Value

“[Jesus said,] ‘Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it?'”

What is the value of a single coin?
Not much today, when we make money
with printing upon paper, or with
electronic imagination.

What is the value of a single coin?
It might be little even in those ancient days,
unless, of course, it was a tenth
of everything she owned.

What is the value of a single coin?
It might be food to take me through the day,
or into a coming week,
or possibly next year.

What is the value of a single coin?
Enough to set me searching high and low,
to bear the cost of burning oil in the lamp,
to celebrate the sudden silver gleam amidst the dark.

What is the value of a single coin?
A better question might be this:
What is the value of a single human soul?
Enough, said Jesus, for the heavens to rejoice.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 15:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 19 (24).

The image is Parable of the Lost Drachma by Domenico Fetti (1618) – Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15453383.

Hearts Sprinkled Clean… for?

“…Let us approach with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water.” – Hebrews 10:22

There are mornings when I revel in the water
which cascades along my form and carries off
the aggravating dust and clinging grime.

In likewise do I cast my grateful soul
into refreshment of a loving God,
who takes away the grunge, the guilt, the shame.

And then I step upon the shower mat,
to towel off the residue of cleanliness,
prepare to wrap my form in clothing for the day.

In likewise does my soul release forgiveness’ bliss,
replenished to the work which lies ahead,
and clothed (we hope) in righteousness’ array:

Provoking those around to love, to acts
of doing good, to mercy shared, to meet and raise
the courage of those souls who’d do the same.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 12:38-44, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 27 (32).

Photo by Eric Anderson

The Awkward Hour

“[Jesus said,] ‘…there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.'” – Mark 7:15

The awkward hour – well, not quite an hour –
takes place each morn as I step in the shower.
While water cascades on my form and soap dislodges
clinging dust, my memory tunes to regret.

I sigh into the foam.

I’ve plenty to regret, and hope that you have less.
I recall failed relationships, the ways I’ve failed
my family and friends. I wonder how I’ve grieved
my God – and wonder, too, how I can claim to wonder…

My feet shift with discomfort.

The exercise might be worthwhile if
it prompted me to understandings new,
new ways to make amends, repair what had
gone wrong, but mostly I just grieve.

I close my eyes against the shampoo’s sting.

Symbolically, I’m doing all I can to cleanse,
but in my spirit: no. These demons have not been
expelled. They live quite happily within
my memories and recollected thoughts.

Knobs turned, the water does not fall.

Yes, Jesus, it is from within these things emerge,
defiling once again my spirit, laying low
my joy in you. I ask myself, “Why do this to yourself?”
and know I am not reconciled to me.

I pray that I am reconciled to you.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 17 (22).

Photo by D O’Neil, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=682251.

Forgiveness and the Internet

May 30, 2024

I wrote this essay on May 30, 2010, as a Facebook “Note.” Those Notes are getting harder to recover, and so when I’ve found one that I still appreciate, I’ve been adding them to my blog here. The original title was “Forgiving the Internet,” but I’ve revised that. I’ve also made revisions that reflect the intervening fourteen years since its composition.

My career in ministry has been marked with a consistent theme: I repeatedly find myself doing things that I either utterly failed to anticipate, or that I specifically said that I’d never do. I actually said aloud in seminary that I never wanted to serve as an interim pastor; I spent nearly ten years doing just that. For seventeen years I spent the vast majority of my time on electronic publishing and communication media that simply didn’t exist when I graduated from school over twenty years before. Today I serve a church on Hawai’i Island, a place I never imagined I’d visit, let alone live.

With the rise in social networking, I led a number of workshops on the Church’s relationship to social networking phenomena, and how to adapt ‘safe church’ practices to the virtual world. While these utilities were still very young themselves (Facebook was only six years old when I composed this essay), I was obviously just one step ahead of anyone in the workshop groups, and sometimes two or three steps behind…

But there’s a characteristic of the Internet that, I think, cries out for a word from the Church, from Christians, and from people of a wide variety of faiths. The characteristic is the longevity, the durability of information in the Internet. My workshop leadership partner successfully found the text of a paper she’d submitted for a class in the 80’s — somehow, it had been posted to a database, ‘spidered’ by Google, and there it was for anyone to find.

