Prayer of the Day | Resurrection Sunday | Easter 2024

I've always struggled a bit on Easter. What many hear as a victory tune (Alleluia!) I've primarily seen, most years, as a protest song. Something like, "Alleluia! God's desire is war no more and the abolition of that torturous prison called Hell--as well as the hells we make here. And we've made plenty. So, let's do something about it. Let's be Resurrection people and get at it." And so on. Especially this year, amid a genocidal bombardment and decimation that continues in Palestine, funded and armed in large part by the Empire in which we live and move, it seems off-key, to say the least, to sing of "victory" without some sort of nuance. 

All that said, here's a prayer of the day for Easter. I hope it's helpful. And I hope that it takes the above into consideration. 

Also: 

Turn your phone to a horizontal position for easier reading. 

Peace, all. 

Tom

[ image: Harrowing of Hell/Hades, Dionisius, 1500 ]

Prayer of the Day 

Your poets confess, O God, that “Hope is to hear the melody of the future.” 

“And faith,” they say, “is to dance to it.” 

Today your melody arrives. 

It sings. It takes shape, as alleluia. 

Alleluia! Death and Hell are destroyed. 

Alleluia! The hungry are filled. 

Alleluia! War and suffering are no more. 

Alleluia! Already. Not yet. 

Alleluia! Already. But sort of not at all. 

Alleluia! And Yet. Alleluia! Not Yet! Alleluia! 

Alleluia! May this song possess our hearts.

Alleluia! May it be our banner, our anthem, our joy. 

Alleluia! May it move us–through passion for justice and peace–

until the cry of all the crucified has truly ceased; 

until spears are shattered and bows are set into clouds; 

until tyrants are torn from thrones, 

lions with lambs, lying on the ground; 

until there is no power or scepter or crown; 

and the only rule that remains is Love. 

Alleluia. Love. And Love, alone. 

Alleluia. So it is. 

Alleluia. Upon our lips. 

Alleluia! For this, we dance. 

Alleluia. May it be so. 

Alleluia. Soon, we pray. 

Soon and forever more. 

Amen. 

Christmas 2023

Among the people and in the places that empire destroys and disregards. The trash, the excrement, and especially, as we are reminded by our siblings in Bethlehem and in all of Palestine this year: beneath the rubble. This is where God is born. Naming the divine in the abandoned and the bull-dozed. Affirming the human in the flesh of the tortured and the targeted, the dehumanized, and those whose lives have been cut short: by bullet, by hate, and by bomb.

Faithfulness to the Christ-child? This is no longer possible through folded hands and closed eyes alone. Prayer is lacking if it remains more of a wall and less of a doorway to solidarity with the oppressed, the persecuted, and the poor. And just to say it out loud: solidarity is not charity, of course. It is something more. Random acts of kindness don’t stop a war. 

For this, in the words of Jesus’ Mother, tyrants will need to be dislodged from their thrones, and the lowly (those born in mangers or those born already-crucified) must become exalted and arisen. They must rise. Be resurrected. For this is love.  

Until these (solidarity, resurrecting, dislodging, and so on) become our aim, as well, we cannot claim that we are fully “Christian” or that Jesus’ dreams are our own. Or that we stand in solidarity with the Crucified ones. And we can never sing with integrity, “silent night.” 

For bombs are falling. 

And, crying, the “little Little Lord Jesus” makes. 

Each moment he wakes to a nightmare. 

Christians, what will we do? May we stand with the Prince of Peace and cry with the Lord of Love, 

“Ceasefire Now! End the Genocide. Free Palestine.” 

Let’s tell this from the mountain. Shout it. 

What kind of Christmas would it be if we didn’t? 

What kind of Christians would we be, for that matter? 

I don’t really know. 

Merry Christmas.

Peace, Love & Liberation, All. 

Ceasefire now.

Tom

Prayers of Lament. Prayers of Mourning. Prayers for Peace.

Peace, all. 

Here are some words I put together for today's service at Carthage as we gathered to pray for peace in Palestine and Israel. So many thanks to Dr. Stephanie Mitchell for suggesting this beautiful song for the service and to Dr. Maggie Burke for bringing the choir as well as leading and directing the singing. 

