“And a young man ran and told Moses, ‘Eldad and Medad are prophesying in the camp.'” – Numbers 11:27

“But others sneered and said, ‘They are filled with new wine.'” – Acts 2:13

Oh, what we would not give for prophecy with order.
These seventy we know.
These two we will ignore.
Oh, what we would not give for prophecy predictable.
Seventy selected
to tell us what we know.

Your Spirit raises prophets without due regard to order.
We’d all do well with twelve.
We’ve no great need for more.
With twelve we’d know the words before the prophets even voice them,
saving time, so much time
we might have to discern.

Why is the Spirit’s call so destructive of our order?
We know our daily ways.
We follow our set hours
Until a strident voice, just like the nails upon a blackboard
unsettles our assurance
and overturns our peace.

Oh, have your own way, Spirit, in the wreckage of our order.
They’ll call us drunk, you know,
Or they’ll run and tattletale.
With Moses, Peter, Matthias, we’ll join the Spirit’s order
alongside Eldad, Mary, Justus,
Medad – and Mary, too.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 2:1-21 and Numbers 11:24-30, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading and Alternate First Reading for Year A, Pentecost Sunday.

The image is Moses Elects the Council of Seventy Elders by Jacob de Wit (1737) – AQGtI5P6nkpYyw at Google Cultural Institute maximum zoom level, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21988106.

This lectionprayer gets a lot of inspiration from Maren Tirabassi’s Blessing the Dice and Barbara Messner’s Variations on Pentecost.

“So when they had come together, they asked him, ‘Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?'” – Acts 1:6

One question, Lord! Is this the time
to make the world we think it ought to be?

Instead of looking to the future, could
you not improve the world yourselves?

A question, Lord! What will we see
as long as eyes are straining toward you?

Well, if you focus on the cloud, you’ll see a mist,
but if you look in people’s faces, there I’ll be.

A question, Lord! Should we wait here
until the day of your return?

If you stay here, who will you tell
about the things I’ve told you these three years?

A question, Lord! If you’ll return just as you left,
should we not set our eyes upon the sky?

Look up as often as you will, but do look down
because you’ll trip and fall, you know as well as I.

A question, Lord! If you’ll return just as you left,
when will that be? How soon? How long?

Oh, friends. My love is with you still.
You’ll see me in each other, and in all.

A poem/prayer based on Act 1:6-14, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Seventh Sunday of Easter.

The image is The Ascension by Theophanes the Cretan (1546) – Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15611230.

This poem rose from imagining Jesus’ conversation with his disciples as he ascended like a press conference. Can’t you just hear them calling their questions as the distance increased?

[Paul said,] “For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.'” – Acts 17:23

We didn’t have an altar in
the church where I was raised.
A table bore communion’s bread
and cup before us all.

I’ve seen so many tables since,
and many bear the words
inscribed “In Remembrance of Me”
(oft covered by a cloth).

Since youth I’ve been in churches where
an altar takes its place,
but rarely do they bear a word,
but speak with just their shape.

I wonder: might the wisdom of
those ancient Greeks guide us,
and note upon our altars that
we could know more of God?

Or just, perhaps, revise the way
we spell the “altar” word,
and be prepared at every point
to “alter” what we know.

A poem/prayer based on Act 17:22-31, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Sixth Sunday of Easter.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

“Philip said to him, ‘Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, “Show us the Father”‘?” – John 14:8-9

Like Philip, I’ll be satisfied to see
what I expect to see.
His vision might have been of swirling cloud,
or pillar of fire dancing in the night.

And Peter, what would he expect?
An army terrible beneath its banners?
A monarch mighty on a throne
whose feet were tended by his underlings?

The Magdalene anticipated… what?
A corpse? and did not see her friend
until he said her name. Her eyes
were drawn to death.

So I, like Philip, will be satisfied
to see what I expect, for you and I
know well who sets the courses of my soul…
Or, well, at least who claims to set them.

And I, like Philip, must be satisfied
with who you are, O God, and not
what I demand you be, and I, like Thomas, will
be your bewildered follower on the way.

A poem/prayer based on John 14:1-14, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fifth Sunday of Easter.

The image is The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci (painted between 1494-1498) – Unknown source, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=24759.

The image is, of course, what I expect to see – and is therefore a warning against expecting to see it.

[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.

The image is Cena in Emmaus (Supper in Emmaus) by Caravaggio (1601)- Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10251374.

“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.

The image is a synagogue wall painting at Dura Europos (ca. 244) in eastern Syria – Dura Europos synagogue, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25556794.