“Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.” – Luke 10:31-32

They had reasons, I’m sure, to take the other side.
I can’t imagine all the obligations they’d have had,
of family and church and ordinary daily life.
They had their reasons, yes, I’m sure.

Did their reasons reassure a dying man?

Do I have reasons? Yes, I have, commitments overwhelming.
I try to think “strategically,” to “choose my battles,” “save
the energy for when it’s needed,” “take my rest.”
I have my reasons in their legions.

Do my reasons reassure a threatened woman?

Do we have our reasons? Yes, we have. Resources are
not infinite by any means. What this one gets, another one
does not. Dare we deprive another for the needs of one?
We have more reasons than responses.

Do our reasons reassure a grieving child?

Do we have our reasons? Yes, of all the things
we call our own, we cling to reasons – even more
than gold or power or privilege or guns.
We have our reasons and we will not let them go.

Do our reasons satisfy the One whose love embraces dying souls?

A poem/prayer based on Luke 10:25-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 10 (15).

The image is El bon samarità (The Good Samaritan) (1838) by Pelegrí Clavé i Roqué – Reial Acadèmia Catalana de Belles Arts de Sant Jordi, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21454886.

“Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace to this house!'” – Luke 10:5

“Someone’s at the door.”

“You get it.”

Pause

“Who is it?”

“Two people bringing peace!”

“Piece? Piece of what?”

“Not piece of something, peace!”

“Oh, honestly. These people. Always selling peace.”

“I don’t think they’re selling it.”

“I’ll bet they’ll tell you the price if you ask.”

“Mostly they look confused.”

“What do they look like?”

“Well… tired. Like they’ve been walking all day.”

“If you make your living selling door to door, you’ll walk all day.”

“It looks like they could use new sandals.”

“Tell them to check the sandal shop across the village.”

“I think they’re hoping we’ll offer hospitality.”

“Oh. Really. Is that it? Tell me more. Do they have bags?”

“No bags.”

“A sleeping roll?”

“I can’t see one.”

“How about a second tunic?”

“No.”

“A purse? Money?”

“They don’t seem to have any money, no.”

“Not sellers, then. They’re beggars.”

“Um. I don’t think they’re beggars, either.”

“They are if they’re asking hospitality and have nothing to share.”

“Well, they’re offering peace.”

“Can you hear my eyes rolling from there?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Send them on their way.”

“Couldn’t you use some peace?”

“Where would I find time for peace?”

A conversational poem/prayer based on Luke 10:1-11, 16-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 9 (14).

Photo of traditional icon by Ikonopisatelj – http://chattablogs.com/aionioszoe/archives/70Apostles.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3536332.

“When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem.” – Luke 9:51

“Jesus, that was rude.”

“No kidding. Not an open door in sight.”

“And just because we’re headed for Jerusalem.”

“These Samaritans are jerks.”

“Yeah. They’re jerks.”

“Hey, Jesus! Remember when Elijah called for fire from heaven?”

“Or when God rained destruction down on Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“They failed to welcome angels there, you know, just like this village failed to welcome us.”

“Yeah! Jesus! Let’s call fire down from heaven! That’ll teach them!”

“What’s that he said?”

“He said, ‘No.'”

“I heard that part. What did he mutter after that?”

“A prayer, I think?”

“I heard, ‘How long, O Lord?’ before his mutter got too soft to hear.”

“Oh, look! Here comes someone to join our merry band.”

“Jesus will make him feel at home, I’m sure.”

“Oh. No. He didn’t, did he?”

“What did he say this time?”

“Something about foxes having better beds than he does.”

“Well. That’s true, I’ve got to say. My pillows have been awfully hard of late.”

“Truth in advertising doesn’t sell, now, does it?”

“Well, here is someone else. Jesus told him, ‘Follow me.” That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Oh, wait. He wants to bury his father first.”

“Now what did Jesus say?”

“‘Let the dead bury their own dead.'”

“Ooo. Harsh, Jesus, harsh.”

“I don’t think he’s coming back do you?”

“And here’s one more. He wants to tell his family goodbye.”

“Oh, no. What did Jesus say this time?”

“‘No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back will do.'”

“Well, that’s true. You get really crazy furrows if you plow while looking back.”

“But this is crazy! We’re supposed to be inspiring a movement! We’re supposed to be gathering a coalition! We’re supposed to be organizing a community!”

“Are we? Or does Jesus have another thing in mind?”

“I’ll ask him. Jesus! Where are we supposed to be going?”

“Did you hear him?”

“Not that well. What did he say?”

“‘This way.'”

A conversational poem/prayer based on Luke 9:51-62, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 8 (13).

The image is Il allait par les villages en route pour Jérusalem (He Went Through the Villages on the Way to Jerusalem) by James Tissot (btwn 1886 and 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2006, 00.159.157_PS1.jpg, Public Domain, found on Wikipedia Commons.

“…This is only the beginning of what they will do; nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them.” – Genesis 11:1-9

“…In our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.” – Acts 2:11

The crumbling bricks of Babel’s ziggurat
still shape the land beyond mistake.
Imagine what they might have done
if they had only stayed together.

Imagine? I have seen it.
Each year machines of death advance.
Each year the wealthy gather plunder.
Each year we live in threat of global fire.

What human beings can do united
is matched alone by things that human
beings can do without intent. The tides
rise higher for our ever-growing folly.

