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Joseph
Obscured brother
consigned to the margins
of Incarnation narrative.
Carpentry-calloused hands
now shield the shame
of sagging face, drooping, disgraced.
Chiseled lines prematurely sculpting
age in youthful countenance.
Thoughts of Mary smudge the heart
as tears smear the face.
Mary. Beloved. Betrothed. Betrayed?
Mary. With child. Whose? How, and why?
Joseph, companion in confusion
over God’s intention.
No multi-colored coat for you as for
your scoundrel namesake of old.
But who dares answer, much less complain?

Joseph
Made redundant by the very breath of God.
What became of you?
Obedient to heaven’s outrageous instructions
amid Caesar’s assessment.
Unable to provide more than squalid accommodation
in your beloved’s night of travail.
Enduring embarrassed encounters
with wild-eyed shepherds and
strangely-clothed pilgrims
from obscure and distant lands,
each with incredulous stories of starry encounters.
Then hurtling toward Egypt—a land still haunted
by chained voices of ancestral slaves
—only steps ahead of Herod’s rage, the
Ramah-voice of Rachel weeping in the wind.

Joseph
Did compliance with heaven’s intrigue
cause your undoing?
Was it more than your pride could endure?
Or did Rome nail you to one of its trees,
anonymously, sharing the sentence
of countless other Palestinian fathers,
left hanging in imperial ambition
years before the similar fate
of Mary’s fetal promise?
Did you map that road
for him as he did for us?

Joseph
Loving Mary more than posterity itself.
A future eclipsed by divine drama,
a fate unrecorded, left to the imagination
of bath-robed youngsters in seasonal pageants.
But not forgotten in the heart of God
or, even to this day, in the prayers
of shipwrecked sailors
and abandoned children.

St. Joseph
Consort of Mary,
accomplice of God.
Chaperon the prayers of all
who disappear from history.
Supporting cast in the
larger story of redemption,
leaving no trace other than the faint
moisture of tears on some beloved’s face.
Vouchsafe the memory of such shadowed faces,
anonymous names, ’til their inscription in
the Lamb’s Book of Life.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Inspired by Matthew 1:18-25.

Zechariah—
hillbilly priest of the
Abijarian house of Aaron,
himself the brother and mouthpiece
for “slow-tongued” Moses—
What lesion confounds your speech?

With Elizabeth—
cousin of Mary, spiritual heir of
Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Hannah—
barren and bereft, seedless and sorrowful,
pledged to you, a priest of impotent prayer.
A union with no yield but malignant shame.
What boundary of belief constricts your credulity?

Afflicted with aphasia by Gabriel’s reproach
’mid the cloud of incense.
The Holy of Holies,
designed to regulate the presence of
(the unspoken name of) YHWH, now
overwhelmed with dumbfounding Presence.

From your seed (and Elizabeth’s
fallow soil) shall spring
       John—whose conception prompts
Judean astonishment: “What then will this child be?”

Speechless Zechariah,
befuddled cleric,
schooled in the theory of divine history
but unacquainted with its Advent.
For us, too, encountering the One
who promises the impossible
is a confusing, confounding prospect.
New life issues with a scream,
but is forged in the ordeal
of muted mouth.

Yet after a sojourn in the
wilderness of that bewilderment
even the silence gives way
to benedictus, to blessing.
The promise of perplexity
(for those up to the risk)
is praise and wombs leaping in joy.

Only by this unraveling
is the darkness dispelled,
is life re-raveled, is the boundary to
benedictus transgressed and the
tongue loosened for laudation.

      John—Naziritic preamble
to Mary’s manifesto, whose very
name transcends ancestral boundary—
will reside in his own wilderness
until the time of harvest vocation:
              to turn
the hearts of parents to their children
              to give
light to those who sit in the shadow of death
              to guide
our feet to the way of peace.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Inspired by Luke 1:5–24, 57–80.  Advent 1997.

The Blessed One does not stand in need of our praise;
nor sits impatiently, impudently, awaiting our
genuflection; nor strides restively, demandingly,
threateningly, toward our cowering pose.

No, none of this. There is no protection to be warranted by
proper groveling, calculated flattery, sustained applause,
pleading curtsies or bargaining bows.

It is, rather, we who need to praise. By it we transcend
self-serving ways. By it beggarly egos loosen their grip;
anxious trembling and toil, stilled and rested; fury, calmed;
moans, soothed; regrets, unknotted.

The Holy One of Heaven doesn’t do booster clubs or
sign autographs or make grand entrances at charity balls—
or acknowledge the sky-pointed, victory-claiming index
fingers of star athletes at moments of triumph.

God is not Number One. God is not an integer. God can
no more be counted than the eye can see its optic nerve.

It is by ebullient praise that we become transparent. By it
we send our presumptuousness packing. From it we readily
marshal every asset and place them under the command of
Another—Another, we discover, who is not alien to us, is
not other-than, but is in us, through us, above, under and
around us, who is with us as breath-to-lungs, blood-to-heart.

