Prayers for the Permanent Collection

Abolitionists 

Let My People Go!

“I have observed the misery of my people in Egypt, and have heard them crying out because of their oppressors. I know about their sufferings and I have come down to rescue them from the power of the Egyptians and to bring them from that land to a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey…” (Exodus 3:7-8)

“The Lord, the God of the Hebrews, has sent me to tell you: Let my people go, so that they may worship me in the wilderness.” (Exodus 7:16)

God, Liberator of the oppressed, 

I hear your voice

roaring from the burning bush,

rushing into my soul with fury,

crying out for the voiceless,

“Let my people go!” 

You are crying for the unborn,

the creature you shaped, 

kicking in mom’s belly 

wanting to be born.

But her arrival is an inconvenience, 

so we use murder as a convenience.

I hear you crying with jealousy, 

“Let my people go!”

You are crying for the mom,

who wants her unborn to be born,

but enjoys no support  

of those who hasten to accuse her,

but move nothing to lift her sorrow

and deny her the dignity of telling her story.

I hear you crying for her, 

“That’s my daughter,

Let her go!”

You are crying for the sisters of Tamar,

who were treated like objects,

violated and discarded

by brothers who felt entitled to pleasure  

and abused their power to obtain it. 

I hear you sobbing with Tamar and her sisters

tears of sorrow, sobs of anguish, 

tears of shame, sobs of rage, 

tears of denial, sobs of despair, 

tears and sobs, 

tears and sobs, 

ashes and torn robe, 

bitter tears, bitter pain, 

heavy tears and rhythmic sobs, 

the sound of grief and the cadence of desolation. 

I hear you sobbing in anguish

“Let Tamar and her sisters go!”

You are crying with George Floyd,

your hands extended on the cross,

exhausted from searching for air,

looking at the guards who robbed your breath.

You cry with him in unison

“I can’t breathe.”

And your Spirit within me cries,

“Let my people go!”

You are sobbing with the parents,

who are losing children to gun violence 

in the red-lined streets of this land, 

split in half by the Troost,

by the wealthy knives of those who hid the truth.

You are crying in protest 

for your blood is red but draws no lines.

“Let my people go!”

You are crying with the immigrant,

who was lured by the “American dream”

and wakes up to a nightmare 

in the dreamland where only some dream.

We eat the produce they pick,

but can’t afford to eat.

We benefit from their labor,

but fail to protect their personhood

I hear your voice through “The Great Wall”

echoing through Rio Grande 

and piercing the Sonora Desert,

“Let my people go!”

You cry with the unhoused 

in the solidarity of having nowhere to lay your head.

You cry with them for mercy 

from passerbyers and runners,

lawyers and laborers. 

Some of them sound like Bartimeus

“Son of David, have mercy on me” 

And you cry aloud with them

“Let my people go!”

You are crying with the elders,

whose companion is loneliness, 

discarded by a society 

that searches for wisdom in empty wells,

ignoring fountains in nursing homes 

and rivers gushing out of lonely houses.

There is wisdom in the slow and steady pace

of feet that once ran

through mountains and valleys,

straight and curvy roads,

smooth and rocky terrain.

There is beauty to white hair,

depth to wrinkles

carved by sweat and tears,

tenderness in callused hands

that labored for our present comfort.

I see you meet their gaze through the window, 

crying out with indignation

“Let my people go!”  

Jesus Christ, Friend of souls in the margins

We lament our neglect.

We grieve our apathy,

for we live and worship comfortably 

in white castles with thick wide walls

that afford us the luxury of ignorance 

and the safety of distance.

Forgive us for not valuing 

life at all stages.

Forgive us for valuing 

the comfort of distance 

over the discomfort of proximity

to those who are not like us,

to those who don’t have as much.  

Forgive us, oh Lord, 

for drawing red lines over lives, 

knowing that your blood is red 

but draws no lines.

We repent for putting

whiteness over witness,

profit over personhood,

wealth over diversity’s wonder,

pride over poverty of spirit,

greed over gratitude. 

Make us disciples who are liberators.

Let our voices join with Moses

in the cry of justice 

that is as old as,

“Let my people go!” 

Amen

The Return of the Prodigal

[...] So he got up and went to his father. But while the son was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion. He ran, threw his arms around his neck, and kissed him.

