“The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” – Mark 1:1
“John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” – Mark 1:4
My life needs refreshing – turn around. My body is aching – turn around. My soul needs renewing – turn around. My sad eyes are streaming – turn around.
Turn us around, John, turn us around. Turn us and spin us to cleanse us today. Turn us around, John, turn us around. We’re desperate for living anew.
He came to the shore – turn around. To be baptized by John – turn around. The first to be bathed in the Spirit of God Was Jesus himself – turn around.
Turn us around, John, turn us around. We look for what’s greater than we – turn around. Turn us around, John, turn us around. Equip us for living anew.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:1-8, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Second Sunday of Advent.
The image is John the Baptist in the Wilderness, artist unknown but in the manner of Jusepe de Ribera – Royal Collection, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=92145938. The smile on the Baptist’s face suggests, to me at least, that he knows something about me and it amuses him.
“But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory.” – Mark 13:24-26
Outside my window, Jesus, I see clouds (and sun; no moon). The clouds will bring us rain in fifteen minutes, thereabouts.
They will not bring the end of history.
Heaven and earth remain with us. So do your words, of course. Some stoke the watching fires, peering into day and night.
They have not seen the end of history.
Perhaps we have it wrong. Perhaps rain’s immanence is not the story of the clouds, nor do they promise Christ’s return.
They do not bring the end of history.
But just perhaps, if I look close, in leaden billows or in silver froth, I’ll see in them a mirror image of their blessed Creator.
They need not bear the end of history.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 13:24-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, First Sunday of Advent.
“Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps.” – Matthew 25:2-4
Be ready, you told us, Jesus, over and over. Watch the fig trees. Watch for floods. One will go, one will be left. Do your work. Fuel your lamps. Invest your talents. Care for the sick, imprisoned, and needy.
Over and over: “Be ready.”
Be ready to shine. Be ready to care. Be ready to share. Be ready to welcome. Be ready to celebrate. Be ready to help. Be ready. Be ready. Be ready.
But.
Jesus, for how long?
If the groom had been on time, ten glowing lamps would have illuminated him along the way.
Not five.
How long? How much extra fuel will keep my lamp alight to welcome you? How much investment of my talents? How many welcomed, visited, assisted?
How long, belated bridegroom Christ? How long?
Just so you know I know: the only source to feed the lamp of human light, the only place to fill the soul is you, O God. Is you.
If I am to endure to shine before you, fill my lamp, O God, my flasks and barrels. Only with your aid will my light shine today, tomorrow, and in days to come.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 25:1-13, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 27 (33).
Photo by Eric Anderson. I know it’s of a tealight candle, not an oil lamp, but I like this picture.
“[Jesus said,] ‘They do all their deeds to be seen by others; for they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long.'” – Matthew 23:5
Some of my stoles have fringes. Some do not.
I can’t say that the fringes influence my choice of stole for Sunday worship.
“Does the color match the season, or the day (or can I tell myself it matches) Sunday morn?”
And though I’ve heard from colleagues once or twice, “Why wear a stole to worship in these islands?” still I move the hangers on the valet rod each week to place upon my neck the cloth cascade of color, which may, or may not, terminate in fringe.
I take the best seat in the room. I’m greeted by my title in the shops. I stand where you can see me in the sanctuary or on screen.
And pray – so deeply pray – not to be worthy of the call (who could be, and who ever was?) but to be modest in the call and stand aside so that a greater light may shine, illuminating greater things
than me.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 23:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 26 (31).
“Then Moses, the servant of the LORD, died there in the land of Moab, at the Lord’s command. He was buried in a valley in the land of Moab, opposite Beth-peor, but no one knows his burial place to this day.” – Deuteronomy 34:5-6
Note: The Hebrew text can be read that the LORD buried Moses after his death.
“Lay it down, Moses. You have walked and climbed and spoken and shouted and struck and fed and led for many, many years. Lay it down, old friend. Your limbs have carried you, and now you rest.”
In view of promises that he had spoken, he gently took a breath, and let it go. Unequaled prophet of the once enslaved, now free, his spirit spread its wings in eager flight.
