lectionprayer

Exultant

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“[Jesus said,] ‘Nevertheless, do not rejoice at this, that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.'” – Luke 10:20

Jesus – May I call you Jesus?
“Mister of Nazareth” doesn’t glide from the tongue.
Jesus – yes, Jesus – can I offer some help?
Your marketing skills are frankly first century.

You’ve got seventy people who are all on a high!
What things they accomplished!
What heights they’ve attained!
They may not have seen the fall of a devil,

But then, who has?

Now, Jesus – yes, Jesus – let’s get to brass tacks.
They’re open. They’re glowing. They’re all fired up.
That’s the time when the iron is hot. So strike!
Whatever it is that you’re selling, they’ll buy.

But Jesus – oh, Jesus, may I call you Jesus? –
why throw cold water on bright red-hot steel?
They’d follow you anywhere, until that sad moment
you quenched their enthusiasm at the power they’d found.

C’mon, Jesus, why?

So try it again. This is a disaster,
but you can recover. I know that you can.
Praise them for their power. I tell you, they’ll love it.
And then, O and then, what they’ll buy! What they’ll buy!

Oh, yes. What they’ll buy.

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

The image is “Christ Came into Galilee” by Phillip Vere. From “An illustrated commentary on the Gospel of Mark” by Phillip Medhurst, between 1791 and 1795. FAL, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=34448342. This isn’t an illustration of the return of the Seventy, but I really like the way Jesus’ extended hands seem to be pushing down on the emotional level.

Who Do You Say I Am?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 6 Comments

“And he sent messengers ahead of him. On their way they entered a village of the Samaritans to prepare for his arrival, but they did not receive him because his face was set toward Jerusalem. When his disciples James and John saw this, they said, ‘Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?’ But he turned and rebuked them.” – Luke 9:52-55

Did I not ask you, not so long ago, who you say I am?
James? John? Do you remember that?
I guess you thought I was Elijah, after all
(or that you were?), to call down fire
on the captains and the fifties, or onto their
Samaritan descendants in this village.

Did I not say that those who’ll follow me will bear
a cross, and lose their life to save it? And were
you listening to me, or to your glorious dreams?
No wonder that the heavenly voice which called me “Son”
demanded that you listen to me – since you weren’t.
And now you want to destroy lives with heavenly fire.

Well, no, my friends, we won’t do that.
We’ll make our way on by, and take our rest
where people offer welcome out of grace,
not out of threat, and we will tread
a Via Dolorosa, you and I and all our friends,
to show God’s love will not be bounded by

rejection much more thorough, drenched
in blood’s finality, a breath unfinished,
body broken, and forsaken by my friends.
No, James and John, the world is filled with fires;
no need to summon them from heaven’s vault.
What’s needed is to love, and love, and love.

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

Photo of lava fountains on Kilauea by Eric Anderson (May 25, 2025).

Angels

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“Then [Elijah] lay down under the broom tree and fell asleep. Suddenly an angel touched him and said to him, ‘Get up and eat.'” – 1 Kings 19:5

Be the angel, O God,
when I am weary and frightened,
when the burdens oppress me,
and I despair of my life.

Bring me food.
Bring me water.
Let me rest.

When another is weary
and frightened, O God,
when the burdens weigh down
the hope of new life,

May I bring food.
May I bring water.
May I bring rest.

May I be your angel.

A poem/prayer based on 1 Kings 19:1-15a, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Proper 7 (12).

The image is Elijah in the Wilderness by Frederic, Lord Leighton (1877-1878) – uQG9WGfbc10kDw at Google Cultural Institute maximum zoom level, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21878932.

Guide to Truth

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 7 Comments

“[Jesus said,] ‘When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come.'” – John 16:13

May the Spirit of Truth visit me, O Holy One,
for I live squinting into trees, struggling to
discern the movements of the Spirit’s wings
from the motions of the tossing wind,
a wind which might reflect the Spirit, too.

I strain to disentangle fern and feather, branch and beak,
blossoming lehua from the nectar-feeder there.
Through magnifying glass and brightening screens
you’d think I’d recognize the truth above,
but still I struggle to keep focus on the Truth.

Perhaps I should lay down the lenses and
the sensors that record the light, set my ears
to listen to the Spirit’s various calls,
and find the Truth in other medium
than sight.

A poem/prayer based on John 16:12-15, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Trinity Sunday.

Blurry photo of an i’iwi in juvenile plumage by Eric Anderson.

