Jesus

Grim Stories

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments


“By faith Rahab the prostitute did not perish with those who were disobedient, because she had received the spies in peace. And what more should I say? For time would fail me to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, of David and Samuel and the prophets…” – Hebrews 11:31-32

Rahab and Samson, heroic opposites.
She was the foreigner betraying her nation,
saved by her pledge to the ruthless invader.
Her neighbors all died, but she and her family did not.

Samson the Strong, a leader and judge,
praised for his strength but not for his folly.
Like Rahab, he trusted an enemy, losing his strength.
But when it returned, he died with his foes.

Grim heroes. Grim stories of warfare,
betrayal, coercion, and death. No wonder
that neither received “the promise” in full.
How could they, when the promise of Jesus is life?

A poem/prayer based on Hebrews 11:29:12:2, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Proper 15 (20).

The image is of two mosaics in Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome (ca. 430). Above: Joshua meets the commander of the Lord’s army. Below: Israel’s scouts flee from Jericho, aided by Rahab. Photo by Fabrizio Garrisi – Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=157025271.

You Fool

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A skeleton stands beyond a seated man in fine clothes with food and coins before him.

“But God said to him, ‘You fool!'” – Luke 12:20

It hardly seems fair to call him a fool.
Call him a practical man,
call him far-seeing,
call him descendant of Joseph, I say.

What did he do when faced with a surplus?
He saved! Did the thing I’ve been told since a lad
I’m to do with the coins that remain.
When the rainy days comes, I’ve been told, they’ll be there.

In Egypt, the dreams of a monarch warned Joseph,
“Prepare when it’s fruitful for days when it’s not.”
And so I’ve been taught (if not followed so well),
and so I have urged when it’s my turn to tell.

What’s wrong the rich man? Why was he a fool?
He followed the ancient advice to the letter:
Built barns that would hold all a good year
produced; saved grain for the needs a bad year would demand.

Is that what he did? No, he said, “I’ll make merry
with all of my goods in my barns and my hand.
I might give a pink slip to all of my workers.
They’ve done all I want, and I want to be done.”

Whose will the grain be? And whose all the wealth
when the soul and the body divorce in the night?
Not his. He has gone where the soul is the seed,
and gold is the spirit which he had ignored.

How easy, how likely, to play such a fool,
to mistake greed for prudence and pride
for precaution. How often, I wonder, have I
played the fool, for much lesser riches

And hubris as great? You know, Storyteller,
and though you disclaim it, I know that
you judge with a knowledge I lack.
Though I’ve no grain for barns,

And no fruit for freezers, I’ll spend
what I have for the people around me:
a poem, a song, or even a sermon.
May God bless these gifts. May God bless us all.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 12:13-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 13 (18).

The image is Der reiche Mann und der Tod (The Rich Man and Death) by David Kindt (1622) – CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22079990.

I really like this painting. Subtle it’s not.

Who Do You Say I Am?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 6 Comments

“And he sent messengers ahead of him. On their way they entered a village of the Samaritans to prepare for his arrival, but they did not receive him because his face was set toward Jerusalem. When his disciples James and John saw this, they said, ‘Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?’ But he turned and rebuked them.” – Luke 9:52-55

Did I not ask you, not so long ago, who you say I am?
James? John? Do you remember that?
I guess you thought I was Elijah, after all
(or that you were?), to call down fire
on the captains and the fifties, or onto their
Samaritan descendants in this village.

Did I not say that those who’ll follow me will bear
a cross, and lose their life to save it? And were
you listening to me, or to your glorious dreams?
No wonder that the heavenly voice which called me “Son”
demanded that you listen to me – since you weren’t.
And now you want to destroy lives with heavenly fire.

Well, no, my friends, we won’t do that.
We’ll make our way on by, and take our rest
where people offer welcome out of grace,
not out of threat, and we will tread
a Via Dolorosa, you and I and all our friends,
to show God’s love will not be bounded by

rejection much more thorough, drenched
in blood’s finality, a breath unfinished,
body broken, and forsaken by my friends.
No, James and John, the world is filled with fires;
no need to summon them from heaven’s vault.
What’s needed is to love, and love, and love.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 9:51-62, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 8 (13).

