From the Wikimedia Commons description of the photo: “The Sarcophagus of Marcus Claudianus (ca. 330-335, Palazzo Massimo, Rome): Detail, The Arrest of Peter. Peter is taken away by two soldiers in pillbox hats. On the left, the person pointing to Peter is most likely Herod, who orders his arrest in Acts 12. Or possibly the rolled-up scroll in his hands signifies that he is the high priest who orders all the apostles imprisoned in Acts 5.”
In shadow I approach you, Lord. Though other times, I would embrace the light this morning I will seek the dark avoiding watching hostile eyes.
An alleyway for shelter, then moon shadow of an overhanging roof. Step slowly, lest a watcher spot the motion of my furtive form.
I make this journey into shadow, Lord, as you embraced the darkness not three days ago, and gasped that it was finished to the broken beating of my heart.
And now, one shadow still remains, a deeper blanker blackness that should not be there. My heartbeat hammers in my throat to see
an open tomb.
A poem/prayer based on John 20:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year C, Easter Sunday.
Photo of the lunar eclipse of January 31, 2018, by Eric Anderson.
He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth. By a perversion of justice he was taken away. – Isaiah 53:7-8a
Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” – Luke 23:34
Silence, Jesus? Excuses, Jesus? In truth, I want a louder Savior. I want a firebrand, I want a chief. I want a voice that echoes from the hills.
I do not want excuses. I do not want a suffering servant satisfied with our perverted justice, consenting with your silence.
For heaven’s sake, shake the heavens! For earth’s sake, rattle the earth! For the oppressed’s sake, break the bonds! For humanity’s sake, do something!
Don’t – don’t – make excuses. Not for them. Not for us. Not even – dare I say it? Don’t make excuses for me.
I do not need excusing, Jesus. No, I need forgiving. Excuses will not change the world: Repentance and forgiveness might.
Suffering Savior, keep your silence: but do not keep your peace. We who witness your great love weep for your peace.
I wrote this song in the fall of 2018, when a number of conversations turned to a wish for Jesus to come along and start to flip some tables. I expected it to be a rousing, even raucous anthem: but it turned to lament.
They’re changing money in the temple, Jesus. They’re not giving full value for each coin. They’re changing money in the temple, Jesus. They’ve turned a house of prayer… Into a house of thieves…
[Chorus]
What are you going to do about it, Jesus? The gold is piled high… What are you going to do about it, Jesus? Do you see where the gold… lies?
They’re piling money in the towers, Jesus. They won’t even pay the builders their full coin. They’re piling money in the towers, Jesus. They’ve given all that power… Into the hands of thieves…
[Chorus] Listen… to the gold lies. Listen… to the golden lies.
We’ve exchanged our priests for tycoons, Jesus. We’ve given our worship to the coin. We’ve traded priests for tycoons, Jesus. We’ve given our allegiance… To generations of thieves…
[Final Chorus]
What are you going to do about it, Jesus? The gold is piled high… What are you going to do about it, Jesus? Or the tables, where the gold… lies?
Flip the tables: the gold… flies! Toss the tables, Jesus. Make the gold… fly!
That’s not the shout of “preacher in a panic,” that. Nor is it Jesus’ commentary on a new disciple who, all eager, failed to strip the palm tree of its fronds to deck the road for his approach.
I might imagine, though, the sad and smiling faces of the other gospel writers who, whatever else they may have written right or wrong, included palms upon the road up to the city’s gate.
At least there’s clothes and cloaks to lay beneath the feet of this strange-sought, strange-borrowed colt, who probably could do without the noise and would prefer the eat the absent fronds.
No, Luke, the colt does not awaken my concern, nor do I worry that its burden misses leaf and branch. Instead, imagination balks to think of waving clothes, not palms, upon this Sunday morn.
Oh, yes. Imagination balks.
We’ll wave our palms, dear Luke, not clothes. But really: how could you forget the palms?
A poem/prayer based on Luke 19:28-40 the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year C, Sixth Sunday in Lent. In Luke’s account of Palm Sunday, he does not mention any palms.
