Upon the mountain’s height the stones reflect the sudden glow, not gleaming from the skies as ordinary light. They are bedecked with sudden radiance that mystifies.
Now where there were four figures there are six, and two did not come up the earthen trail. Three faces wear astonishment transfixed to see the ancient prophets so unveiled.
The ever-daring one proposes booths until a booming voice imposes hush, for listening is like to admit truths far more than motion taken in a rush.
But were I there, I fear my faltering frame would hardly dare pronounce Messiah’s name.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 9:2-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Transfiguration Sunday.
In my weary moments, I wonder: What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?
Your followers (including me) have found some other path than yours. You, after all, relieved the pains of those you met, while we who claim your name impose such pain to “save” our comfort or our power or this sad deluded shout of “righteousness!” We shame the poor; we spread disease; we wrap ourselves in violence. Were I you, Jesus, I would think to shed this ill-named Christianity, to wash it away, perhaps, and start anew.
In my lonely moments, I wonder: What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?
Oh, sometimes I can feel your breath upon my shoulder, sometimes feel your hand upon my arm, yes sometimes feel you pulling me into a new direction. But. Sometimes when evening falls or sunrise lifts I sense no company, no strong companion, and I long to know once more the certainty my memory’s fragility retains so fitfully of your once-lucent clarity.
In my awestruck moments, I wonder: What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?
You could dance among the stars; perhaps you do. I would, I think, if I were you. You could speak and all the evils of this world would be resolved. Yes, bring the braided cords and clear the temple – well, unless you’d have to lay your sternness upon me. I’d settle then for mercy, thank you very much. No, with the ancient poet I repeat: What are human beings that you hold us in your mind; what are mortals that you care for us?
In truth, I have no ready answer for my weariness, my loneliness, or even for my awe. I can only be grateful, Jesus, that you have been with us – and are.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:21-28, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany.
The image is Christ heals the possessed by engraver Jan Luyken. In the Bowyer Bible in Bolton Museum, England. Print 4234. From “An Illustrated Commentary on the Gospel of Mark” by Phillip Medhurst. Section D. Jesus confronts uncleanness. Mark 1:21-45, 2:1-12, 5:1-20, 25-34, 7:24-30. Image courtesy Phillip Vere – http://wfurl.com/a6ea272 (.pdf) “An illustrated commentary on the Gospel of Mark”. By Phillip Medhurst. .pdf file, FAL, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9393722.
“And immediately they left their nets and followed him.” – Mark 1:18
Here you come again, O Jesus, striding on the (rocky? sandy? weedy?) shore to where I’m busy – busy, Christ, I tell you! – with the labor of your call.
And you – oh, you – you have another call, I’m sure, to summon me away from this old fishing style to some new one, from catching those… well, catching… what?
For if I am a fisher, then I fish the ponds of fish you’ve caught before, and rarely reach the waves upon the beach, and never stretch beneath the ocean billowing.
Instead, I try to show the long-caught fish just what it is to be a fish of yours, to be a fishing fish, a loving fish, a sharing-of-your-loving fishing fish.
As dear Mark left unspoken your persuasive words to Simon, Andrew, James and John, I wait within the silence yet to hear your summons to be…?
A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:14-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Third Sunday after the Epiphany.
“Nathanael asked him, ‘Where did you get to know me?’ Jesus answered, ‘I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you.'” – John 1:48
It was long ago, my Savior, that you called me out from under my fig tree. Neither then nor now do I pretend to understand just what you saw.
I strive, Redeemer, to become a person without guile – sometimes successfully. I’ve found your awkward knowing words and silences correct me more than praise.
Still, knowing what you know, you sent the call to summon me from shelter, and I came to come and see, and seeing, echoed those old words: You are the Son of God.
A poem/prayer based on John 1:43-51, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Second Sunday after the Epiphany.
The image is Bartholomew the Apostle by El Greco – lAHToi0sj3MVQw at Google Cultural Institute, zoom level maximum, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29844192. Nathanael, named only in John’s Gospel, has traditionally been identified with Bartholomew, one of the Twelve in Matthew, Mark, and Luke.
“John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” – Mark 1:4
I am more accustomed to proclaiming a baptism of forgiveness, Jesus, a baptism of the Holy Spirit, a baptism of renewal.
