#faith

Chains and Chains

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“One day as we were going to the place of prayer, we met a female slave who had a spirit of divination and brought her owners a great deal of money by fortune-telling. While she followed Paul and us, she would cry out, ‘These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you the way of salvation.'” – Acts 16:16-17

My soul was heaped with chains.

A demon claimed my eyes,
my mind, my tongue, to speak
of things beyond a mortal’s ken.
Or possibly to fill the air with lies.

Some businessmen had claimed
my freedom. For as long as people paid
to hear the demon’s truth or lies,
the money went to them, and chains to me.

I still don’t know who claimed my legs
and tongue those days. The demon knew,
as I could not, that these strange men
were also chained, but to the healing power of a god.

I followed, but I don’t know how.
The demon’s words leapt from my lips,
but would it risk its power in the face of God?
Regardless, my legs pushed me after them.

I saw the look upon the speaker’s face,
a look of one whose patience had been tried
beyond its limited capacity. Beyond my hope,
he spoke the words that broke the demon’s chains on me.

I fell into the street and saw the businessmen
seize him and his companions, chain
them for the magistrates’ displeasure. I
looked down and found their chains bound me.

I am not fully free,
but I am freer than before,
and even though it cost them chains like mine,
I would be pleased to wear the chains of God.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 16:16-34, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Seventh Sunday of Easter.

The image is Paul Casts Out the Devil from a Slave Girl in Philippi, attributed to Pieter Fransz, between 1610 and 1652. From Scenes from the Acts of the Apostles (series title). Photo by Rijksmuseum – http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT.520428, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=84964425.

What Peter Didn’t Say

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

So when Peter went up to Jerusalem, the circumcised believers criticized him, saying, “Why did you go to uncircumcised men and eat with them?” – Acts 11:2-3

You think I wanted to eat with them?
I didn’t want to go at all.
I was riding pretty high, you know,
elated with a woman’s resurrection.
OK, the only place they’d put me up
was with a tanner, but a fisherman’s smelled worse.

Yes, I was riding high, and trying not
to think about the things that happen when
you’re riding high, the way success becomes
a series of new challenges, new obligations. I
was smelling those amidst the tannery.
It came for Jesus; it would come for me.

I didn’t know that I could lie in dreams
or visions, waking or asleep. I claimed
I’d never eaten food that was unclean,
and knew full well I’ve eaten shellfish when
the Romans hadn’t purchased all my stock.
And let’s ignore the grain I plucked on Sabbath Day.

A vision or a dream; regardless, it
would summon me to something new
I knew. I did not know what it would be,
but who gets visions for a trivial thing?
I didn’t know what that dream meant.
I knew I’d go where I’d not wish to go.

The house of a centurion was not
within my plan. Who knew what I would find
when I reached there? Most likely was
a naked sword to seek my naked gut.
Why trouble with a cross when you
can drain a troublemaker’s life without?

I had no plan to speak of Jesus there until
they asked, but ask they did, and I
pulled in my breath, and breathed it out,
and spoke with sometimes trembling voice
of Jesus, of his healing touch, his mercy to
such fools and failures as I am.

I certainly did not expect the fire of
the Spirit in a Roman house, of one
who marshals military might against
the people of this land. They said that he
feared God, but this? The Holy Spirit, lit
in him as it had been in me? Who knew?

And now, my friends, I have no plan for you.
I didn’t want to go. I went. I didn’t want to speak.
I spoke. I didn’t know the Spirit would appear.
She did. I didn’t know that God had welcomed them,
the Gentiles, just as openly as us. And now,
I have no words for you, except

To tell my tale again.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 11:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Fifth Sunday of Easter.

The image is St. Peter and Cornelius the Centurion by Bernardo Cavallino (1640s) – Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15452357.

The Year of the Lord’s Favor

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“[Jesus read from the scroll of Isaiah:] ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.'”

“Today this scripture has been fulfilled
in your hearing.” Your own words, Jesus,
amazing them with graceful speech.
Until they turned upon you.

Remind us once again of what is grace.
I’m told that grace is strength, is force.
I’m told that power is right, and might is good.
I’m told that what we want we take.

Where is the news that sounds good to the poor?
Where is the vision for the ones who will not see?
Where is the freedom for the ones who are oppressed?
Where are the prisoners released into the light?

You did not speak the words of grace alone.
You needled them, you did, O Christ, until they burst
in rage, and nearly did the work of Pilate three years
earlier, by casting you to break upon a rock.

O, can we learn the lesson that you tried to teach?
We claim your name but do not tread your ways.
We leave the poor uncomforted, we close our eyes
to the oppressed, and those we free are those who’ve flattered us.