What feels at first like submission, we come to recognize,
finally, as being at home, where we are welcomed and
prized progeny to be feted, feasted, and royally attired.

In that union all that was broken is mended, all that was
stained is cleansed, all that was doubted rests confident,
all that was down-hearted finds its hallelujah. We become
as lovers to the Beloved. The weighty worries that previously
occupied us, even terrorized us, are disclosed as so much falderal.

Personally, praise is like Pilates for the soul, countering the
constriction of tendons and rusty joints, allowing freedom of
movement and off-road adventures.

Publicly, praise is prelude to undoing
     every slaver’s chain,
     every gallow’s threat,
     every monopoly’s reign.

The work of praise in the tent of meeting—worship, where
questions of worth are determined and competing claims of power
decided—begins in the labor of lament.

How long, O Lord (the psalmist’s persistent introit),
     will soul and soil be anguished and troubled?
      the wicked prosper?
      injustice stalk its prey?!

Glory to God, announced the angels, and on earth, peace.
Mother Mary then magnified the Lord for scattering the
proud and lifting the lowly.

All praise is due to Allah,
says the ancient crier (peace and blessings be upon him),
who delivered us from the unjust people.

Praise to Heaven portending peace for the earth.

Praise is equally personal and public. It grows rote and rank
when privatized for self-stimulation or adherence to pious rigor.
It grows toxic when utilized as a tool for social coherence.
Fully-blossomed, it loses all instrumental intent and rises
“as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.”*

The work of praise is both promise and provocation. By it we
are simultaneously lifted to the ecstasy of beatific vision and
launched into a world which fears doxology above all else.

Sing praise, all ye people.
Clap your hands, ye meadows,
      mountains, forests and fountains.
Magnify, ye birds and bees,
      creatures of seas, every lion and lamb—
                  even you, Uncle Sam.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org.
*Phrase from Kahlil Gibran, “On Giving”

O Lamb of God
fruit of the Spirit
flesh-giv’n of Mary
creation shall hear it!

O Lamb of God
Joseph sits shiv’ring
Mary lies aching
creatures stir, restless.

O Lamb of God
Herod stomps, raging
shepherds peer, trembling
wise ones kneel, puzzling.

O Lamb of God
stable-born suckling
feeding creation
from cattle trough manger.

O Lamb of God
born midst the mourning
hearts taken hostage
bloodshed adorning.

O Lamb of God
sigh of our longing
creation groaning
baptized in slaughter.

O Lamb of God
warrior of mercy
heaven’s revolt
against human revenge.

O Lamb of God
sanctioning Satan
creation’s Promise
‘til death is undone.

O Lamb of God
urgently hasten
embolden our hearts
inscribe salvation.

Behold, the Lamb!
disarming the powers
healing the nations
worthy the name.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Inspired by John 1:29 and multiple reference in Revelation. Advent 1992.

Christmas.
Christemasse.
Cristes mæsse.
Ritual reminder of
a Palestinian promise
announcing Holy Intent in
swaddling attire, manager laid:
All flesh is destined for Glory.
For God
is more taken
with earth’s agony
than heaven’s ecstasy.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Advent 2009. Inspired by Luke 3:6.

O Wondrous One,
Who rides the skies
and consorts with the earth,
haunting the heavens,
hounding mere mortals
with the expectation of ecstasy,
come and rouse hungry hearts
wandering this famined land
with the aroma of your presence.

Come, angelic envoys,
with renewed announcement
of glory (to God) and
peace (for the earth).
Your people long for
Messiah’s rejoinder,
through wombs made welcome
to the news of reversal:
the annulment of enmity
and the Advent of promise.

From Jesse’s ancient stump
raise again a voice consonant
with hope’s manger-laid disclosure,
of delight with wolf and lamb,
and children marshalling the
cavalcade astride the Lion of Judah.

O Majestic One,
whose passion spills
into flesh and blood,
set our hearts on the edge of our seats,
shivering in hope, longing,
longing for the age
when bitter memory
dissolves into magnificat.

As with our ancient sister Mary,
entreat us with the subversive promise
of Only Begotten freedom, begat
in the belly of holy submission.
May our lips echo
the jubilant manifesto
of creation’s destiny
with justice and with joy.

Holy One of heaven,
mark these dark nights
with the brilliance of your star
to guide emissaries of exclaiming grace:
of contradiction and scandal
to the insolent innkeepers of this age;
of blessing and bounty to the indigent,
to all who find no lasting home
save in the age to come.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Advent 1998. Inspired by the nativity stories in Matthew and Luke and lines in Isaiah 11.

From the Beginning, the Sovereign’s harness of the seer’s
     tongue assures a turbulent course. Announcing the
           surety of Providence among scarce-minded
           people—that’s no way to cover a mortgage.

            Blessed is the tongue that proclaims God’s ciphering.

