"They have no wine."-- John 2:3
"Like us in all things but sin."-- Hebrews 4:15
It had to come from somewhere. Expectations
have histories. Out of the blue one does
not say, “They have no wine,” as though
remarking on the gathering of the clouds, or how
late the spring this year. Surely she knew
before she came. Had he bent more
than nails, as he hammered the oak plank,
cut too short for the table top,
and turning to be sure the door was closed,
had he, in a stolen moment, lengthen
it an inch or two, a quick
impatient wonder to cover his mistake?
But through the lattice, had she seen,
smiled and understood. Had she asked
him to build a porch with beams from Lebanon,
where she could catch the breeze, watch
the sun go down? Then as the hard
wood rafters began to drop,
did he twist the law of gravity, put
a kink in the path of falling timbers?
And did she duck – and marvel?
-- Fr. Kilian McDonnell, OSB (1921- ), American monk, poet, and theologian at St. John's Abbey.
Relevant Scripture, John 2:1-11, 2nd after Epiphany C
('In the sixth month the angel Gabriel...' -Luke 1:26)
Bellini has it wrong,
I was not kneeling
on my satin cushion,
in a beam of light,
head slightly bent.
Painters always
skew the scene,
as though my life
were wrapped in silks,
in temple smells.
Actually, I had just
come back from the well,
placing the pitcher on the table
I bumped against the edge,
spilling water on the floor.
As I bent to wipe
it up, there was a light
against the kitchen wall,
as though someone had opened
the door to the sun.
Rag in hand,
hair across my face,
I turned to see
who was entering,
unannounced, unasked.
All I saw
was light
white against the timbers.
A voice I've never
heard greeted me,
said I was elected, would
bear a son who'd reign
forever. The spirit would
overshadow me.
I stood afraid.
Someone closed the door
and I dropped the rag.
-- Fr. Kilian McDonnell, OSB (1921- ), American monk, poet, and theologian at St. John's Abbey
Relevant Scripture: Luke 1:26-38
“Now the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country.’ ”
--Genesis 12:1
Talk about imperious.
Without a by-your-leave,
Or, may I presume?
No previous contact,
no letter of introduction,
no greeting,
just out of the blue
this unknown God
issues edicts.
This is not a conversation.
Am I a nobody
to receive decrees
from one whose name
I do not know?
And at our first encounter!
I have worshipped my own god.
To you I have addressed no prayers,
offered no sacrifices,
asked no favors,
but quick,
like sudden fire in the desert,
without the most elemental ritual,
I hear “Go.”
At seventy-five,
Am I supposed to scuttle my life,
take that ancient wasteland, Sarai,
place my thin arthritic bones
upon the road
to some mumbled nowhere?
Let me get this straight.
I will be brief.
I summarize.
In ten generations since the Flood
you have spoken to no one.
You give commands:
pull up my tent,
desert my home,
the graves of my ancestors,
my friends next door,
leave Haran
for a country you do not name,
there to be a stranger,
a sojourner.
God of the wilderness,
from two desiccated lumps,
from two parched prunes
you promise to make a great nation.
In me all peoples of the earth
will be blessed.
You come late, Lord, very late,
but my camels leave in the morning.
-- Fr. Kilian McDonnell, OSB (1921- ), American monk, poet, and theologian at St. John's Abbey
Relevant Scripture: Genesis 12:1-4a, Lent 2A
Painting: Francesco Bassano, Abraham Leaves Haran, 1560-1592