May there be good news for the poor.
May there be vision which will pierce the shade.
May there be freedom for those who have been bound.
Bring quickly, Jesus, the favored year of the LORD.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 4:14-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of the Epiphany.

The image is “The Rejection of Jesus in Nazareth” (“Prophets are not without honour, except in their hometown”); 18th-century tile panel by António de Oliveira Bernardes in the Igreja da Misericórdia, in Évora, Portugal, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=97133284.

Concerned

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

“And Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, what concern is that to me and to you? My hour has not yet come.'” – John 2:4

Now if I take a bird’s eye view of the world,
or if I try to see the Universe as from
the eye of its Creator, I have to ask,
What concern are we to You?

“What are humans that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them?”

Other folk of other faiths discerned
their deities to be… not unconcerned,
but distant, focused on their own affairs,
but pleased by scent of sacrifice.

So when the hosts ran out of wine
what person would not ask, “Are we
concerned? We brought our contributions
to the feast. What more can we do now?”

How many deities would ask,
“What prayer is this? Do I make up
your deficits, the failures in your plans?
Take care of it yourselves, as you can do.”

As deity, as human being,
what else could Jesus say but this:
“This is not our concern. The things
I have to do come later and much larger.”

A mother’s love is such a funny thing.
One moment she protects her child
from senseless obligation, then the next
she thrusts them forward: “Go on, give.”

He said that they were not concerned,
but his mother thrust him forth,
and then he was concerned. They filled
the jars. They served the wondrous wine.

Was he concerned? He was, for host’s
embarrassment, but more for human souls
who languish in uncertainty and fright,
to lead them to a life beyond imagining.

“What are humans that you are mindful of them?” Still
we cannot fully clarify the poet’s ancient cry,
except to say, that Jesus is concerned, God is concerned,
the Holy Spirit is concerned:

For us.

A poem/prayer based on John 2:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday of the Epiphany.

The illustration is from JESUS MAFA. The Wedding at Cana, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48305 [retrieved January 17, 2025]. Original source: http://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr (contact page: https://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr/contact).

Spirit and Fire

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

Now when all the people were baptized and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. – Luke 3:21-22a

The water gently swirled about their legs
as John and Jesus stepped into the stream,
the echoes of John’s fierceness still
perceivable in those who stood upon the bank,
and those who dripped the water of forgiveness.

The water may be gentle, but the fire promised
by the Baptist came descending. Like a dove,
indeed, but doves are sharp of claw
and though they promise coming home
they promise nothing gentle on the way.

The river’s soft embrace receded, puddling on
the riverbank. The Holy Spirit’s fire ignited
in the eyes beneath the water-speckled lashes.
The one who had, with hardly any word,
descended peacefully, has risen purposefully.

Was there a word for John? Who knows.
Perhaps a hand to brush the drying skin
which shortly would be washed again
with washing someone else. The fire drove
him from the water to the wilderness.

O Gentle Spirit, how do humans dare
to call You gentle, source of prophets’ words,
apostles’ energy, and martyrs’ blood?
Indeed the Baptist said it true, that though he washed
with water, You baptize your followers with fire.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 3:15-17, 21-22, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Baptism of the Lord.

The image is a mosaic of the Baptism of Jesus in the Arian Baptistery, Ravenna, Italy (late 5th early 6th century). Photo by Flying Russian – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21723466.

You Warned Us, John

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

John said to the crowds coming out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?” – Luke 3:7

Who warned us, John? You did.
We heard your words through others,
much as those you called “a brood of vipers” heard
your words through rapid rumor’s run.

We heard your warning through
the memories and tongues and pens
of those you had impressed with word,
with deed, with baptism, with righteousness.

We heard because they passed along
your warning that to wash with water would
not cleanse the soul, but full repentance, all
enacted, would receive the nod of God.

They came to hear themselves.
They came to learn how they might change.
They came to leave upon a road that might look like
the one on which they had arrived, but was a road made new.

They came. They heard. They washed.
They went away and told the tale.
More came. More heard. More washed. More told.
Soon one would come to wash though you would tell him, “No.”

You warned us, John, across the years.
But tell me, we who follow him whom you baptized,
have we been heedful of your warning? Do
we bear the fruits of righteousness?

I fear, old harsh-voiced friend,
that you would find us heedless of your words
despite our claim to follow Christ. I fear you’d rail
once more at broods of serpents writhing in the dust.

I fear it would not only be
the ones I judge as frauds,
or casual extortionists,
or simply selfish souls withholding all their wealth,

But also me, secure in my
self-righteousness, and satisfied
with my reputed rectitude.
What sins do I ignore, refuse to cleanse?