Mary Anoints Jesus by Ilyas Basim Khuri Bazzi Rahib
Jar a-tilting, oil spilling, aroma filling, nostrils widen.
Hair uncovered, tresses flowing, oil clutching to her locks.
Soft voice speaking to her weeping: “Thank you, Mary, for your gift.”
A poem/prayer based on John 12:1-8, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year C, Fifth Sunday in Lent.
Illustration from a 1684 Arabic manuscript of the Gospels, copied in Egypt by Ilyas Basim Khuri Bazzi Rahib (likely a Coptic monk). In the collection of The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, Md. (on page 51 of the .pdf copy of the document released by the museum under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported license).
I’ve never worried before, O God, about the younger son’s repentance. I’ve always gratefully assumed he walked the roads of sackcloth and of ashes. What a shock his father’s welcome must have been!
But now… I wonder.
Was he another twister of the truth? Was he another one who turns the world around his little finger? Did Narcissus blush with shame at his temerity, his lies? And did the pounding of his heart betray his gratitude or hidden glee?
And now… I wonder.
In that Great Somewhere, do you wait for me? Do you wonder when I’ll lay aside deceit – delusion sweet for me, unwitting lie to you – and truly bring my starving soul back home? Does the pounding of my heart betray my gratitude or deeply hidden lies?
Yes now… I wonder.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 15:1-3, 11b- 32, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year C, Fourth Sunday in Lent.
Their sins caught up with them, those Galileans, when their blood got mingled with their sacrifices; not to mention, those unspeakably perverse and foolish people crushed by falling blocks when Siloam’s tower fell: Well. I knew it would catch up with them.
No, seriously, Jesus, wait. I’m talking now.
Have you not said that God is just? Have you not said that God is righteous? Have you not said that God will not be mocked? Not even mocked by cracked foundation stones?
No, seriously, Jesus, wait. I’m talking now.
When I’ve been foolish, yes, and sinful, I’ve owned up. I’ve said, “I’m sorry,” even (sometimes) made amends. I’ve done my best (sometimes) to make things right with them and you.
Should not your justice fall on them as well as me?
OK. I’ll wait. You’re talking now.
…
No, seriously, Jesus, are you kidding me? They weren’t egregious sinners? They weren’t different from me? And what? It’s me you summon to repentance?
…
Oh, great. So I’m a fruitless fig tree now? Have you not noticed all this time I spend proclaiming your divinity, your righteousness, your way? And while you’re looking, see where they bear far less fruit that I…
…
Well, no, I know, I’m not exactly perfect…
…
Well, yes, I know, I’ve many things to change…
…
And yes, I know that I’m the only one who really can change me, and yes, I know I really can’t change anyone else but me, but…
No, seriously, Jesus, wait. I ache for this poor broken world, for all this suffering Creation. Why can’t the evil suffer for the ills they bring? Why must the good endure the pain instead?
No, seriously: Why?
Why?
…
All right. In ignorance unblessed, I’ll keep my eye on me.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 13:1-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year C, Third Sunday in Lent.
Photo of the And Jesus Wept statue at St. Joseph Roman Catholic Church in Oklahoma City, OK. Photo by Mike Krzeszak; used by permission under Creative Commons license.
Salomé with the Head of John the Baptist by Caravaggio Oil on canvas, 114 x 137 cm, 1606 – 1607
“Go tell that fox for me…”
Are you kidding, Jesus? I’m not telling Herod anything. I know the risks. And if you don’t, might you recall the head of John the Baptist on a platter?
“…’Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow…”
That’s great for you, Messiah, but, I’m no messiah (if you hadn’t noticed). I stand by beds of illness impotent, and listen to my breaking heart.
“‘…and on the third day finish my work.”
Ha! That’s a good one, Jesus. Yes, I know the joke, that preachers only work one day a week. Not even I believe I’ll finish – or you’ll finish – in just three.
“‘…Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way.'”
Oh, must you leave so soon? No longer to encourage me to take on earthly powers, summon them to righteousness, decry their foul abuses?
Yes, there you go, into your self-proclaimed three days of labor, leaving me… leaving me… commissioned to confront the Herod of today.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 13:31-35, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year C, Second Sunday in Lent.
