“…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.

For three days [Saul] was without sight, and neither ate nor drank. – Acts 9:9

Well, that was quite a shock.

One moment I was striding, filled with confidence
and rectitude, the next:
Flat on my back, blinded by a light,
deafened by a voice.

I suppose I needed such a shock.

Is there a greater barrier to learning something new
than certainty? I fear not.
I was so certain, knew beyond all doubt, that
this Jesus movement was a fraud.

Well. I learned.

And now I wait and wonder: what is next?
“You will be told.”
Oh, good. And yet not good, for what may I expect
of One whom I oppressed?

Or those who followed him?

How strange to find expansion of the soul
in clouded sight?
I had created my own spirit’s shroud, of course,
but now I see.

Metaphorically, that is.

Now to be truthful, God, to whom I pray
with greater clarity
since vision failed three days ago, I thank you
for this time of rest.

I am not ready for the tasks you might
require of me, or
the penitence I must perform for those
who do not trust me.

Why should they, after all?

I am not ready yet for much beyond
extended monologue
to you, here in this house along the
Straight Street of the city.

Here I will pray and breathe.

And when you find me ready, Lord,
with eyes still dim,
or eyes as comprehending as my soul,
I’ll take your road.

I’ll follow you.

Amidst the daily noises of the street,
what’s that? A knock.
What’s that? The voices by the door.
What’s that? A hand.

A voice that calls me: Brother Saul.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 9:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of Easter.

The image is The Conversion of St Paul by Caravaggio, found in the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome. Photo by Alvesgaspar – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44143233.

There is some suggestion in the writings of the Apostle Paul (he used that Greek version of the Hebrew Saul when writing his letters in Greek) that he did not fully regain his physical sight after this experience. In 2 Corinthians 12 he spoke of a “thorn in the flesh,” suggesting a disability without describing it. At the close of Galatians (6:11) he wrote, “See what large letters I make when I am writing in my own hand!” Though that might be due to unfamiliarity with using a pen, it might also be because of poor eyesight.

“Then [Jesus] said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.'” – John 20:27

Let’s pause, Thomas.

Ignore, for now, the jealousy inside.
They saw. You didn’t. That’s how these things go.
Some are in the wrong place at the right time,
others in the right place at the right time.

Pause and let it go, Thomas.

Did Jesus not show signs enough
for anyone? Can you not leave
to others this new sign? Must you claim it, too?
How many would accept their friends’ report?

Just pause, Thomas.

For if you make a jealous declaration,
demanding what the others all have seen,
you risk commitment to the course
they’re on, a course of hardship and of pain.

So think, Thomas.

This sight and touch will drive you far from
Galilean lakeside breakfasts. It will take
you over tossing seas to strangers who
will, some, believe your words – as you did not your friends.

Just think, Thomas.

Your jealous energy will turn to zeal
and you will find a sharpened spear
awaits you there, three thousand miles
from home. So pause. And think.

Before you speak.

A poem/prayer based on John 20:19-31, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday of Easter.

The image is Santo Tomás Apóstol (Apostle St Thomas) by El Greco (ca. 1610-1614) – HQFzobTvKDaFzQ at Google Cultural Institute, zoom level maximum, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29844110.

“Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, ‘Teacher, order your disciples to stop.’ He answered, ‘I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.’ As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it…” – Luke 19:29-41

If you had brought the crowd to silence, Lord,
and made the air to still so stones could speak,
would they have cried aloud their praise?
Or would they have, instead, shed tears of grief?

Red, flowing tears, as hot with loss
as ever streaked a human face,
as hot as those you tasted on the cross,
as scarlet as the blood you shed.

They flow, these tears of Earth, today
from vents beneath the salty sea,
from fissures high upon the mounts
and far downslope in forest glades.

You wept to recognize that people will
not do the things that make for peace.
The stones in chorus weep to see
our violence laid hard on you.

And when the scarlet tears encounter salt,
the heat of sympathy explodes in sand,
black sand, gray cinder, groaning now
to bear the land extending into sea.

Weep stones. Weep people, weep. Weep all
Creation. In the confluence
of scarlet tears and human tears
we build new land on sable sand.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 19:28-40 (plus verses 41-44), the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Sixth Sunday in Lent, the Liturgy of the Palms. 

Photo by Eric Anderson