[Cleopus and his companion replied,] “But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” – Luke 24:21
Cleopus: We needed a savior, we followed a healer, learned some from a teacher. We were crushed to see our longed-for Messiah crucified and slain, and know it was not he.
Judas Iscariot: We needed a savior, but he wouldn’t blink, he wouldn’t lift up the sword. The Zealot alike is tamed. He must be forced his power, even if by his friend he’s betrayed.
Simon Peter: What shall I make of the winds of these days? I ran, then I stopped. I followed and denied. I’ve looked in the empty tomb. Between death and failure my heart subsides, has settled into gloom.
Mary Magdalene: He set me free from torment within. I watched him set others free. You wanted a Savior? You had one, you know! Now the angels claim he lives once more and I’ve come to spread the news to find my word ignored.
Me: You’ve disappointed us all, O Christ. We’ve asked for the things you won’t give (So we’ve taken them instead). If we’re disappointed, what about you? Abandoned, betrayed, denied, ignored, as you labor to lead us to truth.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 24:13-35, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday of Easter.
“So the other disciples told him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ But he said to them, ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.'” – John 20:25
I told you first, Peter. I told you first. “I have seen the Lord,” I told you, “after you had gone away from the grave. He’s alive, I tell you, alive. I have seen the Lord.”
I told you first, Peter, and you… well. I’ve seen your eyes narrow before when things don’t make sense, or you don’t understand. Then you made a comforting noise, but: I had seen the Lord.
Condescension from you isn’t new, Simon Peter. You’re polite, but you’ll always rely on the witness of your own two eyes – or the witness of another guy – even though I had seen the Lord.
Did you hear me that night when I laughed? Oh, the sight of your faces was rich! Where was your superior eye? Though puzzled, your eyelids spread wide! Now we had seen the Lord.
Is it mean of me to then delight when Thomas repeated your cant: “I’ll believe when I see it myself and have touched what I know I can’t.” Even though we had seen the Lord.
Will you learn, Simon Peter, from this? Will you learn to trust more than yourself? Will you learn to appreciate others? Will you learn to believe when a woman tells you: “I have seen the Lord.”
A poem/prayer based on John 20:19-31, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Second Sunday of Easter.
I struggled a great deal to find an image of Mary Magdalene fit for this poem. There ought to be one depicting her declaration “I have seen the Lord!” to the male disciples, but I didn’t find one. She is frequently shown at the crucifixion and, of course, at the empty tomb. Most versions of “Noli me tangere” (Do not hold onto me) leave me cold. Mary has frequently been confused with other women in the Bible, partially because so many of them were named Mary (Miriam), and partially because of a strange tendency on the part of Christians to assume Jesus had few followers in his lifetime, so if two people look similar or have the same name, they must be the same. Pope Gregory I’s 591 Easter homily erroneously conflated Mary Magdalene, Mary of Bethany, and the unnamed “sinful woman” of Luke 7. As a result, European Christians came to assume Mary Magdalene had been a prostitute and the misnomer has lingered and grown. Paintings of the “Penitent Magdalene” are… well. They’re awful. Truly awful.
Veneto’s portrait comes from the “Magdalene as Myrrhbearer” genre. The woman’s side-eye glance comes close to expressing what I imagine Mary Magdalene’s irritation with Jesus’ male disciples. Now if someone would only paint her rolling her eyes, that would be better.
Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. – John 12:3
To the cheers of the crowd, ride along. Turn the tables and scatter the coins. As sweet perfume comforts your feet, Comfort the woman who comforts you.
[Chorus]
Six days, six days in the city. Six days to ready your heart. Six days: does anyone understand That you must play this part?
In the Temple courts, proclaim truth. Turn the arguments back on the skeptics. Raise your sad eyes to the pillars of stone That you know will come down, and come down too soon.
[Chorus]
Send them out to make plans for the meal. Wash their feet, whatever they say. Pray alone as sweat streams from your brow, Knowing thorns will be your crown.
[Revised Chorus]
Six days, six days to the palace. Six days, six days to the cross. Six days, six days to the tomb… Six days for all to be lost.