At the same time, we keep hearing of firms and institutions evaluating the applications of potential employees with searches of the Internet and, particularly, of their ‘personal’ social networking profiles. According to a 2009 Proofpoint study, 8% of US companies with over 1,000 employees had fired staff for misbehavior related to social networking. How many weren’t hired in the first place?

In the past, we’ve been able to leave our errors behind us. The indiscretions of youth, the sins of ignorance, and the painfully-overcome failures associated with addictions or with strongly-held, sadly mistaken beliefs. Graduation, change of residence, change of job, new affiliations all brought a New Start.

With the Internet, we’ve probably lost that, and it’s probably gone for good.

So we’re going to have to learn to forgive.

I can’t think of anything more counter-cultural, neither at the time I first composed this reflection or at this moment. This is a judgmental time. The ideological politics we bewail has deep roots in the inability to tolerate or forgive dissent. A political victory in one issue makes collaboration on another issue prohibitively difficult.

In 2008, the United States led the world in the percentage of its population which was behind bars. I strongly suspect that in prior years, and in other countries, at least some of those imprisoned offenders would have been confronted differently than they are today.

With the political mechanisms paralyzed, with huge numbers of citizens released from prisons and anticipating a short stay ‘outside’ before they’re returned, with all of our long-since-forgotten but electronically preserved peccadilloes waiting for us to find them again, we’d better learn to forgive.

Forgiveness is not the same as forgetting, and it never was. Forgiveness does not release anyone from responsibility. I’d argue that until there is repentance, there can be no forgiveness.

Forgiveness is the restoration of relationship; it is the acknowledgement of prior failure and the commitment to a new way of success. Forgiveness reinforces responsibility even as it relieves the offender from the consequences of offending.

Forgiveness has always been a foundational Christian value. It has always strengthened families and communities. It has always been praised when publicly displayed — remember Pope John Paul II and his attempted assassin, Mehmet Ali Agca — while simultaneously dismissed as a virtue with utility in the ‘real world.’

The real world and the virtual world now, I think, demand that we deliberately, systematically, and steadfastly employ this virtue of forgiveness. When forgetfulness will no longer permit new life, then forgiveness must take its place.

I think this is one of the central challenges for the Church of Jesus Christ in this age: to summon society to this new virtue, for its survival and salvation.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

If You Do Not

“[Jesus said,] ‘So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.'” – Matthew 18:35

I’ve done it, Jesus. I have granted my release
to people who have hurt me. They confessed their fault,
they offered restitution. I said, “I forgive you,”
and I meant it. We reforged our peace.

I’ve done it, Jesus. I have bade farewell
to consequences that I might have asked.
Though truthfully, I’d never have received them
from these ones who never owned their harm.

I’ve done it, Jesus. I have asked for true
confession from the ones who’ve hurt me, though
they’ve offered only their excuse and not
acknowledged any harm.

And I wish that I could do it, Jesus.
I wish that I could set aside the hurt
that aches within, despite the glib assurance
that they hurt me, “for the best.”

What is forgiveness offered when I’m told
my hurt was for my good, my harm
a temporary thing, when it has lingered
on and on and on?

I’ve done it, Jesus. But
I do not think
I can
do this.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 18:21-35, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 19 (24).

The image is The Parable of the King and His Servants by Lawrence W. Ladd (ca. 1880) – http://americanart.si.edu/collections/search/artwork/?id=14161, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=60792927.

Harsh Prophet

Were I to descend to the riverside, John,
fiery prophet, baptizing fiercely,
were I to descend to seek holy forgiveness:
What would you call me? A viper? A snake?
What would you call me? A coward? A hoax?
What would you call me? Irrelevant? Dull?
What would you call me, religious authority…

And would I descend to the riverside, John,
fiery prophet, baptizing fiercely,
would I dare to seek holy forgiveness of you:
Not knowing if you would bring shame to my name.
Not knowing if you would despise my remorse.
Not knowing if you would discount my devotion.
Not knowing how deeply you see in my soul…

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 3:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year A, Second Sunday of Advent.

The image is a 19th century wood carving of John the Baptist preaching at the riverside in the Church of the Assumption and St Nicholas, Etchingham, England. Photo by Poliphilo – Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=80795653.

