lectionprayer

Not Enough Cooks

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 7 Comments

“[Moses said,] ‘I am not able to carry all this people alone, for they are too heavy for me.’ So the LORD said to Moses, ‘Gather for me seventy of the elders of Israel…'”

They wept for food, the wandering people did.
Their palates had grown weary of the miracle,
which sounds ungrateful. I suppose it is.
But who does not grow weary of life’s wonders?

Then Moses was displeased, and not with weeping
people, but with God, whom he accused of treating him
so badly. “Why do you lay the burden of these people
upon me?” For Moses, too, had wearied of the wonder.

And God – the singular, the Trinity not yet
imagined, whose powers had rained flies
and hail and pestilence and death upon
the wailing people of the Pharaoh – said,

“You shall not lead alone. You never have.
Did you forget? We’ve been a team, we have,
with you and me and Miriam and Aaron.
The team will grow by seventy today.

“They say too many cooks will spoil broth.
Sometimes, you know, that’s true, if they
neglect to speak and listen to each other. Now
my Spirit shall be given to these elders.

“They shall prophesy, including those
who missed the memo in the camp.
And you, my harried, whiny Moses, shall
at last be glad for helpers on the road.

“As for these weeping people, now:
Let them eat quail.”

A poem/prayer based on Numbers 11:4-6, 10-16, 24-29, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternative First Reading for Year B, Proper 21 (26).

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.

The Argument

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

“Then they came to Capernaum, and when he was in the house he asked them, ‘What were you arguing about on the way?’ But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest.” – Mark 9:33-34

Sitting in your house, you catch my eye.
I see the smile play upon the corners of your lips.
“That argument you had along the way. Now tell me:
What were all those snarling words about?”

Now, I don’t want to tell. You see that, right?
Your eyes move on from mine to James, and John,
to Andrew, Philip, Matthew, Simon, James,
Bartholomew and Thaddeus, Thomas, Judas, too.

“So tell me!” you repeat and smile, still.
You know, I know, because my frozen face
declares it. So do all the faces of the twelve.
You shake your head at our embarrassed silence.

“Would you be great?” you ask me, and I need
not answer. Yes, I would! I’d be the warrior
at the side of Christ, to fight and even die
if need be. I would live in glory.

“If you’d be great,” you say, and lift
the ragged cuff of my left sleeve,
“you won’t be first, but last. You’ll be
the servant of the least of these.”

All right, you’ve said such things before,
and we had nodded, for your words were wise.
I somehow never thought that they’d apply to me.
I somehow never thought I’d die in poverty.

I may have held my tongue since your rebuke
of “Get behind me, Satan!” but I do not yet
accept your forecast of betrayal and a cross.
I’d overcome those evils, not embrace them.

I see again, however, you and I
have taken sides in opposition here.
My greatness is not yours. Your greatness is
not mine. I can’t think what to do.

Whatever happens, I will not abandon you.
I’ll wrestle with these things I do not want
to understand, and maybe one of us
will change their mind. In honesty?

I hope it’s you.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 9:30-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 20 (25).

The image is The Tears of Saint Peter by El Greco (ca. 1590) – National Museum of Art, Architecture and Design (Norway), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=98036830.

A Bit for Fire

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A lava vent viewed through greenery.

“If we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we guide their whole bodies… And the tongue is a fire.” – James 4:3, 6a

My tongue has been trained, yes it has.
It has been trained in true and righteous speech,
through the best efforts of parents, teachers, friends.
I am a credit to them when I speak well.

Well.

My tongue has been inflamed, yes it has.
It has sputtered sparks and spat forth fire.
When furious clamor has arisen from my foolish words,
I am a credit only to myself.

Well.

What bit will serve to govern streams of fire?
What governor will guide a flaming tongue?
A pity that there is no quick solution,
though silence, at the least, constrains the blazing word.

A poem/prayer based on James 3:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 19 (24).

Photo by Eric Anderson.

No Illusions

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“Now the woman was a gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, ‘Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.'” – Mark 7:26-27

I had no illusions, Jesus.

I almost didn’t spot you, though I looked.
A neighbor mentioned casually that
“a healer Jew from Galilee” was near
as if it made no difference to me.

You know it did, Jesus.

I left my wailing daughter with a friend
and searched the streets to find
a face I did not know. Despite our sorrows, I
know every face upon our streets.

I knew you from not knowing you, then, Jesus.

You’d made no effort to declare yourself
so I could not believe you’d come to help
the sick and demon-burdened in our village here,
but help you would, if I could have my way.

