Be angry but do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not make room for the devil. – Ephesians 4:26-27

Jesus, I’m banging my head against a wall here…
(Figuratively. I’m not banging it literally… yet…)
Truth and gracious words and tender hearts
are not winning the day.

In a global pandemic, governors forbid that schools
require that their students learn in masks.
For God’s sake, why?
Are we to be instructed by a flood of death?

Death of children, death of parents, death of uncles,
aunts, kupuna. An unmasked Masque of the Red Death,
a viral dance through classrooms, buses,
homes, cafes, churches, and… through mortuaries.

Oh, look, as patients struggle for a breath
and hospitals require more beds
and look, the dying count is rising, too,
and truth and gracious words don’t cut it.

How could we possibly grieve the Holy Spirit more
than with this wholesale exercise of folly,
denying the urgent summons of her wisdom,
favoring the clarion call of limitless greed?

For greed has won the day, mammon taken the prize,
to summon workers back to risky work,
their children back in virus-sharing schools,
so owners profit more than they will pay.

The cause of education? That’s a laugh.
We find that educators are not valued
for the things they teach our children – but
to keep them while their parents work.

Six hundred fourteen thousand dead
in this country alone; four and a quarter
million dead around the globe and some still claim
the danger and the cost are fiction.

A falsehood that belies that we are truly
members of one body, interwoven
over oceans, nations’ borders, and our
prejudicial, harmful acts,

Connected not just in pandemic
but in ordinary time, connected
because the suffering of one
will lead to suffering for all.

We do not imitate our God in truth.
Though Christ, in love, gave himself up,
we still insist on offering up more lives
for lives, for greed, for power, for evil.

A poem/prayer based on Ephesians 4:25-5:2, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 14 (19).

The image is The angel of death striking a door during the plague of Rome. Engraving by Levasseur after J. Delaunay. https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/obf_images/70/48/4b5c28e57609137dd2009ae490f2.jpg Gallery: https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/image/V0010664.html Wellcome Collection gallery (2018-04-03): https://wellcomecollection.org/works/p8gxfxrp CC-BY-4.0, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36456028.

Then Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. – John 6:11

A miraculous feeding? Really, Jesus.
Try something original instead.

Moses ate manna, and before him
Joseph’s dreams kept fed a nation.
Ruth ate and found a home.
David ate the sacred bread he shouldn’t.

Elijah and the widow ate from ever-flowing jars.
Later Elijah ate the bread baked by an angel.
Elisha fed his neighbors with the meat of oxen
That he left behind to follow Elijah’s call.

Oh, Elisha liked a party! Feeding people right and left.
Ever-flowing oil to sustain another widow.
Flour to nullify the poison in the stew.
A hundred men fed with the twenty barley loaves.

Miraculous feeding? Really, Jesus.
It’s like you copied out the words yourself.
Five thousand, I admit, is better numbers,
But I cannot say this miracle is new.

What’s that? I’ve missed the point?
Oh. Yes. I guess I did.
For, new or not, the people
Have been fed.

A poem/prayer based on 2 Kings 4:42-44 and John 6:1-21, the Revised Common Lectionary First Alternate Reading and Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 12 (17).

The image is Elisha Multiplies the Bread by Jacopo Tintoretto – Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6893126.

But if I wish to boast, I will not be a fool, for I will be speaking the truth. – 2 Corinthians 12:6

Which is it, Paul? Which is it, God?
Foolish boasting from a boasting fool?
Or truth that, shared, inspires?
Truth that, shared, encourages?

I wish I knew.

I am, perhaps, more conscious of my weakness
than Paul was of his strength.
I doubt the exceptional character
of my revelations (let alone my self).

There is a hollowness inside
that hollers, “I am great!”
and echoes, “I am empty!”
and which is it, or both?

I wish I knew.

What can I do but echo the apostle
who expressed himself content with weakness
(I’m not sure I believe he was),
and begged the Holy Spirit then to fill

The empty spaces, tired places,
of the weary body,
of the weary mind,
of the weary soul.

A poem/prayer based on 2 Corinthians 12:2-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Epistle Reading for Year B, Proper 9 (14).

Photo by Eric Anderson

“[Jairus] begged him repeatedly, ‘My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.'” – Mark 5:23

“Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, ‘Who touched my clothes?'” – Mark 5:30

It’s not complicated, Jesus, it’s urgent.
My daughter/son/companion/father/mother
needs You. Just You. Only You.
They need You now.

Here I am. I’m on my knees.
My friend/lover/spouse/inamorata
will not survive without You. Just You. Only You.
They need You now.

Don’t pause. Don’t dawdle. Don’t turn aside.
My grandson/granddaughter/neighbor/acquaintance
needs You to touch them. Just You. Only You.
They need You now.

