John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance.” – Luke 3:7-8a

Lay it on us, John.
We can take it.
Here we are,
this viper’s brood.
Who warned us?
You did.
Here we stand to flee
or rather, to repent.
Lay it on us. What
should be our fruits?

Say what?
To share?
To give an extra coat
to someone who has none?
To feed the hungry
when we’ve eaten what we need?

OK. That’s fine.
It’s not so hard at all.
Now lay it on us, John.
No punches pulled.
We’re good.

Say what?
Collect no more
than what is owed?
Do not defraud
the customer
or client?

I mean, okay, but really?
That’s so simple.
Childish, even.
Lay it on us, John.
Come on.

Say what?
Do not extort
by threats
or accusation?
Live on our wages,
not on bullying?

But that’s too easy, John.
It’s nothing more
than we’ve been taught
from infancy.
Now lay it on us, John.

Say what?
You’ve noticed how
our closets bulge with clothes,
our cabinets with food?

Say what?
You’ve noticed how
we set the prices just
as high we can set?

Say what?
You’ve noticed how
so many threatened people
find so little aid?

No, lay it on us, John.
Ask us for something hard
to do, because…

We’d really rather not
do what is easy.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 3:7-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of Advent.

The image is The Preaching of St. John the Baptist by Rembrandt – Photo is by Sailko, taken on 6 March 2014, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=41314190.

“n the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.” – Luke 3:1-2

“Excuse me, are you John son of Zechariah?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve got a delivery for you. Sign here.”

“What is it?”

“It says it is… let’s see… ‘The Word of God.'”

“Oh, no. I’m not accepting that. Take it back.”

“I can’t do that. It says it right here. ‘NO REFUSALS.’ It’s even in all capital letters.”

“What are you talking about? There’s no such thing as small letters in these days. Everything is capital letters.”

“It doesn’t matter. ‘NO REFUSALS.’ You have to accept it.”

“[Grumbling] I might have known this day would come. ‘Miracle baby,’ my parents said. That kind of thing always happens for a reason.”

“There’s an additional message for you here.”

“I suppose that’s marked ‘NO REFUSALS’ as well, huh?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“Well, read it out. I’ve got my hands full of the Word of God here.”

“Okay. It says… Get yourself a camel’s hair outfit, move to the Jordan valley, and start washing people.”

“What?”

“Yep. That’s what it says. Camel’s hair, Jordan, washing.”

“Do I look like a camel’s hair kind of guy? I’m the son of a priest, for heaven’s sake.”

“Well, shouldn’t the washing and preaching be right up your alley?”

“Not in camel’s hair it’s not. Do you have any idea how much that itches?”

“Yes, which is why I’m not wearing it.”

“Good grief. What am I supposed to eat? Does it mention that?”

“Let’s see… locusts and wild honey.”

“I do not believe this.”

“‘NO REFUSALS.'”

“Right. Well. I guess I’ll look over this Word of God.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Anything else I can get for you before I leave? A thesaurus with synonyms for snake? Means of monarch-mollifying? A Messiah recognition kit? A dancing adolescent?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Yes, I know the last line is a pun.

Not precisely a poem and not precisely a prayer but still based on Luke 3:1-6, the Gospel lesson for Year C, Second Sunday of Advent.

The image is Landscape Composition: Saint John in the Wilderness by Thomas Cole (1827) – The Athenaeum, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=183048.

Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near.” – Luke 21:29-31

I don’t give a fig for fig trees, Jesus.
Tell me clearly what the future brings.

I know that changes in the wind forecast
the rain, or sun, or clouds, or stormy blast
that drowns or feeds or shields the fields,
or lays them down in wind-swept rows.

I know that rumblings deep within the ground
presage emergence of the fiery rock
that ravages the things we’ve built
and does what we cannot: make land.

And, yes, I know that human beings have a way
of signaling the things they’ll do.
I mean, sometimes they say it loud and clear
and we, somehow, will not believe.

I even know that when I dare not say myself
the compass point to which I’ll set my course,
I’m pretty sure which ways I will not go,
and that’s a good prediction where I will.

So it’s not ignorance of figs and leaves
or strength of wind or human whim:
it’s weariness, my LORD. The fig may speak;
my spirit is too tired to hear its voice.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 21:25-36, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, First Sunday of Advent.

The image is a Byzantine icon of Jesus as in Mark 11:12–14 – http://revcrystalk.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/miraclesofthelordpa31.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19042975.

“[Jesus] said to them, ‘Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her…'” – Mark 10:11

“But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, ‘Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.'” – Mark 10:14

Rise and fall, rise and fall.
One minute you set the goal posts high,
to give relationships the dedicated work
we give to our most cherished crafts.

Perhaps you were remembering the potter
Jeremiah watched five centuries before,
who made those errors but reshaped
and did not throw away the clay.

But harsh, Jesus, harsh, to raise the spectre
of a Ten Commandment sin when other sins
like violence defile the marriage bond,
when some receive no options but assent.

Rise and fall, rise and fall.
Another minute and you are indignant
once again, but not with divorcees but friends,
who would “protect” you from the crush of children.

Lower now the barriers, you say,
and let the children come to me,
the heirs, possessors, owners of
the reign of God.

And so they come, the carefully washed
when leaving home, now layered with
a liberal crust of dust, and hardly struck
with the importance of the blessing they’ll receive.

Rise and fall. Rise and fall.
You set our aspirations high, O Lord,
for spouses, friends, and strangers, then
you let them fall, and give the realm of God to us.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 10:2-16, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 22 (27).

The image is Jesus Christ with the Children by Carl Bloch (1800s) – Photo by the Athenaeum, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25991809