Poem For The Sunday Lectionary (Pentecost +12, Yr C)

AT AN UNEXPECTED HOUR
(Luke 12: 32-40)

Not yet is that kingdom come upon us:
not yet the peace that is God’s loving will;
not yet the swords turned into plowshares;
not yet the wolves lying down with lambs;
not yet the lands where refugees
may dwell in joy and safety;
not yet the bellies of children
unswollen from their hunger;
not yet the world’s enslaved going free,
not yet the poor finding lives of fullness,
the cities where the gun no longer sounds.

Not yet.

And so not yet can we turn our eyes from duty,
not yet can we turn from service to others,
not yet can we cease from seeking justice,
nor cease from a wide compassion;
not yet can we rest from kindness, from mercy,
from pursuing peace, from lifting up
all those who are trodden down.

Not yet.

Not yet that banquet table,
not yet that feast of the kingdom’s
completion where all are guests of love.
Not yet the time to extinguish our lamps
in the rays of a new day’s sun.

Not yet.

And yet –
hear what unwearied hope says:

Maybe soon.

Copyright ©2016 by Andrew King

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Poem For The Sunday Lectionary (Pentecost +8, Yr C)

THE TRAVELLERS GIVE THEIR SIDE OF THE STORY
(Luke 10: 25-37)

 THE PRIEST:
The sun was cruelly hot that day,
it lay like weight on the skin;
and yes, I saw where the body lay,
naked and bloody and thin.
But my robes are long, I might have tripped
if I had bent to lend a hand,
and so I passed by. But I said a prayer –
I’m sure God had a plan.

 THE LEVITE:
You know how rough the road is there;
the robbers could have been near.
His condition for certain delivered a scare –
there’s a lot of crime around here.
I lead an upright life, you know; it’s why
God has blessed me with being rich.
So I hurried past, giving thanks to God
that it’s not me in that ditch.

 THE PRIEST:
I’m a busy man, I’ve many tasks
that occupy my mind.
My day is full from first to last,
there’s never enough of time.
I might have stopped, but my schedule
has to keep me rushing on.
Since it’s God’s work that I do, you know,
I don’t think I was wrong.

 THE LEVITE:
Perhaps we should question why this man
was chosen for being robbed –
could it be that he was a sinner, and
that this was the will of God?
And if it was indeed the man
himself who was to blame,
then I do not think by passing by
I’ve cause to be ashamed.

 THE SAMARITAN:
The sun was cruelly hot that day,
lying like weight on the skin,
and yes, I saw where the body lay,
naked and bloody and thin.
My heart was moved within me;
I felt pity for his pain.
So I stopped on the road to help him,
what more need I explain?

I don’t think I was being heroic
when I offered merciful aid.
And I’m not just being stoic
when I say I’ve been repaid.
The humble thanks he’s given
for having his life restored
is the blessing of God’s own heaven.
And kindness is its own reward.

Copyright ©2016 by Andrew King

Poem For The Sunday Lectionary (Pentecost +7, Yr C)

THE DUST THAT CLINGS
(Luke 10: 1-11, 16-20)

Dust of a million miles of hurry,
dust of the wheels of a billion cars,
dust of the greed and the grasp and the worry,
dust of the age of unending exhaust,

dust of the pyramids, towers, cathedrals,
dust of the plowed and the killing fields,
dust of the sweat and the blood of the battles,
dust of the plastics, cosmetics, the pills,

dust of the hungry, dust of the thirsty,
dust of the cruel and the cruelly wronged,
dust of the grieving, the weeping, the weary,
dust of the run and the struggling on,

dust of the questions, dust of the mystery,
dust of the best and worst we’ve become,
dust of the ash of our anguished history,
dust of mortality’s beating drum —

shake off the grime of it, wrap it in rainbow;
shake off its hurting, heal it in light;
leave only hoping that helps us to let go
of all that would keep us from tasting new life.