They mourned him thirty days down in the valley, never knowing where his flesh, at last at rest, remained. Did Joshua ascend the slopes to dig, or did an angel’s hands move dust for Moses’ clay?
In decades past, they’d panicked when he’d disappeared upon the rumbling heights. With Moses’ final song still shivering in their ears, they wept and grieved, and if they climbed, they never found the prophet’s grave.
Today you’ll find a monument to Moses at the summit of Mount Nebo, a shrine to mark a grave at Nabi Musa near the road to Jericho, but Moses’ grave was hidden from the folk he’d led.
They mourned this time without an idol’s aid, not even the small comfort of a tended grave. The leadership had passed unto another generation. Was that enough to satisfy their grief?
Or was it simply that they’d seen, at last, through passing of the years, that Moses’ legacy was they, themselves, the once enslaved now free, their lives his monument less brittle than the stones.
Though Moses died, his people lived. Though Moses died, his people found a home. Though Moses died, another generation rose. Though Moses died, and though I die, the grace of God lives on.
A poem/prayer based on Deuteronomy 34:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year A, Proper 25 (30).
Then [Jesus] said to them, “Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” – Matthew 22:21
Nobody asked, “What things are God’s?” for fear, perhaps, you’d speak the answer then: “All things belong to God; all things, including you.”
Two millennia we’ve focused our attention on the first, imperial, clause, debating what the monarch, governor, or mayor should receive,
As if what they received did not belong to God, both when the coins were in our hands and when they’d dropped into official palms. They still belong to God.
As crimson cascades in its gruesome torrents from the slain of Israel and Gaza, of Ukraine, Myanmar, Maghreb, of Russia and Sudan,
Of Mexico and Ethiopia, and dozens, scores, of nations bled by fewer deaths but still, too many when the the only number should be, “none,”
What do you tell us now, in our imperial power? Do you hold out the twenty dollar bill and say, “Please, not like this. Oh, not like this”?
Or do you drop your head into your hands and in a river of frustrated tears weep for the desecrated images of God?
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 22:15-22, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 24 (29).
Photo of a first century denarius of the Emperor Tiberius by Portable Antiquities Scheme from London, England – Tiberius, R6195, BMC 49. Uploaded by Victuallers, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10817585.
“[The people said,] ‘Come, make gods for us, who shall go before us; as for this Moses, the man who brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him.'” – Exodus 32:1
Those Ten Commandments seem so clear. I hardly even needed to take notes (though in all honesty my memory is unreliable about the honor due to parents) to live righteously with just a few missteps. I certainly would never worship figurines.
Before I criticize those people in the desert wastes, perhaps I’ll walk a mile in their shoes, uncertain whether when the day is gone, that water may be found, and whether on the morrow manna will appear, to satisfy the hungry travelers of Sinai.
The man whose staff wrought miracles had vanished in the clouds that wrapped the mountain’s height, in billowed fire that no one could contemplate surviving. In his absence who could speak to God? Who could interpret God to them?
“Make for us gods,” they said, and so would I, for with a leader vanished and the desert fierce at hand, I’d seek – I’d want – to crystallize my hopes, to incarnate my faith, to be the comfort of my fears. A calf? Why not? It symbolizes promise, strength, and growth.
You’ll find no statue of a calf among the decorations on my wall or door. You’ll find the cross – a symbol only, right? – and yes, some artwork of my favorite stories, like the walk with Jesus to Emmaus, and the supper Jesus held with his close friends.
No, these for all their imagery, are not my idols. I look for comfort rather more in tasks completed, praises given me, for though I blush at them, I trust in them to keep me safe and soothe my soul amidst the pains and sufferings of life.
They do not work. Oh, they will stimulate a flush of pleasure in the moment, but the feeling fades. I know if I rely on human approbation, I will put my heart in danger of starvation – I’ve been parched when human love ran dry before.
It’s human, I suppose, to seek a way to make the evanescent tangible, to hold in hand or ear or brain or heart a solid thing, a symbol sensible, like praise or wealth or sex or dignity. These are our ordinary golden calves.
