[Jesus said,] “‘Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them–do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.'” – Luke 13:4-5

Boy, you’re cranky again today, aren’t you, Jesus?
Somebody asks a simple question, “Did you hear
about those Galileans slain by Pilate?” and
the Jesus train goes off the rails. Did anyone say anything
about the reason that they died? I mean, did anyone
say anything to place the blame?

So… we thought it. Yes. We thought it. But
that’s not the same as saying it, you know.

It’s not like Pilate slaughters innocents… well. Much.
OK, he’s chief of all the Roman goons. Chief goon.
Yet still you know that people say and do the stupid stuff
that gets these goons riled up. They played their part,
these Galileans, sure as anything you’d name,
and brought destruction on themselves.

Although it must be said they likely didn’t deserve
all that, struck down at prayer.

Who’s setting the direction of the conversation now?
Nobody mentioned towers in Jerusalem.
Nobody blamed the souls extinguished when
Siloam fell. Still – there must have been a reason, right?
Does it make sense for chance and malice to
strike down so many lives like this?

And really you will tell us, tell me, tell humanity
that they did nothing wrong – but we will earn our deaths?

Boy, you’re cranky again today, aren’t you, Jesus?
You will not fool me with this fig tree figure here.
“No fruit,” I hear from more than you. “What good
are you?” is standard people looking-down-the-nose
address to their inferiors. And I, and you,
have been called fruitless many times.

But wait – the story turns. Who is this gardener to save
the tree, to stimulate its fruit?

Who is this gardener, and will this gardener
soon come to nourish me?

A poem/prayer based on Luke 13:1-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Third Sunday in Lent. 

The image is Le vigneron et le figuier, The Vine Dresser and the Fig Tree, by James Tissot (ca. 1886-1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.82_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10957360.

“[Jesus] said to them, ‘Go and tell that fox for me…'” – Luke 13:32

Many years ago and many miles hence,
I’d follow the gravel track that ran
between the cemetery’s graves, and out
onto the trails that curved their way
throughout the woods of southern Maine.

Before I’d reach the trails themselves,
a grassy field rose up, just slightly,
to a mound, and that was where
the foxes had their den. I’d see the vixen
guarding, and I’d grip the dog’s leash tight.

I’m sorry, foxes, that in another time
and many miles hence, a prophet spat
your species as an epithet, describing
a cruel monarch who had threatened him.
His deed was none of yours.

I’m sorry we dehumanize each other by
insulting other species, as if they, if you,
with your behavior matched the cruelty
of a tyrant. Your prey dies for food.
Our prey dies for pride.

I’m sorry, fox, and wolf, and pig,
and bear, and vulture, too. The greed
and violence we lay on you is ours,
and ours alone. And so, I painfully write:
“Go tell that human.”

A poem/prayer based on Luke 13:31-35, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday in Lent. 

The image is Christ before Herod Antipas (1st half of 17th cent.) by Nikolaus Knüpfer – Web Gallery of Art, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15497001.

Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.'” – Luke 4:9-11

Forgive me if I laugh, deceiver. You
may see a hint of smirk, I fear,
upon my face. You ask me to jump down
from this great height and let
the angels catch me in the fall.
What irony! Descending brings
no trembling to me. Falling here
is easier than rising, rising first
upon a tortured torturer’s stake,
rising second from a grave designed
to hold me down. The angels then
will watch and weep to see
humanity’s malignity.
Then, truly, they will catch my soul.
Will catch it, heal it, lift it, raise it to
heights greater far than these.
Forgive me if I laugh, deceiver. You
are nothing but a noisy gong,
a clanging cymbal, knowing naught
of human life, its rise and fall.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 4:1-13, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, First Sunday in Lent. 

The image is The Third Temptation by William Blake (ca. 1803-1805) – The William Blake Archive, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=33146639.

“[A man from the crowd shouted,] ‘I begged your disciples to cast [the spirit] out, but they could not.’ Jesus answered, ‘You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?'” – Luke 9:40-41

You left us, Jesus, you know you did.
You left us watching as you climbed the mount
with Peter, James, and John – that trio Andrew
calls “the Trinity” (and thinks he’s funny).

Now while you all were gone, I think it’s fair
to say, all hell broke loose down here.
I’m glad you got and took the time to pray –
you needed it for sure – but man! The crowds.

The crowds formed up and would not go away.
Some wanted bread, like when you fed so many.
Some wanted learning (or they said they did).
And many wanted healing from their pains and ills.

We couldn’t cope. We couldn’t manage. Or, at least,
we didn’t in the moment. We had done so well
before! Going through the villages
and curing diseases everywhere we went. But…

But not this time. This time our weariness prevailed.
This time our tiny mustard seeds of faith had failed.
This time our envy – why weren’t we a part
of Andrew’s Holy Trinity? – sat upon our souls.

I’m glad you’re back, you and the Trinity,
but secretly I wonder now if I am really one
of yours, or if you’ve left the nine abandoned
for the three. Your words imply you’ve borne us long enough.

So, Jesus, in the hope that you love more than three…
So, Jesus, in the hope that you love more than twelve…
So, Jesus, in the hope that you love me…
I follow still, and swallow bitter tears.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 9:28-43a, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Transfiguration Sunday. 

The illustration is Jesus Heals a Demon-possessed Boy from a manuscript of the Gospels penned by scribe Ilyas Basim Khuri Bazzi Rahib ca. 1684. Photo by Walters Art Museum: Home page. Info about artwork. Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18850856.

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.

The image is The Wedding at Cana by Giuseppe Maria Crespi (ca. 1686) – https://www.artic.edu/artworks/2166, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=74197382.