Both Men and Women

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments


“In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.” – Acts 2:17, quoting Joel 2:28

Assembling for the feast of Shavuot, the Spirit roared.
No gentle breeze for us; a tempest howled there
among our trembling circle, through our trembling souls.
The flickering light upon our foreheads did
not shed illumination, no. I saw it as
a portent of our immolation.
Not since the angel told me not to fear
have I been so afraid.

My limbs have dragged my shivering frame
into the streets, which teem with goggling worshipers.
They fight their way upstream along the way
my son last trod beneath the burden of a cross.
How many know, how many care, that Jesus died
abandoned by his follower-friends, attended by
these women who, like me, recall dear Miriam,
who danced before the Law.

The raucous streets resound with Babel sound,
with accents I know well, and languages
I don’t. To my astonishment, one voice is mine,
another comes from Mary here, and Mary there,
and from a hundred other throats. We praise
our God, because when Jesus had been laid into
his tomb, the Holy One rejected our rejection, called
him back to life.

They scoff, of course, that we are drunk (how drunk,
they do not know, for I am filled with Spirit I have never known).
I draw my breath in deep. I plant my feet upon the unforgiving stones.
I start to lift my arm to summon all to hear my words,
and then I hear it: Simon’s voice, my son’s beloved Rock,
against all expectation quoting from the prophet Joel.
Who would have thought it? I rejoice, except: I wonder, when
will faithful people hear a woman’s voice again?

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

The image is The Virgin surrounded by twelve apostles or Pentecost, by Master of the Crucifix of Pesaro (ca. 1380). Photograph by Rama, Wikimedia Commons, Cc-by-sa-2.0-fr, CC BY-SA 2.0 fr, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11148957.

Many artists included Mary among the Twelve in their depictions of Pentecost.

Full inclusion of God’s people does not stop at men and women.

Chains and Chains

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“One day as we were going to the place of prayer, we met a female slave who had a spirit of divination and brought her owners a great deal of money by fortune-telling. While she followed Paul and us, she would cry out, ‘These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you the way of salvation.'” – Acts 16:16-17

My soul was heaped with chains.

A demon claimed my eyes,
my mind, my tongue, to speak
of things beyond a mortal’s ken.
Or possibly to fill the air with lies.

Some businessmen had claimed
my freedom. For as long as people paid
to hear the demon’s truth or lies,
the money went to them, and chains to me.

I still don’t know who claimed my legs
and tongue those days. The demon knew,
as I could not, that these strange men
were also chained, but to the healing power of a god.

I followed, but I don’t know how.
The demon’s words leapt from my lips,
but would it risk its power in the face of God?
Regardless, my legs pushed me after them.

I saw the look upon the speaker’s face,
a look of one whose patience had been tried
beyond its limited capacity. Beyond my hope,
he spoke the words that broke the demon’s chains on me.

I fell into the street and saw the businessmen
seize him and his companions, chain
them for the magistrates’ displeasure. I
looked down and found their chains bound me.

I am not fully free,
but I am freer than before,
and even though it cost them chains like mine,
I would be pleased to wear the chains of God.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 16:16-34, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Seventh Sunday of Easter.

The image is Paul Casts Out the Devil from a Slave Girl in Philippi, attributed to Pieter Fransz, between 1610 and 1652. From Scenes from the Acts of the Apostles (series title). Photo by Rijksmuseum – http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT.520428, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=84964425.

Not as the World Gives

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

[Jesus said,] “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” – John 14:27

The world gave to you the way it gives, Lord:
Resentment, suspicion, condemnation, violence.
At the table you offered your peace to your friends.
In the garden, at the cross, peace fell away.

I pray, give to me as you give, not the world.
The world still loves to condemn and coerce.
In your peace I just might be able to stand,
my spirit unbowed by all evil’s power.

A poem/prayer based on John 14:23-29, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Sixth Sunday of Easter.

The image is The Last Supper by Jacopo Tintoretto (between 1579 and 1581) – Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15542032.

Tintoretto painted more than one Last Supper. The chaotic atmosphere of this image drew me in, even as I was writing about peace, because peace in the chaos is our great challenge.

What Peter Didn’t Say

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

So when Peter went up to Jerusalem, the circumcised believers criticized him, saying, “Why did you go to uncircumcised men and eat with them?” – Acts 11:2-3

You think I wanted to eat with them?
I didn’t want to go at all.
I was riding pretty high, you know,
elated with a woman’s resurrection.
OK, the only place they’d put me up
was with a tanner, but a fisherman’s smelled worse.

