“With what shall I come before the Lord
    and bow myself before God on high?
Shall I come before him with burnt offerings,
    with calves a year old?
Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams,
    with ten thousands of rivers of oil?
Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression,
    the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?”
He has told you, O mortal, what is good,
    and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice and to love kindness
    and to walk humbly with your God?

– Micah 6:6-8

Look, God, I’m happier when you are vague,
when there’s some wiggle, some uncertainty,
when I can find a space to justify
the things I want, I’d rather, do.

Or, better, when the clarity shines on
the things that hide the errors of the days behind,
that shield me from their consequence,
excuse me without need to change my course.

Look, God, I’m wise enough to leave the lambs
and rams behind. I’ll make my sacrifices with
my time (and maybe with my treasure; we will see).
I don’t intend to buy your favor, no.

Intend to, no. Attempt to… that’s a yes.

You have told me, God, what things are good,
and I have heard, and taken them to heart,
and held them close, and meditated on them, and…
sometimes I’ve done them. Sometimes I have not.

‘Cause damn it, God, your justice is beyond me,
beyond us, so it seems. Your love of mercy breaks
my heart with all its blinding brightness. How
can I do other than come humbly to you on our walk?

So that is why I pour my time into the almost just,
the near-to-mercy, all the things that don’t quite work.
With all this busyness, how could you notice, God,
that am running round, not walking by your side?

It’s easier, you see, to place my energy
upon the altar as a sacrifice of praise
than to do justice well, to love with steadfast mercy, and
walk humbly with the God of my salvation.

A poem/prayer based on Micah 6:1-8, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, the Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is “High priest offering incense on the altar, as in Leviticus 16:12,” by Illustrator of Henry Davenport Northrop’s Treasures of the Bible, 1894 – http://www.lavistachurchofchrist.org/Pictures/Treasures%20of%20the%20Bible%20(Moses)/target20a.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6611903.

“…Immediately they left the boat and their father, and followed him.” – Matthew 4:22

It’s the same boat. It’s the same net.
It’s the same lake. It’s the same fish.

They all seem a little smaller now.

They always were too big for this small beach,
my “Sons of Thunder,” louder and more
vigorous upon the lines than even I,
the Thunderer himself, had been.

Brash? I’ll say, and I’ve been brash and more.
We should have seen it coming, I expect,
when two such souls as she and I
brought similar selves into the world.

We tried the obvious and useless, yes we did.
“Please use your inside voices!” at a roar.
They laughed when they grew old enough
to see the irony, and laughter filled the house.

It filled the village and the beach and echoed
to the skies, the laughter of these two,
and if two parents, sober citizens, could not
join in, well, we smiled and smiled and smiled.

They always were too big for this small beach,
but still, I never thought they’d step away
to follow a poor traveling preacher or
take up a life of shouting out for God.

I’m glad, although I grumble at this pile
of nets awaiting my attention and repair.
This teacher can expand their lives and minds
and souls. The nets and fish and boat… will not.

My breathing settles in a gut-deep sigh.
I’ll claim the tear is sand blown in my eye.
There’s more room in this boat than just a while ago,
so how has it grown smaller in that time?

It’s the same boat. It’s the same net.
It’s the same lake. It’s the same fish.

They all seem a little smaller now.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 4:12-23, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, the Third Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is Jesus calls James and John from their boat; their father Zebedee stands behind them. Woodcut, date and author unknown. Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images images@wellcome.ac.uk http://wellcomeimages.org Jesus calls James and John from their boat; their father Zebedee stands behind them. Woodcut. Published: – Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Author’s note: I need to credit two writers with renewing my thinking about Zebedee and this scene and I commend their work to you: Melissa Bane Sevier’s essay “Left Behind” and Maren Tirabassi’s poem “Zebedee (portrait of the original empty-netter).”

Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice, because the abundance of the sea shall be brought to you, the wealth of the nations shall come to you. – Isaiah 60:5

Teach me to recognize radiance, O God.
Teach me to revel in brightness of spirit.
Teach me to raise up my voice in rejoicing
for radiance seen with the soul, not the eyes.

Teach me to recognize radiance, O God.
Teach me to gain it in greatness of heart.
Teach me to glorify generous spirit,
the radiance seen with the soul, not the eyes.

Teach me to recognize radiance, O God.
Teach me to mirror a magus of old.
Teach me to make free of marrow and mind, and
the radiance seen with the soul, not the eyes.

A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 60:1-6, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Epiphany.

The image is Awake My Soul by Mike Moyers, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57138 [retrieved January 5, 2023]. Original source: Mike Moyers, https://www.mikemoyersfineart.com/.

“Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.” – Matthew 1:18

What should I, could I say?
His mind had closed. His ears had stopped.
No words I’d say would sway him.
What could I, should I say?

I tried; you know I tried.
I knew the difficulty of belief,
e’en with the confirmation of by body –
What could I, should I say?

He stomped away. I knew
that, unbelieved, I’d be
abandoned – quietly but sure.
What could I, should I say?

The very morrow he returned
much chastened by a dream.
It’s nice to be believed, I said.
What could I, should I say?

But Joseph, damn your faith
in dreams of angels, but refusal
to believe the one who loves you.
What could I, should I say?

And Matthew, you whose pen
could not record a single word
of mine, I wish you’d learned from Luke.
What could I, should I say?

So silenced, I rely upon the child
I bore to speak the words
I spoke to him, and which he magnified.
What could I, should I say?

He spoke of liberation and
he spoke of resurrection and
he spoke of God’s triumphant day.
So can I, must I say.

Author’s note: Matthew did not quote Joseph in his Gospel, either – but Joseph takes all the initiative and makes all the decisions which carry the Holy Family from Bethlehem to Egypt to Nazareth.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 1:18-25, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday of Advent.

Illustration of Joseph dreaming and Mary reading, woodcut attributed to the Second Master of Delft (ca. 1480-1503). Digital image by Rijksmuseum – http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT.35552, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=84341678.

When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, [Jesus] said, ‘As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.'” – Luke 21:5-6

The flagstones and terraces, walls and pillars,
the walkways and courtyards, collonades and shrines.
Oh, look where the peak of the roof glows at sunset!
Oh, look how the glory of God has been housed.

The stones seem so durable, set and enduring,
but Jesus in sadness announces their fall.
Eternity’s structures are not built with masonry.
Instead, they are built on the soul.

It has been many days since I stood by the ocean
and watched while this island expanded its shores.
Incarnadine tendrils, dulling to sable,
forming a delta of newly poured stone.

And that delta has vanished. It broke
and it crumbled. The rocks of the ages
could be counted in days. Since then new eruptions
have fashioned the coastline anew and anew and anew.

Stone poured upon stone, broken to sand.
Stone stacked upon stone – by human hands.
They come and they go, they bloom and they fade –
But oh, what glory that these things should be.

Fragile stones, enduring for centuries,
collapsing in days, wrecked by malice,
swept away by the sea. Fragile stones that stand for a moment:
But oh, what glory that these things should be.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 21:5-19, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 28 (33).

Photo of the 2016 ocean entry in Kamokuna by Eric Anderson.