“Then the devil left [Jesus], and suddenly angels came and waited on him.” – Matthew 4:11
He challenged you, Jesus. Summon the angels! They won’t let you fall. You won’t have a bruise on your heel, Nor a strike from a snake.
You said no. No to bread. No to flight. No to glory (that fails to transcend all the kingdoms of earth).
Then he left. And who came? Yes, the angels. The angels. They were hovering ’round, And they brought you relief.
Well, Jesus, I’m tempted. So tempted, you know, so hungry and weary, confused and distressed.
Where are the angels? Will they tend my bruises? Will they feed my hungers? Where are the angels, Jesus the Christ?
“There are angels hov’ring ’round.”
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 4:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, First Sunday in Lent.
The image is Weite Gebirgslandschaft mit der Versuchung Christi (Vast Mountain Landscape with the Temptation of Christ) by Jan Brueghel the Elder – dorotheum.com heruntergeladen am 30. September 2012, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21801997.
“Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became bright as light.” – Matthew 17:1-2
Bright with light, walking with the prophets, hailed by holy voice that stunned the clouds and silenced even Simon Peter: Jesus the Beloved Son of God.
Transfigured on the mountaintop.
At mountain’s foot, however, trouble lay, because a demon would not be rebuked by any of the nine disciples there. “Where can I find the mustard seed of faith?” they asked.
I grant you they had missed the mountaintop.
But Peter, James, and John, who’d seen the sight, had heard the voice, been silenced clean: how had they been transfigured? Were they changed? Did they bring nourishment to their own mustard seeds?
For they had known the mountaintop.
Yet Peter asked if there were limits on forgiveness. He wondered what he’d gain from following his Lord. While James and John coopted their own mother to secure a place of power.
Though they had been upon the mountaintop.
When Jesus brought the three apart again, this time into a corner of Gethsemane, their bodies ruled their spirits, and they slept, while Jesus wept the bitter tears of grief and fear.
Had they forgotten about the mountaintop?
Approaching soldiers woke them. Weariness no longer slowed them. As blood streamed from a stricken servant’s ear, the three who’d seen and heard the most took to their heels and fled.
Had they been changed upon the mountaintop?
One found his courage and his way back to the courtyard of the trial, but did not bring his name. Three times they asked, three times he cried, “I do not know the man!”
He’d known him on the mountaintop.
So Jesus, here I stand, at best an image in a mirror darkly of those first disciples. I am not the person I would like to be, say nothing of the follower whom you expect.
And I was never on that mountaintop.
Yet truly, you have summoned me by less dramatic means than brilliant clouds and stunning voices on the wind, to be your follower, your servant, and your friend.
But have I been transfigured by the mountaintop?
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 17:1-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Transfiguration Sunday.
You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid.
“[Jesus said,] ‘People do not light a lamp put it under the bushel basket; rather they put it on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.'” Matthew 5:15-16
You sure do build on Scripture, Jesus. God told Abraham that he and Sarah would become a blessing to the nations of the world, to all the families of Earth.
A pity that he promptly lied and said his wife was not his wife, and gave her up to Pharaoh for a concubine, which cursed the land, afflicted every family.
Isaiah comforted survivors of a great destruction after years had passed, declaring that the people, soon renewed, would shine a beacon to the aching world.
A pity that so many kept the ways that frustrated the prophets years before, preferring their own wealth and potency and damming justice’ waters lest they flow.
Well, Jesus, to fulfill the broken Law and bring to life the prophets’ promised call will call for more than human frailty, unseasoned salt, or lamp without a flame.
Can we fulfill what you came to fulfill? Can we preserve and season all the Earth? Can we be candles brilliant in the dark? Can we be great in Heaven’s realm of life?
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 5:13-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany.
The image is “The Candle,” an etching by Jan Luyken illustrating Matthew 5:15 in the Bowyer Bible, Bolton, England (1795). Bowyer Bible photos contributed to Wikimedia Commons by Phillip Medhurst – Photo by Harry Kossuth, FAL, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7550068.
“And he began to speak and taught them, saying: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'” – Matthew 5:2-3
By God, you’ve got it so wrong, Jesus. Do you really not know? That’s not how it works.