Six days to wind up the journey. Six days of betrayal and strife. Six days to lay down your power…
Three days… Three days… Three days to take back your life. Three days… Three days… Three days to raise up your life.
“When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?'” – Matthew 21:10
The whispers whip round the jam-packed streets – Whispers? Well, no. The roar of the crowd means a whisper is shouted, and may not be heard by the hearer intended.
“Who is this?” they wonder, and some have their answers: “He’s a healer,” say some, “with remarkable power. So many return from him joyfully home!” The sick cry “Hosanna! O save us!” today.
“Who is this?” they wonder, and some say, “A teacher, a rabbi, a preacher with wonderful tales. He’ll challenge you, certainly, if you are careless. If you take time to listen, he’ll make you wise.”
“Who is this?” they wonder, and some say, “A monarch, Messiah, Anointed One: he’ll free us from Rome.” When they cry, “Hosanna!” it echoes with anger and yearning for freedom from Empire’s yoke.
“Who is this?” they wonder, and some say, “A rebel, a bringer of trouble, a sinner, a punk. Just watch: all these people will raise swords tomorrow, and on Tuesday the Romans will slaughter us all.”
“Who is this?” they wonder, and some have their answers. “Who is this?” they ask and the rider is silent. “Who is this?” they ask, little realizing the word being spoken in silence on a donkey’s foal.
“Who is this?” they wonder, as the beast ambles on. The Anointed One, yes, but the Humble One as well, who would rule as a healer, and guide as a teacher, but will save as One utterly faithful to God.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 21:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Sixth Sunday in Lent, Liturgy of the Palms.
“So I prophesied as I had been commanded; and as I prophesied, suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone.” – Ezekiel 37:7
No vision, this… I smelled the chalky dust that rose from dried and crackling bones. I felt the beating sun as hot upon my frame as it had been to strip the blood and sinew from the moldering skeletons and leave no sign of moisture there, just calcium to rise and linger, pause and settle, paste the taste of chalk upon my tongue.
“Can these bones live?” you asked. In this… experience… how can I know what bones can do? “Speak to the bones,” you urged, “and promise breath and flesh and sinew. So they will know God.” I spoke, and as I spoke, I heard the clattering rattle of the desiccated bones, the scraping as they found their place. I smelled the tang of blood and sinew, then the salt as sweat appeared upon the new-formed skin.
“Speak to the breath,” you urged, “to all four winds, and let the breath come to these slain, and live.” I spoke again, and with a sigh the breezes swept across the flesh-strewn valley. Now a moan arose as lungs took air once more, and then a sigh as breath emerged again between the moistened lips. “These bones,” you said, “they live to be a sign of hope for Israel.”
And so the… vision? faded. But its hope endures. I know no valley filled with dusty bones has gone from silence to a rattling sound, nor of a sudden taken on the scent of sweat, or speech emerged from lips new-formed upon a skull. The slain are slain; the dead are dead. But we who live may see a better day, and by the power of God, the dead may rise to life.
A poem/prayer based on Ezekiel 37:1-14, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Fifth Sunday in Lent.
“But they kept asking him, ‘Then how were your eyes opened?'” – John 9:10
From a Jerusalem street to the Pools of Siloam, spittle-moist dust awash in the waters, a new sense a-born to beguile his return to the place where the Healer no longer is found.
“How’s this?” they asked. “How can your eyes be opened? You’ve never known sight since the day you arrived.” “The man Jesus made mud and he told me to wash; when I did, my vision was born.”
Hard hurrying queries and skeptical silences, speech disbelieved or discounted or scoffed. Speaking a simple story of fresh mud washed free, but the hearts, not the eyes, were fast closed.
Is it part of our nature, God, something inherent that makes human beings choose their answers ahead? We question and search but will not find a truth when we’ve chosen the word we’ll accept.
Praise God for your vision, O once sightless man, but praise God the more for your wide-open heart, to hear and to trust the man Jesus who said, “Go the pool now and wash.”