Today I am with You

Today I am with you, dear Jesus, drenched
with tears to see the shepherd-wolves, the ones
who bay and scatter all the desperate flock,
rapaciously defending their carnivorous pack.

Today I am with you, dear Jesus,
looking for that so elusive Righteous Branch,
and longing that the fear may fade in those
who seek a refuge from the flood incarnadine.

Today I am with you, dear Jesus, though
I hang not on a cross of my deserving,
save as witness horrified at this:
humanity’s appalling inhumanity.

I turn to look at you, dear Jesus, and
I see your tortured arms, your blood-streaked face,
and say, “Remember me, O Jesus, on
that precious day you come into your holy realm.”

And then, O Jesus, pray: What do you say?

A poem/prayer based on Luke 23:33-43, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year C, Proper 29, Reign of Christ Sunday.

Photo of a Holy Week procession in Valladolid, Spain, by Porquenopuedo – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2066881.

On a Limb

Hi, there, Zacchaeus, come down!

Who are you, Zacchaeus, you active tree-climber?
As a child you scamper up into the branches.
All eager you rattle the leaves with your grasping.
Will you be the last and the least to see Jesus? Oh, no!

Hi, there, Zacchaeus, come down!

Who are you, Zacchaeus, you chief tax collector?
We see through the leaves your elegant clothing.
The gleam of the gold even now catches sunlight.
What need has a wealthy man of this poor prophet?

Hi, there, Zacchaeus, come down!

Who are you, Zacchaeus, returned to ground panting?
A sinner reformed, or the one we misjudged?
Shall we read your salvation as urgent repentance
or sudden reunion with those who rejected you?

Hi, there, Zacchaeus, come down!

Who are you, Zacchaeus, mystery of ages?
Can I turn your lostness to my restoration?
Can I swing from branches and catch Jesus’ eye?
Will he call to me as to you on a limb?

Hi, there, Zacchaeus, come down!

A poem/prayer based on Luke 19:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Second reading for Year C, Proper 26.

The image is Zachée sur le sycomore attendant le passage de Jésus by James Tissot – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.189_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10904526.

At the Gate

Can God forgive what I will not repent?

“And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores…” – Luke 16:20

Silently hungry, silently suffering,
there at the gate.
Silently sick, silently homeless,
there at the gate.

They are the gates of nations.
They are the gates of cities.
They are the gates of families.
They are the gates of… me.

Silently hungry, silently suffering,
there at the gate.
Silently sick, silently homeless,
there at the gate.

Lay there, Lazarus, lay there.
Hold your silence. Hold your peace.
Hold your hunger. Hold your illness.
Hold your need. I…

I will hold my greed.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 16:19-31, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year C, Proper 21.

The painting is the Parable of Lazarus by Fyodor Bronnikov, ca. 1886 – http://etnaa.mylivepage.ru/image/411/12132_ПритчаоЛазаре._1886.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9882122.

God’s Weeping

Hosea

My heart recoils within me; my compassion grows warm and tender.
– Hosea 11:8

What do I hear on the wind?

Is it the sighing of a dove?
Or the sighing of a deity
watching warmly, tenderly
as the Creator’s children stray?

What do I hear in the trees?

Is it resilience in motion?
Or the groans of a deity
swaying in unison
with the Earth’s moaning?

What do I hear on the waves?

Is it the rhythm of ocean?
Or the sobs of a deity
embracing the suffering
of all They have made?

What do I hear in the cosmos?

Is it the cry of expansion?
Or the wrath of a deity
frustrated with evil
beyond all endurance?

What do I hear in the Earth?

Is it the silence of affection?
Or a deity’s anger
cooling, reforming,
bearing us upon forgiveness?

What do I hear?

A poem/prayer based on Hosea 11:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary alternate first reading for Year C, Proper 13.

The image of Hosea comes from the Menologion of Basileiou, an 11th century illuminated Byzantine manuscript. Artist unknown – http://digi.vatlib.it/view/MSS_Vat.gr.1613/0141?sid=a7590df9b8aca22111c8359533716419&zoomlevel=4, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20645325.