I am more accustomed to confining the language of repentance to my own inadequacies, imperfections.
But as the pictures flicker on the screens, and as the lies continue multiplying, then I know I must repent a frightened silence, and
I summon up the words of John. Repent, you brood of vipers, shed delusion, accept truth, and turn from violent desecration of the nation
that you claim to love.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:4-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate Psalm Reading for Year B, First Sunday after the Epiphany, the Baptism of Christ.
Far from a barn in Bethlehem in miles and in time, remembering the stories passed and wondering just how much was forgot, and how much lost, of Jesus’ birth that holy night.
Who will recall, in truth, the circumstances of this year? For though we think our times “unprecedented,” it is just a sign of swift forgetfulness, a well-established human trait.
The griefs so hard to bear will not be felt by our descendants, for we did not recall the sorrows of our ancestors, nor think to learn from their successes or their failures to protect ourselves from ill.
Nor will our children’s children hear of ti leaves waving gently in the breeze beyond the window’s Christmas glow. Why should they? They will have their own bedazzling sights and sounds at hand, their own deep scents to breathe.
Now my tree’s glow (in echo of ohi’a blossoming upon the slopes of Kilauea) takes on the shades of stone a-fountaining, a-flowing, and a-pooling at the mountain peak. This might be held in memory.
For this becomes a link between the distant island of Hawai’i and the inn of Bethlehem, the places where the Earth grows thin, and from the deepest places of the planet and the love of God there flows the light a-glowing bright.
Yes, here we have the breaking-in of grace: the one builds up the land and rises from the seas. The other builds up love and joy and peace, reclaiming souls from greed and other-disregarding sin. So come, Lord Jesus! Make the darkness bright.
“For nothing will be impossible with God.” – Luke 1:37
I am content with ordinary miracles: the way my day speeds up and slows as down or up my foot puts pressure on the accelerator pedal.
I am content with ordinary miracles: the way I skip from isle to isle, sometimes a-soaring o’er the sea, sometimes with figures on a screen.
I am content with ordinary miracles compressing space and time, compressing this small planet into yet a smaller sphere, connecting over oceans, over time.
I am content with ordinary miracles that God concerns God’s self with women’s lives, in resolute rejection of self-centered males, unlikely to embrace a Savior.
I am content with ordinary miracles so like the one in which a woman played her necessary part, to bear and raise and love a child, a sage, a Savior.
I am content with ordinary miracles that mean my vision of the future with its frights and fears and failings is, most likely, wrong.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 1:26-38, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate Psalm Reading for Year B, Fourth Sunday of Advent.
You sang your magnifying song in present tense, with “is” and “is” relieved, just here and there, by a “has done.” Did all this grace go by, or is it still to come?
For truly Mary, as your soul rejoices still, and as a planet calls you blessed, the generations still cry out for mercy and relief from our unholy strife and greed.
The arrogant are scattered only in imagination and in heart-felt hope. The powerful are happy on their thrones; the lowly wonder when they will be lifted up.
The hungry still are hungry while the rich are filled with comfortable certainty. A servant nation – any servant nation – shrouds the light of love with its “my people first.”
So Mary, can we talk, unhindered by the sobs and weeping of the world? Can I obtain your voice of confidence without the growth of grace within?
If not, then let me sit here at your feet a while to shut my eyes and listen to your song that magnifies the LORD rejoicing in our God, our Savior.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 1:46b-55, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate Psalm Reading for Year B, Third Sunday of Advent.
“Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.” – Isaiah 40:3b
I hear the summons, Holy One, to lay aside the poetry, the words and tunes, the voice, and take up skills (I do not have) to build a road, a path, a highway for your Way.
In my imagination, that highway would stream across the plains into the setting sun and I would squinting peer ahead into the spreading light of glory.
My engineering skills, however, are more apt to build a road that rolls and twists, that dives precipitously down the hillsides, cracks with perturbations of the Earth.
I am the grass, the flower of the field, and with them I will grow and bloom, then fall and fade. I cannot build a road to match the word of God that stands forever.
A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 40;1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year B, Second Sunday of Advent.
ordainedgeek 