I can’t but think a wise and caring God
would scatter human pride before it cost
uncounted workers health and lives, before
it cost a city the necessities of life.

And then: a Pentecost, a festival of Law,
when language’s divisions find reunion,
Babel’s judgement finds reversal.
What can not human beings do now?

One question, God, whose Holy Spirit
cannot be predicted or confined:
Were we ready to unite? Were we wise
enough? Are we? Are we ready now?

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 11:1-9 and Acts 2:1-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading and Alternate Second Reading for Year C, Pentecost Sunday.

The image is a depiction of the ruins of the Tower of Babel, southern view, as described by Pietro della Valle and reported in Athanasius Kircher’s book Turris Babel (1679). Drawing by Athanasius Kircher – rotated crop from https://archive.org/details/turrisbabelsivea00kirc/page/n6/mode/2up, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=104471384.

“[Jesus said,] so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.” – John 17:26

I imagined I saw Jesus. He was kneeling by a river.
I walked up close behind him. He didn’t say a word.
“Oh, Jesus, have you heard of all the children who lie slain?”
He never turned his head; he said, “I’ve heard.”

“Why are you kneeling by the river?” I demanded of his back.
“There are children who need saving, there is evil beneath the sun.
In churches and in grocery stores the blood must surely shout.
He never turned his head; he said, “It shouts.”

“What will you do then, Jesus? Will the churches,
temples, stores, and schools be stained with blood?
Will we sup full of horrors every day of life?”
He never turned his head; he said, “You shouldn’t.”

I fell down there beside him, and I found the river’s source
as a torrent ran from Jesus’ streaming eyes.
“How can you bear this suffering?” I begged him with my tears.
He turned his head, and softly asked me, “How can you?”

A poem/prayer based on John 17:20-26, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Seventh Sunday of Easter.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

“During the night Paul had a vision: there stood a man of Macedonia…” – Acts 16:9

“A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira…” – Acts 16:14

I’ve got to hand it to you, Paul.
Some of us struggle with visions.
It’s hard to believe God’s directions sometimes.
“Go here! No, not there. I mean here, over here!”
It would be clearer if God didn’t
use pronouns alone.

But you saw a man from Macedonia.
(I’ve always wondered: how did you know?
Was there a look in the eyes? Or a pattern
of jewelry? Or an only-in-Macedonia,
for-a-limited-time-only, get-it-now haircut!)
You saw him. You said: “Let’s go.”

So far, so good. If my sense of God’s spirit
were only so clear as to know which “there”
was “here.” But “Come to Macedonia!
Enjoy the sun! See the crowds!
Hang out by the river and help us!
Bring the word!” That even I understand.

Now here is where I really hand it
to you, Paul. For there by the river
in Philippi, leading city of the district,
you found no men of Macedonia,
but women. And their leader Lydia –
was from Thyatira, near where you’d just been.

God’s visions can blind us, you know,
when we read them as anything
other than metaphor. You met a woman
from Thyatira in Asia, not a man
from Macedonia, and you recognized
God’s promises fulfilled in her.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 16:9-15, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Sixth Sunday of Easter.

The image is Lydia of Thyatira by Harold Copping – https://www.meisterdrucke.de/künstler/Harold-Copping.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=84021913.

[Simon Peter] turned to the body and said, “Tabitha, get up.” Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up. He gave her his hand and helped her up. Then calling the saints and widows, he showed her to be alive. – Acts of the Apostles 9:40b-41

Just a moment, now… what’s happening?

Someone is here – no one has been in here in quite some time.
I hear him breathing and… is that a murmured prayer?
I think I’ll let my eyes stay shut
and puzzle this thing out.

This doesn’t quite feel quite like my bed. That’s what
I last remember and – oh, my! – I felt so bad.
The aches, the failing strength, the fear.
I struggled so to breathe.

Who is this man beside my bed? It’s not
the doctor, sure. I know his sounds.
Why is there no one else?
What’s that I hear?

Beyond the door are quiet sobs, the kind
I’ve made when weeping had near run
its course, and the springs
of tears were running low.

That’s Martha’s weeping; that is Miriam’s.
Is Anna there? Joanna, too? The widows, then,
my friends. But why are they
not here, where this man is?

Could he be a physician, better than
the one I had? So it must be.
My breath is so much easier
than it had been. Oh, yes.

Oh, now. His murmuring, his prayer
has reached its end. Although my eyes
are shut I feel his gaze, and…
is that a smile I feel?

Then: “Tabitha, get up,” in soft
but roughened voice, as if
he was more used to shouts
above the roaring sea.

Just: “Tabitha, get up,” and so I might just choose
to let my eyelids rise – them first, you see –
and take a good long glance at this
more capable physician.

Yes: “Tabitha, get up,” but wait. Before I do,
with all my friends beyond the door,
one burning question to resolve:
What is this I’m wearing?

A poem/prayer based on Acts 9:36-43, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Fourth Sunday of Easter.

The image is San Pietro resuscita Tabitha, Saint Peter Raises Tabitha, by Fabrizio Santafede (1611). Digital capture by Deca16894 – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=106100094.

Luke’s account of those attending the body of Tabitha lacks any names; I’ve used women’s names found in the New Testament for Tabitha’s friends. The story clearly states that Simon Peter asked everyone to leave him alone with her body. For whatever reason, the artists’ depictions of the scene routinely ignore this.