Luke 15:20

The Clarity of the Father’s Embrace

Father,

Sorry it took me so long…

So long to see your heart,

so long to see my pride,

so long to hear you calling, 

so long to hear my longing.

I longed to run to you,

but thought I was too little too late 

and too much too messed up.

I squandered what you freely gave me

searching for love in the arms of lovers, 

who wanted me as long I didn’t ask

for real caresses and long love,

for a sincere kiss and a timeless embrace,

for true companionship and not just a hookup.

I longed to run to you,

but was too ashamed to face you.

I couldn’t look into your piercing eyes.

They are too pure for my eyes.

For I’ve seen folly and violence, 

I’ve looked at others’ bodies with lust

and others’ things with envy.

Your eyes are too pure for mine; 

I couldn’t look up to meet your gaze.

I longed to run to you! 

I longed for your embrace!

But my hands were dirty with my sin against you

and my body muddy with the sin against me. 

I’ve touched forbidden money and forbidden bodies.

My body knows the violence of abuse 

and the inhumanity of unwanted touch.

How could I put these dirty hands around you?

I longed to run to you.

I longed to cling to your neck 

and weep on your chest,

but where would I find the courage?

One all too frequent a day

of beers and brutality,

lust and loneliness,

I felt my soul exhausted

and my body tired.

Exhausted of being numb 

and tired of the same hustling.

So I ran and I ran, 

looking for the One I longed for,

unsure, but hoping I’d be welcomed.

And there you were! 

In the middle of the road,

arms open wide

grin on your face,

eyes filled with tears.

I ran into your arms,

expecting to hear, 

“What have you done?

Where have you been?”

But all I heard was 

“Welcome,

welcome home my child. 

I’ve been waiting for you,

longing for your face.

I missed you!”

Here in the safety of your arms

there is light and clarity,

I can breath again,

I can let go, 

I can receive love without fees

and acceptance without violence.

Sorry it took me so long 

to return to your arms 

and tell you I should’ve never left.

Sorry it took me so long

to realize it was your arms I longed for.

I now rest in your embrace 

and weep in the arms I longed for,

resting in your peace 

and the clarity of your embrace,

still too much too messed up,

but assured of your love,

listening to your gentle whisper,

“You are mine.”

Amen

Holy Saturday

Inside the tomb

where your dead body laid

there was silence and stench, 

breathless body,

heavy air.

We can handle the stench,

even wrestle with the pain.

But who can take the silence?

The One who spoke plants alive

and the stars to shine

doesn’t utter a word!

Are you there?

…

The One who spoke from eternity

now sits silent in infinity

while we endure the silence

born in infinite Light.

Are you there?

…

…

Didn’t you say you’d be with us? 

Didn’t you say you don’t sleep? 

ARE. YOU. THERE?

Wake up!

…

…

…

We hurt!

We cry silent tears,

hidden in painful smiles

and lonely hand shakes.

We are in pain! 

We wrestle with empty wombs

and empty rooms.

We are longing for peace

but the world is at war

and our streets filled with violence.

We desire intimacy

but seek it in disconnected

online connections

that make the world smaller 

but our souls’ holes bigger. 

Are you there?

…

…

…

…

Just one word

Oh please, just one! 

Are you there?

…

…

…

…

…

“WAIT!”

Really? 

That ‘s all you have to say? 

WAIT?  

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

We wait for Easter Sunday

in Saturday’s uncomfortable silence,

learning the patience that only silence can teach.

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

Jesus, 

You who endured in the tomb, 

Holy Saturday’s painful silence,

help us endure with patience

the painful silence of our many Saturdays.

Let the Father’s silence shape us

into patient people in a hurried world.

Let patience grown in silence 

shape You in us,

the hope of glory

that springs on Saturdays.

Amen

Good Friday/Whipped Christ

Will I Do the Same?

“He grew up before him like a young plant 

and like a root out of dry ground. 

He didn’t have an impressive form 

or majesty that we should look at him, 

no appearance that we should desire him. 

He was despised and rejected by men, 

a man of suffering who knew what sickness was. 

He was like someone people turn away from; 

he was despised and we didn’t value him.

Isaiah 53:2-3

You gave your life for me.

Will I give my life for you?

You took the sting of thorns

so I could smell the scent of flowers.

Will I die so you can live through me,

or will I cling to the pride of asserting

who I fashioned myself to be?

