchs generate.
The fear of monarchs, which would bring no celebration, only tears like rain.
The fear of sleeping child. Who can know what infants know? And who can say what infant Jesus knew of dusty days and stormy seas and quiet conversations by the water’s edge, of questions over meals and by a paralytic’s cot and in the shadows of the night, of lepers leaping thanks unspoken save for one, of baptism and Satan’s snares and stories told and proverbs taught and so much more, and so much more, all leading to an agonizing cross and to a tear-swept joyful dawn.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 2:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Nativity of the Lord, Proper I.
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