A poem/prayer based on John 9:1-41, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday in Lent.
The image is The Blind Man Washes in the Pool of Siloam (Le aveugle-né se lave à la piscine de Siloë) by James Tissot (between 1886 and 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.173_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10957455.
A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” – John 4:7
Not even a “please?” Oh my, how rude to ask – demand – a drink of water here. This well is deep, and every drop I raise for you, you stranger, is a drop I need to raise again, and carry to my home. You should have brought a bucket, sir.
Not even a “please?” Oh my, how rude to ask – demand – my time and labor here. I’ve things to do now, Jesus, as you know (and as you knew that woman did as well), some obligations of which you’d approve. What could I raise to satisfy your thirst?
Not even a “please?” Oh my, how rude to hint – imply – that your refreshment does much more than mine. Your invitation comes with obligation, we both know, and yet… And yet… I thirst, O Jesus, how I thirst. May I be satisfied in you.
A poem/prayer based on John 4:5-42, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday in Lent.
“Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?'” – John 3:4
You knew, Nicodemus, and Jesus knew you knew that humans do not live a static life. They grow, adapt. They shift and change. Sometimes they even make a brand new start.
Sometimes they start as fresh as wandering wind, as pure as water droplets glistening. Where do they go? Who knows? The wind goes where it will, just like the Holy Spirit.
Though none can set or stay the Spirit’s way, one thing remains more firm than stone, more sure than night or day. Yes, God so loved the world not to condemn, but raise in radiant life.
A poem/prayer based on John 3:1-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Second Sunday in Lent.
The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” – Matthew 4:3
Temptation I recognize, Jesus (except when I don’t). My media diet is full to the brim of temptation, allure: “Buy this! Buy that! And life will be better for sure!”
At times I am sure that temptation disguises itself as need: a tool or a book or a thing enlivening live streams or enhancing worship or giving me something to think on anew.
Might temptation be present in obvious choices, the things that we get because Mom always got them? The symbols we use, uniforms donned. As I bow my head for a Sunday stole, do I hear a reproach in its wavering fringe?
And then there’s temptation I simply don’t recognize, and here I must ask: What’s wrong with transforming the stones into bread? Your need was as real as the need of five thousand or those who lived on the manna of Sinai.
Your retort to the Tempter – what does it mean? We live by the words of the mouth of God? Who would know that better than the Incarnate Word? And yet you consumed the fruit of the land, the bread from the ground, its flour ground (as you knew) between stones.
As a test, I can pass this one, Jesus. I can. There’s no sign the power of stone-flour bread is mine to command. But I wonder, Messiah. You spotted this test. You chose your best course. You passed the exam. But would anyone else? Could anyone else?
The Tempter was someone you knew to resist. I don’t always know. Sometimes, but not always. The action was one that would lead you astray. The paths that I follow all seem to be straight… to start. So I beg you to help me to choose the true bread, for I don’t always recognize the voice of God.
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 an illustration in a Psalter ca. 1222 by an unknown artist – Self-scanned Rosa Giorgi: Bildlexikon der Kunst, Bd. 6.: Engel, Dämonen und phantastische Wesen, 384 S., Berlin: Parthas-Verlag 2003, ISBN 3936324042 / ISBN 9783936324044, S. 130, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=114178710.
“As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, ‘Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.'” – Matthew 17:9a
Who would I tell, Jesus? What would I tell them? “He glowed like a lamp in the sun, but brighter!” “Moses was talking to him; so was Elijah!” “A voice told me to listen from a cloud!”
They’d shake their heads to hear the first, to hear the second, to hear the third. The last and final sentence, though, they’d hear and smile: “And when, pray tell, will you start listening?”
That question’s fair enough, I know. I blurted out those words of invitation rather than a question, like, “Should we build booths for you, as you are here?”
So, Jesus, no, I’ve learned a little bit. I’ll keep my silence ’till you give the word. And listen. I will listen, sure as day. And… maybe… wonder what you mean by “risen from the dead.”
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 17:1-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Transfiguration Sunday.
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