Feel free to use/modify in your house of worship.

A reminder that if you are reading this on your phone, you can flip your phone to a horizontal position to read a bit more easily. 

Peace. 

Tom

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Song: Dona Nobis Pacem (translation: Give Us Peace)

You are fed when the hungry share our food, O God. 

When the thirsty drink, your tongue is satisfied. 

When peace and justice kiss once more, 

when the lowly are lifted from below, 

when the meek and the peacemakers 

and the justice-thirsty are blessed, 

you are there. You are the blessing of them all. 

Your voice is near to our day-to-day–

from the margins, it beckons. It pleads:

that, where there is death and hatred, 

we might sow resurrection and healing–

desiring that the world be made right again.

But where are you when violence is our cry–

when we hunger for slaughter, when we thirst for blood, 

when we dance with joy upon the graves of anyone?

Where have we placed you? 

Where is it that we think you are in the rubble we have made?

When there is nothing left that we will share.

When we deem one another dispensable, 

when we deem a whole people disposable,

when we deem our siblings beyond a wall:  

starve-able, jailable, abusable, 

or not even human at all?

What hells have we created here? 

What hells we have created here!

What hells rage on

as we stoke the fire and fuel unending flames? 

In the name of what?

Do we call our actions “of God?” 

Do we call them necessary? 

Do we justify to others our death-dealing deeds? 

Where are you when we fail one another 

and destroy the siblings you have given us to love? 

Where have we hidden your voice, 

trading plowshares for bombs? 

Could it be, on the missiles we launch,

that we have written your unspeakable name? 

Surely, this is the case. 

God, here we mourn.

Tens of thousands of lives cut short. Of homes demolished. 

Of bodies and minds tortured and broken beyond repair. 

We pause to mourn these now. 

God, here we lament.

What world should have been so that violence would give birth to violence no more?

We pause to lament.

God, here we pray. 

For freedom for all to live into the potential with which you have gifted them. 

For self-determination for the marginalized and the dispossessed. 

For peace and for an end to inequality and death and war. 

For the Beloved Community and not the genocide that we make. 

 

Give us the vision of your prophets: 

The cow and the bear shall graze; 

and the lion shall lie down with the lamb.

Weapons will be tossed to the dust. 

Dry bones shall dance and we shall study war no more. 

Fear shall become compassion–and tears shall cease.

The earth shall be your home.

And we will dwell in your house, O Lord, at peace, together. 

Hold in your love those who have died, O God, 

and, as you called forth beauty from chaos at the start of your Creation, 

give us strength to speak truth and liberation and peace into the world.

May it be so. May it be so. Amen. 

Song: Dona Nobis Pacem

At the end of the vigil, please return your candles, stay to converse with friends and colleagues, or depart in peace to make peace in the world. 

---

If I Must Die by Refaat Alareer

If I must die,

you must live

to tell my story

to sell my things

to buy a piece of cloth

and some strings,

(make it white with a long tail)

so that a child, somewhere in Gaza

while looking heaven in the eye

awaiting his dad who left in a blaze–

and bid no one farewell

not even to his flesh

not even to himself–

sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above

and thinks for a moment an angel is there

bringing back love

If I must die

let it bring hope

let it be a tale

Everyday Armageddons is Out Now!

Matt and I wrote a book. I think it's filled with heart and beauty and love. It's also filled with the horrible and the horrifying, luring us into the moments and minutia we tend to hide--in living rooms unvisited or behind nursing home walls. It's a book of stories and reflections about modern death.

    

As the horrors of state violence, genocide, and unabashed disregard for the life of the o/Other play out before us, live-streamed into our pockets (if we are willing to hit "unblur"), my hope would be that the same heart that was at work in the writing of these pages would foster an empathic imagination in each reader that would extend to the dying in every context, including the overtly political.

We'll see.

I do hope you'll love it. The whole project was and is a work of love. We received our author copies this week. Locally, you'll be able to purchase a copy from one of us soon. You can also order right away over at Wipf & Stock. 

    

Much love, all. 

Peace. 

