United

February 27, 2024 / Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

For Jews ask for signs and Greeks desire wisdom,but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. – 1 Corinthians 1:22-24

Even Cephas, who when travelling with Christ
was always first to say it wrong, agrees:
Do not divide the church.

Apollos, now, whom some of you
prefer to me, prefer to Christ, agrees:
Do not divide the church.

I asked him if he’d come to you,
and do you know the words he said? “No.”
“I could divide the church.”

If you must give me up to live in Christ,
then do it. Give up Cephas, too.
Do not divide the church.

I was not crucified for you.
My resurrection still is years away.
Do not divide the church.

Or else – what follows then?
A Church dividing like the fractured bread –
Do not divide the church –

But unlike when our Savior broke it
on the hillside, who will eat?
Do not divide the church.

Across the centuries, I see it. So can you.
Love abandoned for these power plays.
Do not divide the church.

Or they will follow your example.

A poem/prayer based on 1 Corinthians 1:18-25, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Third Sunday in Lent.

The image is Saint Paul Writing His Epistles by Valentin de Boulogne (between 1618 and 1620) – Blaffer Foundation Collection, Houston, TX, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=596565.

Simon Peter’s First Denial

February 20, 2024 / Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes and be killed and after three days rise again.He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him.But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.” – Mark 8:31-33

Don’t you like it, Simon, when I say
that your Messiah is not what you want?
Don’t you like it, Simon, when I tell you
raising up will be upon a cross?

Of course you don’t, dear Simon. How
could anyone be pleased to hear
Messiah is no conqueror, no King
except to turn the tables over Death.

I told you, but you wouldn’t hear that, Simon.
You tell me how I’ll live my life
and die my death, and no. That is not yours
to settle or define. It’s mine. And God’s.

Ah, Simon Peter, my dear Rock, so hard
of head, so transparent of heart,
so certain of what must be true,
and come to pass, and be:

I chide you hard for this denial now.
A night will come when your denials will
emerge like clockwork ticking toward the dawn.
And then, I will not chide, for you will turn aside

And weep.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 8:31-38, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Second Sunday in Lent.

The image is The Denial of Saint Peter by a Follower of Hendrick ter Brugghen (ca. early to mid-1600s) – http://www.christies.com/lotfinder/paintings/follower-of-hendrick-terbrugghen-the-denial-of-5747353-details.aspx, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29903198. In a rather-quick-and-not-very-diligent search, I did not find many artistic renderings of this scene in Mark 8. I chose to look into the connections, tenuous as they are, between Simon Peter’s rebuke here and his denial of Jesus in Mark 14.

Wilderness

February 13, 2024 / Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

COL; (c) City of London Corporation; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

“He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.” – Mark 1:13

Why did I come to Jordan?

My life in Galilee was nothing much.
I did my work. I paid attention to my mom.
I read the texts and prayed upon their words.
If nobody was eager to accuse me of great sin,
I can’t say anybody was inclined to say,
“Here’s one who’s lived a life untarnished.”

My mother, to choose one, would never say those words.

Still, my conscience rested easy. My sins
were bearable enough to wait until the day
of offering within the Temple, and even then
I’d struggle some to name my sins. So why
did I accept the labor of the miles
and seek a baptism, repenting for my sins?

The Spirit drove me dripping to the wilderness.

I’d had a life which had its just rewards,
its comforts, and its faithfulness, but now
my heart will never rest at “home.”
The softest bed will scratch my soul until
I set once more upon the road to speak
to new assemblies, gathered for the Word.

My life will be a wilderness.

Oh, can I not just take the road to home?
Can I not set aside the heavenly words
as meant for someone else, and not for me?
Must I embark upon a journey, knowing that
it leads to only one imaginable
destination: a shameful death upon a cross?

There’s little mercy in the laws of Rome.

I’d cry out, “Get behind me, Satan,” but temptation
is behind me, and before me, and at either side.
It’s graven deep within my bones which long
for hearth and home. What do I care for bread,
for power, or for Messianic name?
All I want, my God, is to go home.

But now my home is wilderness in truth.

Oh, you can come now, angels. Wipe
my sweat-soaked brow, and dry my streaming eyes.
Supply the bread I’ve done without
and gently satisfy my body’s thirst. Just like
the prophet long ago, I take your nourishment.
I take the highway of the wilderness,

From this day forth, and always.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:9-15, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, First Sunday in Lent.

The image is The Temptation in the Wilderness by Briton Rivière (1898) – Art UK, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=39630461.

Clinging

February 8, 2024 / Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“But Elisha said, ‘As the LORD lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.'” – 2 Kings 2:2, 2:4, 2:6

You threw your mantle over me, Elijah, as I plowed the fields.
(You failed to mention that you’d taken that direction from the LORD.)
You would not pause to let me kiss my parents, no. But cook an ox
upon the fire of its yoke, and feed the neighbors? Yes. You’re strange,
Elijah. From that mantle day, I’ve clung to it and you. I’ve seen
your challenges to kings and queens. I’ve seen God’s fiery judgement fall.

So now you’d leave me, prophet of the trumpet voice, to serve your God
and speak to kings as if they had no soldiers to command. Have we
been walking on the road toward your death and burial? Should I
have asked the gathered prophets for a shovel, casting earth and tears
upon your stiffening form, just as you cast the mantle on my back
which stiffened, knowing that the furrows of my life would grow new fruit.

I said I’d follow then. I tell you I will follow now, despite the lack
of tools to dig or fill your grave. I’ll follow you across the stream
divided by your mantle’s touch, not knowing if I can return
to Jericho without a muddy swim and wade. I’ll follow you
though tears are all that fill my eyes, so that your spirit takes its flight
and I see nothing more than mist, despairing of your spirit’s gift.