Photo of lava fountains on Kilauea by Eric Anderson (May 25, 2025).

Not as the World Gives

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

[Jesus said,] “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” – John 14:27

The world gave to you the way it gives, Lord:
Resentment, suspicion, condemnation, violence.
At the table you offered your peace to your friends.
In the garden, at the cross, peace fell away.

I pray, give to me as you give, not the world.
The world still loves to condemn and coerce.
In your peace I just might be able to stand,
my spirit unbowed by all evil’s power.

A poem/prayer based on John 14:23-29, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Sixth Sunday of Easter.

The image is The Last Supper by Jacopo Tintoretto (between 1579 and 1581) – Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15542032.

Tintoretto painted more than one Last Supper. The chaotic atmosphere of this image drew me in, even as I was writing about peace, because peace in the chaos is our great challenge.

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.

Light in a Stable

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” – John 1:9

The true light may now be at hand,
but the light is lit by flickering flame
and smoky wick. I watch that light
with anxious eye, for fear it spread
its burning oil on the straw below.

The light unsteady served to hide
the dark green sticky contents of
that first cloth barrier, wrapped
inexpertly by unaccustomed fingers round
the infant’s flailing hips,

But did not muffle his fierce cries
of outrage testifying that the light
has lungs! Re-swaddled, he subsides,
and sleeps re-laid into the feeding trough,
while grateful stable denizens rest, too.

The midwife gone, the man and I
trade naps, and watch, and wait
for his next cry. Will he be hungry?
Dirty? Lonely? Or just angry that
the borrowed cloth moves roughly on his skin?

“The light shines in the darkness,” they will write,
and I suppose it does. It murmurs sleepily,
then coos a moment, then subsides.
The crude light wavers at the breeze,
and shadows waver on incarnate light asleep.

I am too weary to compose a poem;
I ache in every muscle, every bone.
I cannot help but think that this poor babe,
in manger laid, could shine so bright
this stable would be taken for a star.

For now, the light is dimmed,
and in its dimness I, at least, can see
that lovelight shines most clearly here,
in common human form, and in
the dark.

A poem/prayer based on John 1:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday after Christmas Day.

The image is The Nativity, a section of the 13th century altar frontal of St. Mary of Avia Church in Bergueda, Catalonia, Spain, by an unknown artist. The frontal itself is in the National Art Museum of Catalonia in Barcelona. Photo by Enfo – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21384531.

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.

That’s Asking a Lot, Jesus

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

[Jesus said,] “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” – John 6:51

I, well…. Jesus, I do not approve.

The metaphor is… gross.
For me, the living bread
is molding in the back
of my refrigerator.
Whoever eats that bread
may never die because
the penicillin analogues
within it will suffice
to sweep the viruses
and bacilli away.

The metaphor is gross.
Not stopping there, you up
the stakes, from moldy bread
(OK, my imagery) to feast
of cannibals (and that,
my Savior, is entirely on you).
Though not quite two
millennia have passed
with broken bread/Christ’s body,
it’s still a foul thing to say.

The metaphor is gross,
not just for what it pictures,
but for what it then demands.
Your flesh, our bread? Then you
are what sustains, on you
we must rely, in you we find
our nourishment, in you
we live our life. No wonder they
protested, knowing that you claimed
the place and power of God.

The metaphor is gross,
the message so demanding, that
despite my many years of faith,
despite my years of leadership
within the Church, the gathering
we grossly call your body, I
still hesitate, still wonder: Can
a human body really mediate
for God? Oh, I believe,
but help, I pray, my unbelief.

A poem/prayer based on John 6:51-58, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 15 (20).

The image is Feeding the Multitude by Daniel of Uranc (1433) – photograph by Michel Bakni, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=98280902.

You Want to Know Where I’m Staying?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

Well, no. I don’t.
Well actually I do. Because it’s heaven, right?
But no. Not now. It doesn’t really matter because
what I really want to know is:

Who you are.

He said to them, “Come and see.” (John 1:39a)

A poem/prayer based on John 1:29-42, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel reading for Year A, Second Sunday after Epiphany.

The image is The Calling of Saints Peter and Andrew by Caravaggio – Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1734712.