Will I surrender my heart

or will I cling to control?

Will I choose my own power

or will I bow to the Spirit’s?

Jesus,

Isaiah said that You, 

had no “impressive form,”

no desirable majesty. 

But I find you so beautiful,

so majestic, 

so stunning,

so compelling.

For no one else will do for me 

what you willingly did on Good Friday.

You took the thorns, 

So I’d get the flowers.  

Despised and rejected

You were sick with my sin.

My lying tongue flogged You,

my pride crucified You.

You died my death

so I could live your life. 

You took the thorns,

so I’d get the flowers.

Man of sorrows,

acquainted with grief,

hanging on the cross

You shed tears for me.

You cried for the wounds

that now bleed in my heart

You cried for the pain,

that now stifles my breath.

What undeserved beauty,

to see myself in your tears! 

Solidarity’s flowers 

born from thick, sharp thorns.

While I look at my image

in the tearful, sacred mirror

running down your cheeks

straight into my heart,

I hear your invitation 

to follow you to death.

But I cling to myself 

and refuse the cross. 

I love my things to much

I adore my world. 

Will I take the thorns 

so flowers can grow?

Jesus,

Grant me courage to surrender

to the path of the cross

so I can die to myself.

Reorder my loves.

Free me from unholy ties,

apparent freedoms 

that imprison my soul in idolatry’s den.

Grant me the grace I need

to wear the thorns you once wore

so colorful flowers can grow 

in the soil where you planted me.

Amen

Four Chapters

Our Downtown Familia in the Four Chapters

God, 

Creator of the Universe and Giver of life, 

whose word creates and whose breath animates. 

You decorated heaven with billions of stars,

filled the ocean with playful creatures 

and the earth with millions of flowers

of shapes and colors galore 

for your pleasure and ours. 

How creative and fun you are!

You planted us in the garden 

to be fruitful and care for it, 

but we listened to the serpent, 

that crafty, lying creature, 

who made us believe that your word was a lie. 

Thus, we don’t live in the garden. 

We are grieved that we squandered your gift 

and condemned ourselves to death. 

We are thankful that the reptilian word is not final 

because the final Word of the Godman 

crushed his head when his body bled. 

Oh what beautiful specks of red adorned the green of creation

and brightened our darkness with hope, 

pointing us to the cross, 

we are drenched in red and immersed in the Light. 

Who said darkness means lifeless? 

The serpent, not the Savior, 

who turned on the lights in the grave 

and robbed the tomb of his corpse.

God said, “Let there be light! 

He resurrected and so shall we, 

when heaven’s gate opens 

and we skip through a golden street.

Jesus Christ, Light of the world.

We come to you as a familia you called into being, 

imperfect but glorious, 

placed at the Crossroads to be salt and light, 

faithful heralds of the four chapter story. 

Each of us brings our brokenness to you, 

who recreated the world by dying at the cross. 

Oh beautiful specks of green 

that turned a tree of death into a tree of life! 

We surrender the stories we wrote for ourselves 

to the story you wrote for us. 

Come and breathe life into these dry bones! 

Fill our lungs with the hope of redemption 

and our eyes with the sparkles of heaven. 

Help this familia walk on earth as it is in heaven. 

Holy Spirit, Breath of God, 

Fill this familia with life to give and words to speak. 

Words of truth, words of healing, words of salvation. 

Fill our mouths with joy and courage 

to proclaim your four chapters 

and to claim your story for one another

when we don’t have the strength to claim it for ourselves. 

Amen

Shine Like Scars in the Sky

Dazzling Scars

Lord,

We can’t breathe.

We are wounded.

Crushing pain 

stifles our breath.

How will you ever make

beauty out of these scars,

where pain left its mark?

Oh, but healing leaves a mark too! 

New tissue covers our wounds;

a different shade makes a sign…

A sign that resurrection awaits

that Jesus also wears scars,

where nails once attempted to crush him.

But the serpent can go to Hell,

dragging his sorry self to the pit,

while we bask in the glory of the scars

that once and for all crushed his head.

You disarmed his bite with our scars

and dazzled him with our brokenness.

Only you can use scars as weapons

to blind the generals of darkness

with scar tissue grown in suffering 

and drenched in tears.

Only you, our scarred Savior,

to whom we present our scars 

as offerings of wine and tears.