Forgive us, Holy One, as we have failed to learn how legion are the idols we will make, how much they look like faithfulness they ape, how little they will heal or comfort us. Forgive us, God, and by your grace dissolve our idols and restore our souls.
A poem/prayer based on Exodus 32:1-14, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Proper 23 (28).
“When the chief priests and the Pharisees heard his parables, they realized that he was speaking about them.” – Matthew 21:45
I’ve never owned land. I’ve never had a tenant. I’ve been the tenant. I’ve been the replacement tenant. I’ve felt the urge to seize control. I’ve seen what happened to those who tried.
When Jesus told this story, God, did those all-powerful people hear the landlord as themselves? Did they nod with satisfaction as they gave the story’s end: “He’ll put those wretches to a miserable death.”
I wonder what a shock it must have been to hear that they were not the owner, but the tenants, that they did not possess the power or the ownership they thought they had.
O Heavenly Gardener, may I tend this vineyard you have given me to cultivate with care, and neither seek to seize it for my own, or punish those who take it for themselves.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 21:33-46, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year A, Proper 22 (27).
The image is Le fils de la vigne (The Son of the Vineyard) by James Tissot – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2007, 00.159.139_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10957416. Of all Tissot’s paintings of Jesus’ life, death, and teachings, I find this the most chilling.
“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves.” – Philippians 2:3
So many years ago:
The certainty with which I judged. The anger I received, Hot words with friends There in the driveway.
The bitterness I brought to bed that, strange to say, provoked a prayer. To my surprise, in answer came a voice:
“You were wrong. Go and apologize.”
Since that angry night, I’ve known that pride goes not before the fall: Pride is the fall. At least, my fall.
The voice did not just speak to judge or to correct, but leads and has led me that night to this. And, no, I’m never sure
This voice is God’s, and this voice mine, but on that night, I knew and know. If I am humble, it has been the struggle of my life and soul.
So Paul rings true to me to warn of pride (I laugh to think how much he struggled with his very warning),
And I take my comfort in the humble form of Jesus, who, though God in truth, eschewed the power: and shared the love.
A poem/prayer based on Philippians 2:1-13, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year A, Proper 21 (26).
Photo by Eric Anderson.
Author’s Note: This is a true story. I’ve struggled with pride ever since, of course. My arrogance is never far away. For the record, I followed the advice of the voice. I apologized.
“And he [the landowner] said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.’ So they went.” – Matthew 20:4
You’ve given me heavy lifting, Jesus. How shall I understand this tale?
Do you applaud the naked use of power that’s used by rich and haughty men (and yes, I do mean men) to stratify and separate the workers who might, joined together, change the world? Oh, that would pain me, Jesus.
Or should I see in this landowner’s strange caprice the startling love that cannot be provided less to one, and more to one, for love unmeasured cannot be decreased or increased? This lifts my heart to hope.
Do I perceive a stern rebuke to those, like me, who act as if they know your will much better than the ones whose faith is newly growing, newly shining? It is a painful arrogance to think that you have set me on a throne to rule.
Is this a welcome call to nations who could never comprehend your word, O Jesus, in that ancient Aramaic? Those who, like me, are grateful for the pen of Matthew to record your parable, and translators to share this text?
Where shall I find my place, O Christ, in this strange tale? Am I the powerful one? I, long ago, put off my entry to the Church, so have I come late in the day, or have so many days passed now that I have worked the morning, noon, and afternoon?
I guess I’ll have to let your Spirit move. These things, and more, are… “obvious.” And when I struggle with the obvious your prompting steals on stealthy step to prod my heart and soul. Impel me, Christ, to find my place, from first to last, in you.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 20:1-16, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 20 (25).
The image is part of an illustration from the 11th century Codex Aureus Epternacensis, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10315166. One of the things that fascinates me about this image (and two companion paintings of the beginning and end of the Matthew 20 story) is that the faces are so alike. I’m certain that’s an artistic choice, and I’m letting it work within me.
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