I had to have my way, Jesus.

I found your stranger’s face. I bowed
upon your feet. I begged you for
your healing touch to soothe my child’s rage,
assuage her fear, give to her peace.

I knew that you’d say, “No.”

You said it with a cruelty that nearly stopped
my breath, though I had no illusions, none.
I stammered out my need’s reply:
“The dogs can eat the children’s crumbs.”

I was not after crumbs.

No, Jesus, I would have it all.
Not all or nothing, I would have it all,
because what use is partial banishment
of demons burdening the human soul?

No crumbs, Jesus. All. And I mean all.

You gave it all to me, you know.
You gave me all your cruelty (I hope
you used it up). But then you gave me all
the healing power of your anguished face.

My daughter got it all.

She’s never seen you, Jesus, as
you know. You took your shattered heart,
remade it new, to heal and heal again,
and left behind a girl once more herself,

And your illusions cast aside.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 7:24-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 18 (23).

The image is “Jesus and the Woman of Canaan” by an unknown artist (ca. 980-993) – found in the Codex Egberti, Fol 35v, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8096755.

The Awkward Hour

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“[Jesus said,] ‘…there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.'” – Mark 7:15

The awkward hour – well, not quite an hour –
takes place each morn as I step in the shower.
While water cascades on my form and soap dislodges
clinging dust, my memory tunes to regret.

I sigh into the foam.

I’ve plenty to regret, and hope that you have less.
I recall failed relationships, the ways I’ve failed
my family and friends. I wonder how I’ve grieved
my God – and wonder, too, how I can claim to wonder…

My feet shift with discomfort.

The exercise might be worthwhile if
it prompted me to understandings new,
new ways to make amends, repair what had
gone wrong, but mostly I just grieve.

I close my eyes against the shampoo’s sting.

Symbolically, I’m doing all I can to cleanse,
but in my spirit: no. These demons have not been
expelled. They live quite happily within
my memories and recollected thoughts.

Knobs turned, the water does not fall.

Yes, Jesus, it is from within these things emerge,
defiling once again my spirit, laying low
my joy in you. I ask myself, “Why do this to yourself?”
and know I am not reconciled to me.

I pray that I am reconciled to you.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 17 (22).

Photo by D O’Neil, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=682251.

Strange Protection

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 8 Comments

“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power; put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil…” – Ephesians 6:10-11

I’m grateful that the struggle is not with
the powers of blood and flesh. Not if
I’m to rely upon these items
for protection of my vital spark.

What happens to the righteous? Why,
they suffer, as do those who speak of peace.
A shield of faith is powerless against
an arrow, or a club, or fist.

Should I entrust my head to its
salvation? The logic doesn’t work for me.
I wish I thought an offense of the Spirit,
of the Word, protected anyone, but… no.

And worst of all, to recommend
I gird my waist with Truth, as if
the truth has ever carried any weight
when cut so easily by lies.

But then I see a brilliant coral
called “The Armor of our God,”
protected by no more than truth,
feebly anchored to its rock.

These corals can be shattered by
a careless underwater step,
the floating residue of sun protection, by
a current that directs its food away.

If coral, brilliant in its indigo,
can live its fragile life beneath the sea,
I might, perhaps, submit my life
to living with this unprotective armor,

Rooted in the truth, acting righteously,
striding ever toward the reign of peace,
with faith displayed before me, head
a-crowned with Christ’s salvific work,

Equipped to bring the Spirit’s Word
to those who might, in turn, take on
this truth, this righteousness, this peace,
this saving faith, this summons from our God.

Author’s note: I have no idea what I was going to write about before I found this photo of an “Armor of God” Zoanthid coral.

A poem/prayer based on Ephesians 6:10-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 16 (21).

Photo of an “Armor of God” variety Zoanthid coral by la.kien – https://www.flickr.com/photos/67619130@N07/6952012176/in/photolist-bAjT1U-ex665Z-ex6q1Z-8mZvs2-fgfi1z-4WFdDR-byjPn1-aoBVqF-4C8EsV-e35MjW-bMetRP-8AxwPo-8hRGc3-8zTVeH-8zTV8i-4KdVqj-4WKv3A-a6JBuH-4CcXgS-a68Ner-a6bDtY-a6bDEo-d8cXaC-8knfqw-8knfrL-adg9dt-eARtXV-eaP1mp-n3vueH-kdub15-e385Wo-6icch6-nxntwv-ne6ED7-69VkyF-eCZ3h3-fQbC2i-nPijbf-fHGFCK, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=37054836.

