The purpose of a life

After Acts 3:1-10

I see his hand, outstretched,

his voice modulated in supplication,

a voice practiced and honed

for years, and I stop and stare, and

wonder what his purpose is, why

he is here, for I have no coin

to drop into his hand, no alms

to soothe his plaintive cry. I see

his face and I know, that I am

to give alms of a different kind.

In his name, rise,

In his name, walk.

Rise and walk.

I pull him up, and the voice

is struck mute for once,

for a moment, that he can

stand, and then he walks,

and then he jumps and

leaps, testing to see if it’s

all some magic trick,

the power of suggestion,

and then he knows,

he knows it is real,

and when he knows

he clings to what

has healed him.

Photograph by Jonathan Sebastiao via Unsplash. Used with permission.

A prayer, answered

After Acts 3:1-10

Each day I’m carried

to the beautiful gate,

there to ask, sometimes

to beg and plead, for alms

at the hour of prayer,

my own supplication,

or substitution, for the legs 

that do not walk, the legs

that have never walked,

withered, atrophied limbs

useful only for dragging.

This day, the man with the dark eyes

hears my prayer, my begging, sees

my hand raised and extended, hears 

the plea, the pleading, in my voice.

Instead of a coin or two, he drops

something else in my hand: words,

words of command, a command

to rise and walk. He extends

his hand to pull me up, and I stand,

my withered limbs growing and

adding muscle and strength and

I am walking for the first time

in my life, walking and soon

jumping, my plea, my prayer

for alms answered, the alms

of healed permanence.

Photograph by Geetanjal Khanna via Unsplash. Used with permission.

The hour of prayer

After Acts 3:1-10

The ninth hour, or 3 p.m.,

the hour of prayer, the hour

to gather together. As they have

for years, friends or neighbors

or both carry him to the gate, 

he who does not, cannot, walk

from birth. And there, at the gate,

the one they call Beautiful, 

he extends his hands for coins.

He is a fixture, this lame beggar,

an expected sight at 3 p.m.,

the ninth hour, the hour of prayer,

the hour when many things happen,

his begging for coins a prayer

to others, who answer it, sometimes,

or ignore it, sometimes. His daily

carrying from home to temple and

back again is a prayer, too, 

a prayer to help the man’s lameness.

The two prayers merge daily into

one act, one plea, one supplication.

Photograph by Patrick Hendry via Unsplash. Used with permission.

The fisherman

Times I wish to be back, hauling

nets, often unfilled, inevitable

smell of fish on my hands, my hair,

my clothes, my feet, what my father

said I was born to do, hothead that

I was.

My enthusiasm, my bravado,

tamed, three times

tamed.

No bravado now, when I stand

before crowds, before priests,

only words, measured words,

quiet words marked with a conviction

I did not know, then, words

coming from external to me, shaking

my very being before embedding

in my heart.

Words.

The word.

Three times I lied

three times I denied

one time I ran and hid

They listen, not all, some

only hear, and afterward

I stand amazed at what

God does with liars,

and deniers.

This poem began with listening to a sermon on Acts 3:1-10 and 19-20.

Photograph by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Healing Quartet

After Acts 3:1-10

The carriers:

We carry him each day,

legs withered, muscles shadowed,

weakness and dependency

utter and complete, to the gate

to beg, the be able to beg

for alms, for life,

each day.

The voice (telling, commanding):

Get up, walk

(stands, walks, leaps, jumps)

The beggar:

The words came sideways.

I expected alms, some small thing

but the words came instead,

and then a hand,

and then my life.

The high priest:

Who is this voice, speaking

sideways, this peasant uneducated

in the law, this peasant who lectures,

his words knifing into accusations

against the rulers, against us,

against me. Like the one

who crossed us before.

Like the nations,

we rage.

Illustration: Peter Healing the Crippled Beggar at the Temple Gate – tapestry by Raphael; The Vatican.