Tom

A Prayer for Teachers or Faculty at the End of a Semester

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Between home, where our students are given a name, and the polis, where they arrive to make a name for themselves, here you have placed us, O God, in this sacred space of their becoming.

Give us the courage to assist these young people as they seek to find their voice; heart as they discern what is beautiful and ethical and good; wisdom as they seek what is true and worthy of aspiration; and strength when the days get long and the semesters come to an end. 

May we use our power for good, and may we bear witness to your blessings along the way, trusting that we are held always and forever in your grace and love. 

Amen.

A Prayer of the Day: Christmas Eve 2023

Peace, all.

Here's a Christmas Eve prayer for this year (or for whenever). Use or modify as you wish in your houses of worship, or at home--don't as you don't. If you don't mind, cite this page if you do use it. It'll help me out as I continue to publish around.

I pray you're all well.

Peace, love, and liberation.

Tom

[ image source ]

Prayer of the Day, Christmas Eve

Written for Carthage College Christmas Festival 2023 by Rev. Thomas R. Gaulke

It is for the sake of the hopeless that your hope is born, 

desiring, shaking, crying, and afraid. 

For the magi and for the shepherds. 

For the hungry and for the poor. 

For the oppressed and for the persecuted. 

For the downtrodden. And for the beaten-down. 

For Lazarus and for Mary. 

And for the oppressed-by-legions, yet unnamed. 

For every victim of every war. 

Searching and traveling and struggling.

Filled with faiths and finding ways and speaking in tongues

that so many refuse to ever understand.

Chasing after angels and apparitions unknown,

premonitions and prophets and stars. 

Desiring, shaking, crying and afraid:

it is for the sake of the hopeless that your hope is born.

By your dim fire.

Fragile and in the night.

They arrive. 

And they are warmed. 

Warm us, too. With your hope;

that, in times of violence, we might hail you, Prince of Peace,

that, in times of hate, we might laud you, Lord of Love, 

that, in times of separation and alienation, division and condemnation, 

we might name you: Jesus, Immanuel (God With Us, the One Who Saves),

closer to us than we are to ourselves, 

beating in our hearts, 

living in the flesh of every neighbor, 

crying out in each of the “least of these,” 

inviting us to worship by loving one another 

and by embodying together your justice and goodness in the world. 

It is for the sake of the hopeless that your hope is born. 

May we find it here.

And may we carry its warmth into the cold.

Amen.

The Crucified People and the Dreams of Jesus (Liturgical Context for this Week)

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We find ourselves, this week, sitting between two significant liturgical events. This past Sunday was Reign of Christ or Christ the King Sunday. Instituted in 1925, this feast day was a response to the rising fascism of 1920s Europe--fascism being an idolatry that privileges one people while dehumanizing and caricaturing another. Like all idolatry, fascism was demanding human sacrifice and genocide in the name of progress and the greater good.

Reign of Christ Sunday serves to remind people of faith that their allegiance is to no “supreme leader” on earth–and to no earthly nation with its oppressions, marginalizations, human sacrificial systems, and wars. 

In Christ, in contrast, borders dissolve. The “last” of our world, we learn, the Crucified People of our day (as they have been called by Ignacio Ellacuría, Jon Sobrino, and so many other theologians), are the embodiment, flesh and blood, of Christ. “I was hungry and you gave me a feast.” When Christ rules our hearts, those who once were disposable become the center of our concern and striving toward love and justice.

Advent, which begins this coming Sunday, is a season of longing and aspiration. In it, we remember Jesus’ dream of what is yet to come: the hungry fed, the lowly lifted, the Crucified arisen, and tyrants torn from thrones. We fall in love with Jesus' dream all over again and dedicate our hearts and bodies to working toward it, even as we eagerly pray and wait for that dream to more fully bloom and realize among us. It is worth reflecting this week: Who are the Crucified among us today? Who do we dehumanize and sacrifice in the name of progress? Or is it "democracy?" What must we do to turn away from all of that and, instead, live into Jesus’ dream of the Reign of justice and love?

One way we can do that is to demand justice for Palestine, to demand an end to the ongoing occupation and genocide, and to demand a real and lasting Ceasefire Now.