Empty Nets

Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.”
They said to him, “We also will come with you.”
So they went out and got into the boat,
but that night they caught nothing.
When it was already dawn, Jesus was standing on the shore;
but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus.
Jesus said to them, “Children, have you caught anything to eat?”
They answered him, “No.”
So he said to them, “Cast the net over the right side of the boat
and you will find something.”
So they cast it, and were not able to pull it in
because of the number of fish.
—John 21:1-19

When all we knew was lost and gone,
our world unsettled as the wave,
still, wonder met us with the dawn:
We looked into your empty grave.

We sail now as we've always sailed,
but all our nets come empty back—
yet we recall the baskets filled,
abundance you brought from our lack.

Our hunger you turned to a feast,
and even death you turned to life.
But we must go on restless seas:
Can you bring peace out of our strife?

A voice cries, “Cast your nets once more.”
We do, though we have fished all night—
and you are standing on the shore
and all the world is new and bright.

Now all that had been emptied out
is filled with more than it can hold.
The long night of our dread and doubt
pours forth the morning turning gold.

And there you stand, the Son of God,
inviting us to break our fast,
in restless seas our solid rock,
our certainty and home at last.

Painting by Henry Ossawa Tanner, circa 1913 – Google Arts & Culture — LAHsSESclImgWA, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=71770460

Threads

When this which is corruptible clothes itself with incorruptibility
and this which is mortal clothes itself with immortality,
then the word that is written shall come about:
            Death is swallowed up in victory.
                        Where, O death, is your victory?
                        Where, O death, is your sting?
—I Corinthians 15:54-58

I will wear out like a garment,
growing tattered, getting torn.
Though, my God, you spun and carded,
wove my threads ere I was born,
yet your work shall come unravelled,
picked apart by careless hands,
stained by everywhere I've travelled
as I seek the promised land.

Take and wash me, smudged and spotted,
in your everflowing stream.
When you draw me from the water,
then at last I will be clean.
But you will not patch these tatters
when this cloak is all worn through,
piecing fullness where I'm ragged—
You will weave my threads anew.

I am meager; I am mortal,
quickly worn out in the strife.
Clothe me then in what's immortal,
and I'll enter into life.
Death is swallowed up in vict'ry,
in the shroud of Christ the Son.
I am sewn into your myst'ry,
in the seamless life you've spun.

Weaver, Nürnberg, c. 1425 By Anonymous – Hausbuch der Mendelschen Zwölfbrüderstiftung, Band 1. Nürnberg 1426–1549. Stadtbibliothek Nürnberg, Amb. 317.2°, via http://www.nuernberger-hausbuecher.de/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=13129819

Beacon

When my weary soul is aching
with the burden on me laid,
and I lose the road I'm taking
in the fading of the day,

light a beacon where you dwell here.
I'll lay down my heavy load
where you light shows me a shelter:
I will rest here from the road.

Lord, I know my way's been easy—
I'm not meaning to complain.
Nonetheless, my heart is bleeding:
Will you leave me in my pain?

For you travelled here before me
with no place to lay your head,
yet I'll find you in the morning
standing sentry by my bed.

Though I lay me down in shadow,
though I cannot find the light,
let me find your peaceful meadow
in the stillness of the night.

As you blessed the loaves and fishes
so your people could go on,
bless the coffee and the dishes
in the light of one more dawn.

Give me courage for the journey;
give me hope for journey's end.
Keep your beacon in me burning
when the darkness comes again.

Arkadi Monastery / Moni Arkadiou. Lamp in the church By Wouter Hagens – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4170241

Morning Star

Moreover, we possess the prophetic message that is altogether reliable. You will do well to be attentive to it, as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.
—2 Peter 1:19

It sits just below the horizon,
steadfast as we're losing the light;
what changes the world at its rising
now waits for the coming of night.

And we who have waited in darkness
and watched as the light fades away,
we see even now the first stars out
with us keeping vigil for day.

As midnight draws nearer and nearer
the shadows grow deeper than deep,
but in them we see all the clearer
the longing that draws us from sleep

to wait with a hushed expectation
that knows every shadow must pass
the gleam of the world's restoration,
the light breaking on us at last.

And all who have waited to see it
cry out with the strength it imparts,
“Shine out, holy light, from your zenith!
O morning star, rise in our hearts!”

Venus is always brighter than the brightest stars outside the Solar System, as can be seen here over the Pacific Ocean, Photo By Brocken Inaglory – File:Venus with reflection.jpg, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5223759

I Cannot Keep Awake

“Beware that your hearts do not become drowsy
from carousing and drunkenness
and the anxieties of daily life,
and that day catch you by surprise like a trap.
For that day will assault everyone
who lives on the face of the earth.
Be vigilant at all times
and pray that you have the strength
to escape the tribulations that are imminent
and to stand before the Son of Man.”
—Luke 21:25-28, 34-36

My eyes will not stay open;
I cannot keep awake,
but trust what you have spoken
that swiftly comes the day

when you will come restoring,
come bringing exiles home.
I may not be here for it,
but I wait, even so.

The memories we carry,
old sorrows we still weep
like seeds the winter buried,
not dead but fast asleep,

with Jesse's stump forgotten
yet watered by the dew—
all that we lost shall blossom,
becoming something new.

The fruit we stole in Eden
and Cain's rejected sheaves,
their shoots will grow like weeds then
into your mercy's feast.

And if I cannot see it,
if I am buried deep,
yet you will come, Redeemer,
to wake me from my sleep.