Yes, I was riding high, and trying not
to think about the things that happen when
you’re riding high, the way success becomes
a series of new challenges, new obligations. I
was smelling those amidst the tannery.
It came for Jesus; it would come for me.

I didn’t know that I could lie in dreams
or visions, waking or asleep. I claimed
I’d never eaten food that was unclean,
and knew full well I’ve eaten shellfish when
the Romans hadn’t purchased all my stock.
And let’s ignore the grain I plucked on Sabbath Day.

A vision or a dream; regardless, it
would summon me to something new
I knew. I did not know what it would be,
but who gets visions for a trivial thing?
I didn’t know what that dream meant.
I knew I’d go where I’d not wish to go.

The house of a centurion was not
within my plan. Who knew what I would find
when I reached there? Most likely was
a naked sword to seek my naked gut.
Why trouble with a cross when you
can drain a troublemaker’s life without?

I had no plan to speak of Jesus there until
they asked, but ask they did, and I
pulled in my breath, and breathed it out,
and spoke with sometimes trembling voice
of Jesus, of his healing touch, his mercy to
such fools and failures as I am.

I certainly did not expect the fire of
the Spirit in a Roman house, of one
who marshals military might against
the people of this land. They said that he
feared God, but this? The Holy Spirit, lit
in him as it had been in me? Who knew?

And now, my friends, I have no plan for you.
I didn’t want to go. I went. I didn’t want to speak.
I spoke. I didn’t know the Spirit would appear.
She did. I didn’t know that God had welcomed them,
the Gentiles, just as openly as us. And now,
I have no words for you, except

To tell my tale again.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 11:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Fifth Sunday of Easter.

The image is St. Peter and Cornelius the Centurion by Bernardo Cavallino (1640s) – Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15452357.

Life Dreaming

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

“Peter put all of them outside, and then he knelt down and prayed. He turned to the body and said, ‘Tabitha, get up.’ Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up.” – Acts of the Apostles 9:40

“To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?”
asked William via Hamlet in the play.
In Joppa Tabitha had ceased her work.

She lay upon the cot unmoving as
her friends displayed with streaming eyes the cloth
and clothing she had made with loving hands
for them, their families, and those in need.

She’d lived a life full well and full of grace,
and if she’d died, a life reborn would come,
so said the messengers who preached the Way,
the Jesus Way she’d taken as her own.

What dreams moved through her soul as she lay still?
What visions came to eyes of spirit now
that those below her brow saw naught? What sight
of welcome to a life eternally?

Somehow she heard the summons, “Tabitha,
get up.” The dreams collapsed as her lids raised,
to see an unfamiliar, anxious face,
perhaps a little bit surprised, above.

She rose. She met her friends once more. What did
she say? We’ll wonder, since the author left
that out, and failed to write as well, what dreams
she’d had, which we may have ourselves someday.

She rose, awoke to love and work, restored
to life ephemeral, a life to end
someday once more, a life she would lay down
again, and dream the interrupted dreams.

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 the Tomb of Tabitha, Jaffa, Palestine by William H. Rau (1903) – This image is available from the United States Library of Congress’s Prints and Photographs divisionunder the digital ID ppmsca.10664.This tag does not indicate the copyright status of the attached work. A normal copyright tag is still required. See Commons:Licensing., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18866918.

This poem includes quotes from Hamlet by William Shakespeare (ca. 1599 and 1601) and “Awake, Awake to Love and Work” by Geoffrey Anketel Studdert Kennedy (1921).

Certainty

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’ He asked, ‘Who are you, Lord?’ The reply came, ‘I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.'” – Acts of the Apostles 9:4-5

He knew. He knew for certain, Jesus,
that your followers were wrong,
and more than wrong, were spreading tales
that would do violence to souls.

He knew for certain, Jesus,
so he brought force to body and to soul.

He knew. He knew for certain, Jesus,
until a light his eyes could not endure
cast him from beast to ground,
his certainty undone to hear your voice.

He knew for certain, Jesus,
that he’d persecuted you.

He knew. He knew for certain, Jesus,
that he had heard your voice,
and knew your will and way:
certainty anew.

He knew for certain, Jesus,
so he proclaimed you.

May I, like he, receive a thorn in flesh
or soul to keep me from elation,
from certainty that could transform
glad proclamation to sad persecution.

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

The image is The Conversion on the Way to Damascus by Caravaggio (ca. 1600-1601), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15219516. This is one of my favorite paintings.