Amen

St. John’s Bible

Trembling at His Word

This is what the Lord says, 

Heaven is my throne,

and earth is my footstool.

Where could you possibly build a house for me?

And where could my resting place be?

My hand made all these things,

and so they all came into being.

This is the Lord’s declaration.

I will look favorably on this kind of person:

one who is humble,

submissive in spirit,

and trembles at my word.

Isaiah 66:1-2 

God,

You speak order out of chaos,

you make nothing become something

by the power of your word.

You said, let there be light, and there was light.

You said, let there be flying creatures, and birds came to be.

You said, let there be plants, and flowers appeared. 

You said, you said, you said!  

Creative energy flowed,

atoms formed elements,

elements molecules,

molecules compounds,

compounds live-giving structures,

order out of chaos

because of what you said.

At your command

the sun rises and sets,

moon and stars adorn the darkness,

flowers splash green with color and joy.

The oceans stay in their place,

the earth orbits around the sun,

gravity tethers us to the ground

because you said, you said, you said.

Your word carries your power,

the power of the One who sits in heaven

but rests his feet on earth,

the power of the One no earthly temple contains,

the power of the One whose word is as good as done.

Why don’t we tremble at your word?

Why don’t we rush to obey your commands?

Why is obedience not urgent?

Is it because we deem our self-government loftier than yours?

Is it because we are too comfortable on our own?

Is it because we believe the Serpent’s lie?

That we know what is good,

that we know what is best,

that we know what is true, 

that we know what is beautiful?

Why, Lord, why don’t we tremble at your word?

Why don’t we rush to obey your commands?

Why is obedience not urgent?

Oh, Lord!

We lament

that we study your word, but fail to do what it says,

that we are filled with knowledge without deeds,

that we negotiate our obedience with comfort,

that we have not deem your beauty worthy of our prompt obedience.

We lament

that we have trampled on your Word,

not trembled before Him, 

by refusing his light, 

by resisting his cross-shaped mold,

by embracing a false resurrection devoid of a cross.

We lament

that we have trampled on your Word

by embracing security over sacrifice

and self-sovereignty over surrender.

We have trampled on Him

by keeping the key to our souls 

and looking for words of eternal life in empty elsewheres.

We lament

that we have trampled on Jesus 

by ignoring our neighbors,

by judging instead of showing solidarity,

by aiming our feet to the powerful and away from the poor,

and extending our hand in arrogance instead of humility.

We lament that we are not humble.

We lament that we are not submissive.

We lament that we do not tremble at your word.

Oh Lord!

Forgive us.

We repent of our self-government.

We repent of our knowledge without deeds

and faith without works. 

We surrender the keys of our souls to your Spirit.

We submit to your cross-shaped molding.

Oh Lord!

You who re-created the world by sending the Word,

you who repeated “let there be light” 

by sending Light with legs,

you who spoke order out of chaos 

through Jesus’ perfect life,

sacrificial death

and powerful resurrection,  

come and breathe life on us, 

shine your light into our hearts, 

shape our souls into a cross,

drive away our rebellion, 

so that we may tremble at your word

and obey it with urgency.

Amen

Broken Together Before You

Lord, 
We are anxious.

What will we eat, wear, and keep?

Will we marry or will we not? 

And if we will, who would it be?

Our minds, restless with worry,

wonder if the hustle is worth it, 

if the toil of each day matters,

if the world will ever heal.

Our hearts are bleeding, 

wounded with unfulfilled desires,

sore with the sorrow of invisibility,

eaten alive by loneliness.

The truth is we are broken,

chattered by a world that groans.

Brokenness unmasked by anxiety

revelas wounds that won’t heal 

and angst about what we can’t know. 

But brokenness is also hope,

for you are near to the brokenhearted

and Savior of the crushed in Spirit.

Our brokenness is a glory magnet! 

Oh, Lord, 

Let your glory eclipse our doubt.

Let it transform our anxiety into dependence. 

Let us, broken as as are, shine with the glory of your Son.

You who comfortably sits among ruins

come and dwell among us

broken pieces of flesh 

of different colors and luster,

but all welcome into your mosaic of glory.

Jesus, let us gather around you

to hear about the peace you won for us

and linger in the sound of your voice that whispers,

“You are more cherished than many sparrows”

Amen