Detail of Jesse from the Stained Glass window of All Saints Church, Hove, Sussex. England, Photo By Malcolmlow, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=64575403

Fig Tree

Learn a lesson from the fig tree.
When its branch becomes tender and sprouts leaves,
you know that summer is near.
In the same way, when you see these things happening,
know that he is near, at the gates.
Amen, I say to you,
this generation will not pass away
until all these things have taken place.
Heaven and earth will pass away,
but my words will not pass away.
–Mark 13:24-32

There will be days of trial and tribulation:
The sun will hide; the moon will shine no more.
The princes and the pow'rs will all be shaken,
and they will see the coming of the Lord.

Come, learn to read the wonders of the heavens,
the times and seasons ticking through the year.
For those with eyes to see, they are a message:
The days roll on, and Christ is drawing near.

Oh, let it be the lesson of the fig tree,
that summer comes and all the earth turns ripe,
the bud and blossom growing out of myst'ry,
the slow beginning of the fruit of life.

We wait the rising of the sun of justice;
the bride keeps vigil 'til she sees her groom.
With hope and fear we wait the coming judgment
to see the deserts bursting into bloom.

O, give us courage, Lord, to stand before you,
and strengthen us to make a level way
where all may journey safely to adore you,
and give us patience while we wait for day.

Trew, C.J., Plantae selectae quarum imagines ad exemplaria naturalia Londini, in hortis curiosorum nutrit, vol. 8: t. 73 (1771) [G.D. Ehret] – http://plantillustrations.org/illustration.php?id_illustration=58571&language=English, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22318968

When You Return

When you return, O God,
O brighter than our sun,
to reckon all our rights and wrong,
our done and left undone,

there at the end of time
when at your feet I stand,
oh, take the oceans of my crimes
and pour them through your hands.

The words I should not say,
the swords I should not wield,
pour in and let them drain away
through mercy's wounds unhealed.

For I am sunk in them
who cannot walk their waves.
They seep out through your innocence
'til all that's left is grace.

As deep as I have drowned,
raise me and let me stand.
The millstone ropes at last unwound,
let me rest on dry land.

And see: My sins are gone
and you alone remain.
Now fill me with the light of dawn
and make me new again!

Gospel Book, Second Coming of Christ, Walters Manuscript W.540, fol. 14v. This manuscript was executed in 1475 by a scribe identified as Aristakes, for a priest named Hakob. It contains a series of 16 images on the life of Christ preceding the text of the gospels, as well as the traditional evangelist portraits, and there are marginal illustrations throughout. The style of the miniatures, which employ brilliant colors and emphasize decorative patterns, is characteristic of manuscript production in the region around Lake Van during the 15th century. By Walters Art Museum Illuminated Manuscripts – https://www.flickr.com/photos/39699193@N03/8509826031/, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=76790938

Baking Bread

I have heard the earth is burning;
I can hear the tocsin ring,
but the planet still is turning—
I will see what morning brings.
For the hearth still needs its tending;
mouths are crying to be fed.
Yes, I know the world is ending,
so I stand here baking bread.

I have heard the fear that whispers,
heard the whispers turn to shouts.
I have offered no resistance
to the wisdom of my doubts.
But some other voice is calling
in the watches of the night,
saying, “Yes, the Temple's falling:
Will you offer me your mite?”

Should I so, O Christ my savior?
What I have is not enough,
but the little I can make here,
I will give the world in love.
For like Martha in her kitchen
and like Mary at your feet,
though my quiet work is hidden,
it is needed: Come and eat.

Johannes Vermeer Christ in the House of Martha and Mary, 1655 By Johannes Vermeer – fwE2zem7WDcSlA — Google Arts & Culture, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21865869

Kings of Earth

Riffing on Psalm 33:

Kings of earth call up their armies;
warriors sharpen spear and sword.
God moves earth and sea, disarming;
empires fall before the Lord.

Let the heart still hold its secrets;
let the plotting mind still plan.
God who made them holds their seasons;
they shall not extend their span.

Human strength avails us nothing:
Chariots sink into the sea;
weapons crumble, scarred and rusted;
all our tow'rs shall toppled be.

What will last? The stars o'erreaching.
What goes on? The ocean waves.
What stands firm? The earth beneath us,
while our mortal dust decays.

Even these shall cease their turning,
falling into entropy,
yet shall God in endless mercy
make his children still to be.

Kings and princes plot their vengeance
sinking in oblivion.
Still in God our hope is endless:
Mercy flows forever on.

Discarded and Forgotten, in DüsseldorfBy marsupium photography – https://www.flickr.com/photos/hagdorned/9291943561/, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=57468833

Pilgrim Table

For All Saints Day, on which the prayer after communion reads,
“As we adore you, O God, who alone are holy
and wonderful in all your Saints,
we implore your grace,
so that, coming to perfect holiness in the fullness of your love,
we may pass from this pilgrim table
to the banquet of our heavenly homeland.
Through Christ our Lord.”

You call us from the north, O Lord,
and call us from the south.
From east afar we heard your word;
from west we sought it out.

Through deserts you have led the way
and over ocean deeps;
the forests hold you not at bay
nor any mountain steeps.

And we have travelled by your road,
have followed day and night 
in search of our eternal home,
on pathways you make right.

At every step a fest you spread:
a table where we find
your heav'nly manna for our bread;
your living water, wine.

You give us strength to journey on
in plate and chalice laid,
a foretaste of the feast to come
in your unending day.

Then at this pilgrim table, Lord,
come fill us with your grace
to seek the banquet more and more
where we shall see your face.

Fractio panis (“the ceremonial breaking of the eucharistic bread for distribution” during the meal of Holy Communion) in the Greek chapel (Capella Greca) of the Catacombe di Priscilla in Rome. Fresco of a Christian Agape feast. 2nd – 4th century. Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=566562