The poor in spirit won’t receive the kingdom of heaven. The poor in spirit are poor by their own negligence. They could be rich, you know, if they made the right choice, invested in the things that bring them gain, ignored the claims of other obligations, engaged in fraud, then they’d be rich…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
The ones who mourn, will they be comforted? There’s a whole industry to comfort them. They’ll pay for it, of course, because who wants to write insurance for a mental health distress? If they were rich, they’d comfort themselves…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
The meek? Don’t make me laugh. The earth belongs to those who take and seize and hold it firm. The meek are those who follow orders barked by armed and masked anonymous authorities. The meek are not entitled to the earth…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
Now how can you assert that anyone is hungering for righteousness? We have the law (that serves me well) and isn’t that enough? And if we bend it some to punish those we’ve in advance condemned, we will not satisfy this thirst of sentimental saps…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
I see the people who cry, “Mercy!” stand between the human vultures and their prey, and hear them ask the victims if they are OK, and tell the wolves, “That’s fine, dude. I’m not mad at you,” and they receive the mercy I expect…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
As for the pure in heart, they can be pure as pure they wish to be. But if they live where I don’t want them to, and if they live on land I want, well. They’ll just have to move. If they resist, they will see God for sure…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
Now if I claim to be a peacemaker and threaten nations with invasion after blowing boats to kingdom come and killing their survivors, you’ll give to me the prize of Child of God? That’s right…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
Once more I tell you, Jesus, not one soul is persecuted for their righteousness. They suffer for their crimes, the crimes that I decide, the story that I tell, and I alone. Not heaven theirs, but hell, and hell on earth…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
And tell me, Jesus, who you think has been oppressed or injured for their loyalty to you? We pepper spray the ministers who resist us, not for their faith in you. Do you maintain that they are marching in the streets on your behalf?
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
By God, you’ve got it so wrong, Jesus. Do you really not know? That’s not how it works.
And Jesus wept.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 5:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany.
The image is “The Sermon on the Mount,” woodcut by Lucas Cranach the Elder, from his Passion Christ und Antichrist, Herzog Anton Ulrich-Museum, Braunschweig (1582) – Digitised image, Rheinisches Bildarchiv, Köln, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=50665418.
“As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea for they were fishers. And he said to them, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fishers of people.'” – Matthew 4:18-19
Matthew left it out, of course. What did you tell them, Jesus?
“Hey, guys, I’m sort of on the run since they took John, although they probably don’t know my name, so that’s all right, you think? Come follow me.
“Now mind you, folks will hear my name, and quickly, too, if I am any judge. They’ll come even from Syria to seek some healing for their bodies and their souls. Come follow me.
“I’m sure no one will think to look for me atop a mountain peak – unless they follow those who follow me, and frankly guys, I hope to leave a wide and beaten track. Come follow me.
“Now come along. We’ve work to do that doesn’t need a net. No, we’re as likely to be caught in Roman or Herodian nets as John. They’ll lift us high – but not as high as God will raise us all. Come follow me.”
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 4:12-23, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday after the Epiphany.
“When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, ‘What are you looking for?'” – John 1:38
Well, Teacher, I’ve been following you for forty-five years and more, and yet: I don’t think I can tell you what I’m looking for.
It’s such an awkward question.
Like Andrew and his long-forgotten friend (what happened to him, anyway?), if you asked me I’d say something inane.
“Where are you staying, Teacher?”
You know, I know, they knew that wasn’t why they took those steps from John the Baptist’s side to yours.
But how were they to answer what they didn’t know?
And I, with decades as a follower, with decades as a teacher of your flock, with years of writing poem prayers to you,
I still don’t know.
What am I looking for in you? A place of honor, a big frog in what seems like a shrinking pond?
That would be silly, wouldn’t it?
Might I be looking for some meaning in a world that seems to shed its sense and sense of morals, too?
Can you make sense of what’s nonsensical?
Could I be looking for a safe embrace, for arms extended wide, to hold me fiercely, gently, for all time?
I could. I could indeed.
But most of all, dear Teacher, I suspect I’m looking for the One who’ll listen to my babbled nonsense answer, and
Reply with, “Come and see.”
A poem/prayer based on John 1:29-42, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Second Sunday after the Epiphany.
The image is Vocation de Saint Jean et de Saint André (The Calling of Saint John and Saint Andrew) by James Tissot (between 1886 and 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.55_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10195829.
“Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now, for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.’ Then he consented.” – Matthew 3:13-15
I wonder.
How many of the senior teachers, how many of the higher priests who gathered with the laborers, the tax collectors, soldiers, on the riverbank in search of some forgiveness through the flowing stream, thought secretly or not so secretly that they, not John, should wash away the sins to be forgiven, or would rather send the penitent to climb the slopes and pay the price charged by the Temple vendors who would scatter later at the wrath of Christ?
How many would have said, “Let it be so for now,” and bowed their heads to wash as Jesus did? Or did they huff upon the bank and claim that they were justified no matter what they’d done, or others seen, recorded, understood, and known for wrong? How many would have roared that they alone determined right or wrong, despite the blood which dripped into the Jordan from their hands?
How many would have humbled pride of place?
Events of then or now suggest it would be very few.
Perhaps: just one.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 3:13-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Baptism of Christ.
“But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.'” – Matthew 1:20-21
Let me dream with you, Joseph, just for a moment.
Let us dream together that our trust is well placed. Let us dream together of a promise fulfilled.
Let us dream together of a God who is with us. Let us dream together of a break in the gloom.
Let us dream together, waking newly resolved. Let us dream together and see a new day.
Let me dream with you, Joseph, just for a moment.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 1:18-25, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday of Advent.
The image is a 12th century fresco of Joseph’s Dream and Joseph and Mary with the Cherry Tree (bizarrely misunderstood as Adam and Eve) in the crypt of the Notre-Dame Gargilesse church, Gargilesse-Dampierre, France. Photo by Daniel VILLAFRUELA, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19347294.
“When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?'” – Matthew 11:2-3
John, there you are, imprisoned by a king whom you had castigated for a sexual misdeed and took it badly. Beyond the stony walls, you hear, another speaks your word: “Repent!”
“The realm of God is near!”
You know this one. You baptized him despite your protests that he should have baptized you. The water has flowed on beneath the bridge, incarcerating you and prompting him to speak:
“The realm of God is near!”
I’m with you, John, if not behind those iron bars, I’m with you in the need to know: “Are you the One?”… and I believe he is the One, and preach that faith as truth! There is no faith without anxiety, for me as well as you.
“The realm of God is near!”
You said, “I’ve got to know,” and John, I hope you knew to hear about the healing and the good news for the poor. It’s what I hang my hope on, and my faith, and why I trust in God’s eternal love.
“The realm of God is near!”
You know, I hope, wherever you may be today your faith and hope and trust moved in the world alive and powerful and merciful. And I will trust, like you, that our Anointed One still lives.
“The realm of God is near!”
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 11:2-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday of Advent.
The image is The Imprisonment of John the Baptist, one of the mosaics in the Baptistery of Saint John, Florence, Italy, unknown artist (early 1300s). Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=41892074.
A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.
Isaiah 11:1-2
I hate to break it to you, Isaiah. But then, perhaps you know already. You saw it, after all, in Hezekiah, who trusted in the word of God and watched the army of Assyria retreat from Jerusalem’s walls, but then succumbed to royal pride and showed his wealth to greedy eyes.
These shoots of Jesse had their moments, true, the worst had flashes of your wisdom. But they let the widows cry for justice, let the orphans cry for food, while they enriched the wealthy, fed the full. The best of them, like Hezekiah, fell afoul of hubris like their ancestors before.
And then, Isaiah, came a child anointed by the Holy Spirit, who embraced your words, declared they’d been fulfilled, and best of all with mercy, stories, grace, and healing brought them to fulfillment. You would have cheered to see this shoot of Jesse blossom and bear fruit.
You would have cheered to see the fishermen, the shepherds and the farmers, even tax collectors, daughters of Jerusalem, embark on journeys up and down the land to seek his healing and his word.
They cheered to see the lepers cleansed. They told his stories to their neighbors with excitement and enthusiasm. They affirmed a humble man from Galilee as Christ.
They could not save him, though, Isaiah, from the fear and might of powerful men. They seized him and they beat him.
They called him rebel, and they nailed him to a tree, and jeered to see him suffer there and die.
Isaiah, human folly is enough to break your heart.
A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 11:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Second Sunday of Advent.
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