Don’t stop. Don’t heal anyone else. Don’t ask questions.
My aunt/uncle/grandmother/grandfather/cousin
needs Your time. Just You. Only You.
They need You now.

Seriously, Jesus. How am I to wait for You
when someone I love
needs You. Just You. Only You.
They need You now.

Oh. Well, that’s all right then.
How was I to know that You
make Your
own time?

A poem/prayer based on Mark 5:21-43, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 8 (13).

The image is The Raising of Jairus’ Daughter by Ilya Repin (1871) – http://f.rodon.org/p/1/070901155909d.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=461972.

“But [Jesus] was in the stern, asleep on the cushion…” – Mark 4:38

Yeah, absolutely. I’m going to wake him up.

You, Peter, have been shouting for a half an hour.
You, Andrew, have been shouting back.
James and John have been pulling on the same rope
in opposite directions. And you’re the experts.

I never thought I’d hear the Sons of Thunder
overmatched by screech of wind and wave.
Shout away, boys. I can’t hear you. You can’t hear you.
For sure the wind can’t hear you and it doesn’t care.

Thomas looks like he can’t believe what’s happening.
Philip, Bartholomew, and Judas all are seasick.
James son of Alphaeus is pretending to be a son of Zebedee,
but he knows nothing at all about boats.

Thaddeus and Matthew are praying beneath the thwarts.
I’m pulling on a rope when it’s handed to me,
and releasing it when Peter, Andrew, James, or John
snatches it away. At least two lines are streaming in the wind.

So, yes, I’m going to wake him up. I can’t believe
he’s not awake already. Peter’s stepped upon him twice,
and Philip tripped on him when making for the gunwale.
He’s soaked with spray amidst the pounding roar.

Maybe he can bring some order to this chaos.
Maybe he can heal the seasick.
Maybe he can bless us in the baptism of death.
Maybe he can just be with us as we drown.

That, at least, would be a comfort. It hasn’t been
a lengthy journey with the Teacher, and I wish
it wouldn’t end like this, but if we drown,
let’s drown together with the Master wide awake.

But man. That guy can sleep.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 4:35-41, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 7 (12).

The image is The Storm on the Sea of Galilee by Rembrandt van Rijn, 1633 – www.gardnermuseum.org : Home : Info : Pic, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6812612. The painting is still missing after being stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston in 1990.

“While Peter was still speaking, the Holy Spirit fell upon all who heard the word.” – Acts 10:44

I certainly didn’t expect that.

Look at them. Listen to them. Praising God
in languages I’m pretty sure
they do not understand
(I did that once).

I thought I’d seen and heard it all,
the thunderous voice resounding
on the mountain’s summit,
thousands taught and fed.

The accusation I would soon deny,
soon echoed by my very throat,
“I do not know the man,”
once, twice, thrice.

Familiar voice, familiar face, though
glazed with tears, muted by sobs,
a story I have never told.
It goes too deep.

Tongues a-flickering upon the heads
of friends whose tongues declared
in languages they did not know,
and I, I spoke so, too.

I heard my own untutored voice
declare the truth I had denied,
I knew this Jesus, and I
know his power.

Since then? What miracles! What sorrows.
People healed with no more than
to hear the name of Jesus Christ
roughly spoken in my voice.

The joy of hearing Stephen, face aglow,
speaking with courageous grace;
the anguish then to see him
done to death with stones.

The People of the Way dispersed by Saul,
then – miracle of miracles! – the Saul
who persecuted raised his voice
to praise the name of Christ.

And now I am confronted with a miracle
I hadn’t hoped for (hadn’t asked for)
as Gentiles (Romans for God’s sake)
rejoice in Jesus’ name.

Oh, what to do? I could explain it so:
It looks, I grant you, like the Holy
Spirit, but I’m sure it’s just
enthusiastic show.

Or possibly a consequence of what
they’ve eaten or they’ve drunk.
Too much wine; spoiled food.
Good thing I didn’t eat.

I might not need explain a thing, of course.
The people with me would keep silent
if I did, lest they be left to testify
to what this moment means…

No. No silence. No denial. I have learned…
a bit. “Can anyone withhold the water,”
(with my eyes, I tell them, “No”)
“to baptize the Spirit-filled?”

No silence. No withholding.
God has chosen these to bless.
Bring the water. Cleanse my expectations,
so an expansive future can begin in Jesus’ name.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 10:44-48, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year B, Sixth Sunday of Easter.

The image is Saint Peter Baptizing the Centurion Cornelius by Jan Erasmus Quellinus (late 17th century) – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=59323889.