Fire. Horses.
Galloping between us.
Whirling, swirling wind.
You rise beyond my grasping hand.
Father, no!
The chariots of Israel steal away my heart!

Your mantle falls.
I’ll cling to it
until my sobs have eased
and I can test
to see if God
is with me.

A poem/prayer based on 2 Kings 2:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Transfiguration Sunday.

The image is The Ascension of Elijah, Russian icon of the Novgorod school, late 1400s, by Anonymous artist from Novgorod – http://www.bibliotekar.ru/rusIcon/2.htm, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4157865. Until I looked over Orthodox icons for this post, I hadn’t seen images of Elisha grasping Elijah’s mantle as if to hold him to the earth. It’s a powerful image.

Retreat

January 31, 2024 / Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. And Simon and his companions hunted for him. – Mark 1:35-36

You started ministry, O Savior, in retreat.
You rose from Jordan’s cleansing water and
retreated to the wilderness.
I guess temptation’s not precisely a
vacation, is it? Still, forty days
away from obligation sounds,
well, pretty good.

Then just a few days into ministry –
such active days, with teaching in
the synagogue there in Capernaum,
the place where everybody knew your name,
and were surprised to hear you speak with force,
and issue a command a demon must
perforce, obey,

Then healing Simon’s ailing mother-in-law
(where was his wife, I wonder?), and
the others who, with Sabbath ended,
made their way to Simon’s house in search
of respite from their pains, their demons quashed,
their illnesses relieved, their spirits freed,
their futures brightened –

Now you step away from exorcism, healing touch,
and liberating word. Now you seek night’s sheltering cloak,
to hide you from those seeking you. Now you
ask, perhaps, if struggling with the Tempter
might have been the gentlest part of ministry.
Now you seek a rest in God more healing
than a night of sleep.

The fishermen became the hunters, then.
They sought you, tracked you, brought you down
as arrow brings the hart unto its knees.
“They seek you, Jesus.” That was their excuse,
but you, and they, knew well their desperate need
to be with, learn from, follow you
in a new day.

You rise. You slap the clinging dust away
from off your robe. You slip the sandals on
(perhaps you’d shed them so to pray on holy ground).
“Let us go on,” you told them. Yes, they’re welcome
on the road of ministry, as weary as it is.
You’ll make your times of solitude along the Way
and maybe, they will, too.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:29-39, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is an illustration of Mark 1 by Distant Shores Media/Sweet Publishing, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18886209.

Astounded

January 25, 2024 / Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

They were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes. – Mark 1:22

Astounded I was, for certain – not, however,
in a good way.

I know there’s nuance, theory, opinion,
but not so this Jesus.

I’m a great one for clarity. Say what you think
but modestly, right?

Not so this Jesus. He laid it out clear
and said he was right.

Astounded I was, and a little offended
by arrogance there.

That’s when the shouting began. Oh, not me.
A poor man afflicted

By demons within. I knew him. We knew him.
The Teacher did, too.

“I know who you are!” he cried out, then called him
“the holy one of God.”

I was moving to gentle him, comfort him, lead him
away and to home, when

Jesus delivered his order: “Be silent! Come out
of his spirit!” And silence.

The man drew his breath, then exhaled with a sigh,
clearing the tension away.

He smiled, gave his thanks, took his seat near the wall.
Nobody knew what to say.

And now I must listen again to this arrogant Jesus
who seems to know everything,

Because with a word he set this man’s spirit free.
None of the rest of us did.

Perhaps Jesus’ ideas are not just opinion. Perhaps
he knows more than he says.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:21-28, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is Christ Healing a Possessed Man in the Synagogue at Capernaum, an 11th century fresco in the bell tower of Lambach Abbey, Lambach, Austria, by an unknown artist – Scan aus: Rudolf Lehr –- Landes-Chronik Oberösterreich, Wien: Verlag Christian Brandstätter 2004 S. 79 ISBN 3-85498-331-X, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6633986.

Nathanael

January 9, 2024 / Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

“Philip found Nathanael and said to him, ‘We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.’ Nathanael said to him, ‘Can anything good come out of Nazareth?’ Philip said to him, ‘Come and see.'” – John 1:45-46

I made the journey down the Jordan
to hear the Baptist’s words, not Philip’s dreams.
Admittedly, if John had said he was
Messiah, I’d have turned my head.
But no. He told us he was just an echo
of Isaiah, straightening the roads.

Oh, Philip, my old friend. How many figments you
would follow! I am not so credulous.
Messiah? Here? Unlikely, don’t you think?
He’d either be upon the road, an army at
his heels, or hidden in a cave as David did.
Messiahs do not listen to a Baptist.

And he’s from where? From Nazareth?
Oh, Philip, you have lost your mind.
Can anything of good or right come out of there?
They’re all too ordinary, Philip, stuck
in their pursuit of daily bread.
You’ll never find Messiah in that place.

But now: you’ve told me, “Come and see.”
For friendship and for mercy, I will come.
Forgive me if the skeptic’s frown distorts my face.
I have no skill to wear deception’s mask.
Your Messianic man will know me when he sees me.
He’ll know I bring to him no thought of guile.

A poem/prayer based on John 1:43-51, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Second Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is Nathanaël sous le figuier (Nathaniel Under the Fig Tree) by James Tissot – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.59_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10195839.

Shine, Star, Obscuring Light

January 3, 2024 / Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

“In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.'” – Matthew 2:1-2