Living Wise

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

“Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery, but be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs to one another, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts.” – Ephesians 5:18-19

I know the psalm: “The fear of the LORD
is the beginning of wisdom.” How did you
not know that, Paul?

(Especially since you gave advice
to Timothy to drink not only water, but a little wine
to soothe the stomach.)

It cannot be denied, of course, that alcohol
debauches so much of our bodies, brain and
liver and good sense.

Yet I would think that you would have
more puritanical advice than this, to be
filled with the Spirit.

I guess old Martin Luther got it right
when he set his great lyric to the tune
of an old drinking song,

And told his critics that the Devil should
not get all the good tunes. Fill up, you say,
with Spirit, and rejoice.

Not fear, but celebration; not in gloom,
but in rejoicing; not in silent prayer,
but in the flood of song:

This is wisdom. This is living faithfully.
This is making deep connections
with God’s grace.

The fount of wisdom springs from reverence,
but gains its height from joy and thanks.
May we be wise.

A poem/prayer based on Ephesians 5:15-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 15 (20).

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Pluck it Out

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

“It happened, late one afternoon when David rose from his couch and was walking about on the roof of the king’s house, that he saw from the roof a woman bathing; the woman was very beautiful.” – 2 Samuel 11:2.

It happened? Oh, yes, and Oh, no.
It happened that you noticed.
It happened that you looked closely.
It happened that you inquired.
It happened that you sent.
It happened that you raped.
It happened that you sent the victim home.
It happened that she conceived by you.
It happened that you tried to cover it up.
It happened that her husband had more integrity than you.
It happened that you sent him to the army.
It happened that you ordered his death.

It happened, David, every step,
because you chose, decided, acted,
harmed, and hurt, and murdered.

A pity that you couldn’t have heard Jesus’ words,
which were, it’s true, a thousand years away:
“If your eye causes you to sin, tear it out.”
We’d read about a mystery of how you lost your eye,
not how you raped and killed with scarce a thought.

I hope Bathsheba’s presence smote your heart
with guilt on each remaining day you lived.

A poem/prayer based on 2 Samuel 11:1-15, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternative First Reading for Year B, Proper 12 (17).

The image is David Sees Bathsheba Bathing by James Tissot – https://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/d/images/3/3a/King_David_Bathsheba_Bathing.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31379015.

Teach Us, Jesus

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 6 Comments

“As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd, and he began to teach them many things.” – Mark 6:34

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
for our shepherds howl like wolves.
They lay the rod of law with harshness
on the poor and spare the ones in power.

Teach us, Jesus.

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
for our shepherds carelessly use words
that others hear, and hearing ponder.
Pondering, they set themselves to violence.

Teach us, Jesus.

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
for the shepherds cannot find the way
that leads between our Scyllas and Charybdises,
and lost, we founder in moral morass.

Teach us, Jesus.

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
and teach us many things,
like how the shepherd cares first for the sheep,
whereas the predator consumes them.

Teach us, Jesus.

We are sheep without a shepherd.
Teach us many things.
And may we, by God’s grace,
learn.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 6:30-34, 53-56, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 11 (16).

The image is Christ Preaching Amongst a Crowd of People, pen and ink. Artist unknown. Found at WellcomeImages. https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/obf_images/a0/a1/69c69bd8f2f91424aa360aeb47d6.jpg
Gallery: https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/image/V0049499.html
Wellcome Collection gallery (2018-03-28): https://wellcomecollection.org/works/ycntxjvs
CC-BY-4.0, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36668704.

Dance, David, Dance

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

David danced before the LORD with all his might… – 2 Samuel 6:14

Kick your heels up, David,
send the linen skirted ephod swinging.
Wheel and circle, drum your feet
in time with tambourines and cymbals.

Some will scorn you in your very house,
and some will watch in silent disapproval.
Some will wonder how you dance when death
struck down a helping hand last time.

What else to do but dance? you cry.
The presence of the LORD has blessed
the places where the mercy seat has paused.
So what to do but dance with joy as it comes home?

Whirling skirts and pounding feet.
Flying fringe and soaring hair.
Kick your heels up, David. Dance!
And bring us blessing in our heart and home.

The image is Transfer of the Ark of the Covenant by David by Paul Troger (1733), a fresco in the Altenburg Abbey Church, Altenburg, Austria. Photo by Wolfgang Sauber (2018) – File:Altenburg_Stiftskirche_-_Fresko_David_und_die_Bundeslade.jpg, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=77865740.