To where may we turn for food that does not spoil,
for water that does not spill, for the bounty which neither
     rusts nor rots, unthreatened by thieves of every kind?

            Blessed are the hands of those who set
            the Beloved’s table, bidding the least,
            the lost, and the lame to gather round!

As Wisdom sets her table along the parade of confusion,
     as Jesus lifts bread on the evening of betrayal, the
     called-of-God face contempt and endure dismissal.

            Blessed are the eyes who sing the song of Salvation;
            blessed, the ears tuned to the melody of God’s future!

Fear not, oh celebrant of Mercy,
           God’s slow-food Movement is underway.

The Table of Memory is set against the
           world’s fast-food habits that fatten
                       arteries and ravage hearts.

Therefore let us eat in plenty, cups overflowing provide,
     may this table’s delight inspire earth’s urgent petition:
           that one day, all shall eat and be satisfied.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Written to celebrate the anniversary of a friend’s ordination.

By the Beautiful Gate doth my heart lie abandoned,
confined to the dust by crippled estate, dependent on
shame for a shekel’s remorse and a pitiful glance.

                  Look at me,
if you dare to compare your lofty composure.

Season by season, we watch for the light of the sun’s
promised rise and Messiah’s awaited approach.
We long for redemption beyond silver and gold,
           beyond every imperial consent.

      Here Yeshua*
stumbled on his way to that hill, the judgment of those
with investments to guard.

      Here Stephen
was stoned for his wonders and signs, blaspheming the
beggar-filled temple’s reproach.

      Season by season
we fancy a word from a John or a Peter, for some grace
overheard. We long for a gift
     beyond charity’s rue,
     beyond silver and gold,
for the bounty of wonder;
     for a Presence divine,
           arrayed in full splendor.

                  Look at us,
the disciples demanded. Oh indigent soul, disabled of
limb and dishonored of heart, the Abling One comes
     with honor-laced eyes, causing feet to arise with
           the high prize of praise.

      Season by season
by the Beautiful Gate—now plastered and bricked by
despair’s brutal reign, we long for redemption
     beyond silver and gold,
           beyond all imperial consent.

            How long,
how long shall predestined Mercy
lie tangled and tethered with grief?

            How long,
how long ’til gravity’s sway shall
     relinquish its stay over feet made
     for leaping and eyes for delight?

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Inspired by Acts 3:1–10. *Transliteration of Jesus’ Hebrew name.

Background: The walls of the old city of Jerusalem bear seven gates. The oldest was known as the Beautiful Gate in Jesus’ day, though its common name now is the Golden Gate. It is on the east wall, where the Shining Glory of God entered the city and where the Messiah was to be revealed.

Archeologists believe the Beautiful Gate was built on the ruins of an older gate named the Mercy Gate. It was here that John and Peter encountered the crippled man begging for alms in the story from Acts 3. Legend has it that Jesus passed through this gate on his final entry into Jerusalem, and then was marched out this gate, carrying his cross on his way to crucifixion. Legend also has it that the Jewish-Christian community’s first martyr, Stephen, was stoned in front of this gate. The gate was walled shut in the ninth-century and has remained so ever since.

by Ken Sehested

Bread-baking, kitchen-dwelling, breast-feeding God,
We return to your lap and to your table
because we are hungry and thirsty.
Fill us again
with the bread that satisfies,
with milk that nourishes.
Drench parched throats with wet wonder;
feed us ‘til we want no more.
We come to your lap and to your table
We come to your lap and to your table
and rediscover your romance with the world.
As you nourish us with the bread of life and the milk of your word,
let your Spirit hang an apron around our necks.
Fashioned and patterned like that worn
by our Lord-become-friend, Jesus.
Instruct us,
Instruct us here in the halls of your kitchen-kingdom,
with the recipes of mercy and forgiveness,
of compassion and redemption.
Leaven our lives
‘til they rise in praise:
Offered, blessed and broken
for the healing of the nations.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. A Mother’s Day poem, 1994, in honor of my mother, Joyce Sehested, recalling her labors on the day of my birth.

The signal of Moses’ ordination
erupted as bread, from the sky—
and water, from the rock—amid the
trackless and barren waste where
no tillage is found, no rivulet is formed.

      Bread and Breast of Heaven,
      feed me ’til I want no more.

Nourishment appears where none is
warranted, save by those who dare the
departure from Pharaoh’s granary.

Save by those who abandon Moab’s
drought and hopeless prospect to return,
like Naomi—accompanied in trust by
another without claim on the Promise—
to the place where God feeds.

      Bread and Breast of Heaven,
      feed me ’til I want no more.

Here God anoints with courage and
delight those with eyes to see, ears to
hear, and feet fit for the journey along
the blazed trail marked for those
without claim.

      Bread and Breast of Heaven,
      feed me ’til I want no more.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. May 2008, on the 20^th anniversary of a friend’s ordination. Inspired by Exod 17:6 and the story of Naomi and Ruth in the book of Ruth.