Shout on, old Baptist friend.
Across the years, through others’ words
I hear your call. Shout on, and by the grace of God
may I repent, and wash, and bear good fruit.

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 John Preaching in the Desert, a mosaic in the series of the Life of John the Baptist in the Florence Baptistery, Florence, Italy (ca. 1225-1330). Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=41892069.

Stripped Down

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A painting showing a man with a long white beard in a prison cell holding a book and quill and looking at a sheathed sword.

“And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what really matters, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.” – Philippians 1:9-11

I am stripped down. I wait my fate.
What will it be? Will it be gain?
Will it be Christ? I will not choose,
except, of course, that I have chosen
by the words I’ve spoken,
by the things I’ve done.

I am stripped down.

I have been stripped of agency.
Another will decide my course.
I’ve lived in faith that God has set
my way, but set my way through me.
A crueler hand now rests upon the tiller
of my time. Does it grow short?

I am stripped down.

I struggle to bring influence,
to speak good news, for few
may hear me now. Is it hubris to
believe that they who hold me in
this place consider what I’ve said
and turn their souls toward Christ?

I am stripped down.

Thank God Epaphroditus has
recovered, though for him, like me,
to die is gain. For Jesus and for me
he’ll carry word to those I love
that… well, that I love them from the heart.
I am stripped down. What more to say?

Just that I love.

A poem/prayer based on Philippians 1:3-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Second Sunday of Advent.

The image is St. Paul in Prison by Rembrandt van Rijn (1627) – photo by anagoria, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27638749.

Aren’t You?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“[Jesus said,] Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory.” – Luke 21:27

I’m looking, Jesus.
I’m looking for those terrible disasters.
I’m looking for the sun-signs, moon-signs, star-signs.
Where is the earth distressed?
Where are the nations fuddled by the roaring of the seas?

I’m looking, Jesus,
and I’m finding all those terrible disasters.
The sun burns warmer on the sands than once it did.
Distressed, the earth would wrap itself in coolness,
water rising, inundating coastlines of both continents and islands.

I’m looking, Jesus:
where to find you?
The clouds still float along without your figure
stepping down to earth in glory and in power.
Where are you, Jesus, when the seas are salt with tears?

I’m looking, Jesus,
as disciples have been looking
for two thousand years, to see the reign of God
in light and thunderclaps and incense-scented wonder, but…
You’re just behind my shoulder, aren’t you?

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 Christ Appears to Two Apostles in Emmaus by Duccio di Buoninsegna – The Yorck Project (2002) 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. ISBN: 3936122202., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3799693.

Many Tears

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 7 Comments
A stone statue face of a woman with two tears dripping from her left eye.

The world is filled with tears.
They spring from eyes emotion-swollen,
running down the cheeks
across the bare or stubbled chin.
The world is filled with tears.

The fountains spray their eloquence,
responding to the pains of circumstance,
of body or of mind,
of tearing of the fragile soul.
The world is filled with tears.

From other eyes the liquid leaps for joy
like ocean spray and seething foam,
a coruscating rainbow of delight.
The world is filled with tears.

Oh, Holy One, I do not pray
for you to dry our tears today,
but that we weep, relieved of fear.
Oh, let these be our tears.

The image is a detail of the figure of Mary Magdalene in the sculpture The Entombment of Christ in the Church of St. Martin, Arc-en-Barrois, France. Photo by User:Vassil – File:Sépulcre_Arc-en-Barrois_111008_12.jpg, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16942922.

First Commandment

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A brightly colored painting showing two women facing forward, both showing grief, with a third holding the shoulders of one from behind, face hidden. Two other women show signs of grief at right and to the rear.

“One of the scribes came near and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well he asked him, ‘Which commandment is the first of all?’ Jesus answered, ‘The first is, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.” The second is this, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” There is no other commandment greater than these.'” – Mark 12:28-31

The scribe approved your words, or so says Mark,
and silenced all the snare-deploying crowd.
Yet he might ask (and yes, in Luke he did)
“Who is my neighbor to receive my love?”

Then you, Redeemer, might have said
(though you did not, or so says Luke),
“Look to the Book of Ruth, to what is written there:
‘I will not leave you. Do not press me.

“‘Where you journey, I will go.
And where you stop, there I will take my rest.
Your people shall be mine, and more:
Your God shall be my God.'”

A poem/prayer based on Mark 12:28-34, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading, and Ruth 1:1-18, the First Reading, for Year B, Proper 26 (31).

The image is Whither Thou Goest: Naomi and Ruth by Rupert Bunny – http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/360/rupert-bunny-whither-thou-goest.jpg/4079790, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=56415654.