Copyright ©2016 by Andrew King

Poem For The Sunday Lectionary (Pentecost +6, Yr C)

TO GO TO JERUSALEM
(Luke 9: 51-62)

There you go, Lord, setting your face for Jerusalem,
setting your face for the cross of self-giving love,
there you go down
the road of self-sacrifice,
giving up a place to lay your head

to sit through the night with the sick ones,
to sleep under bridges with the homeless,
to sort the cans at the food bank,
to talk in the tent with the refugee,
to keep vigil with the hurting and grieving,

speaking to the darkness with your candle of hope,
speaking to the darkness with your light of love,
stirring the uncaring into action,
calling us to follow you on the difficult road,
calling us even though we stumble,

even though we’re not sure of our direction,
looking backward as so often we do,
reluctant to leave the familiar,
reluctant to leave our routines and traditions,
reluctant to give up our comfort,

but still hearing you,
still longing to journey with you,
still turning toward the sound of your voice
as you disappear around another corner
on the way

to the cross that lies just ahead.

Copyright ©2016 by Andrew King

Poem For The Sunday Lectionary (Pentecost +3, Yr C)

VOICE OF ELIJAH
(1 Kings 17: 17-24)

“The Lord listened to the voice of Elijah”

Where are you now, Elijah, while
children of the poor grow ill
with hunger and fear and hopelessness?

Where are you now while women widowed
by war and crime and disease
cry out in despair?

Where are you now, Elijah, while
our fevered world drifts in the grip
of deathly powers of greed?

Where are you now while dreams of justice
grow cold upon beds of pain?

Let your voice be heard again,
O prophet of passionate praying.

Let it crack with compassion for the ones
who shed the blood-hot tears of grief.

Let it shake with rage at the halls of power
so deafened to others’ need.

Let it rise like a shout of joy for the work
of love that brings hope and healing.

Let the words of life ring out again,
O prophet, and in your speaking
may we know that it is our voice you use,
our voice for which God is listening.

Copyright ©2016 by Andrew King

Poem For Pentecost Sunday (Yr C)

SUDDENLY THERE CAME A SOUND. . .
(Acts 2: 1-21)

It was one of those days where
leaves are thrashed
from tree branches writhing
under a racing sky,
and my childhood friend playing
outdoors with me wondered:
does the wind
ever stop blowing?

And does it stop somewhere, he asked again,
or just keep going around and around the world?

Back then I said I didn’t know
but now I know there came a day
when a wind began in a certain house
that filled with a light like flame,

and that wind had the roar of justice,
and that wind had the rush of love,
and that wind had the whisper of peace and compassion,
and it carried the words of hope and joy
to an anxious and needy world,

and it was gentle enough to touch the wounded soul
and strong enough to stir the ever seeking hearts
of women and men, young and old,
from city to distant shores,

and it pulled down walls of distrust and fear
and threw open doors of possibility,
and oaks of hatred have bent in its path
and palisades of pain have fallen to its strength
and new life has spread like scattered seed

and yes, my friend, that wind
circles the world
and no,
it has never stopped blowing.

Copyright ©2016 by Andrew King

Poem For The Sunday Lectionary (Easter 5, Yr C)

GOSPEL WITHOUT WALLS
(Acts 11: 1-18; John 13: 31-35)

“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall. . .” – Robert Frost

Some One there is who ever loves us all,
whose grace declares none of us unclean,
in whose life and death barriers come down:
Jesus is one who doesn’t love a wall.

To love our neighbour, near and far, our call,
and more: to love as Jesus loved, for that,
he said, will truly mark his followers.
Jesus is one who doesn’t love a wall.

And this Peter discovered in the fall
of a rigid prejudice held so long
only the voice of God could shake it loose –
our Lord is one who doesn’t love a wall.

May this, too, be our vision, seeing all
as God sees, undivided by our fears,
resentments, our old sinful selfishness,
God-graced to share the gospel without walls.

Copyright ©2016 by Andrew King