You might notice the art on the north wall in the Gathering Area changes from time to time. There’s something new this weekend: poems and illustrations that look at Holy Week through Peter’s eyes. Using our imaginations, we try to feel the emotions of this week as he might have: the excitement, the despair and the hope.
If you’re able to visit in person, check out the wall on Sunday for a closer look. The poems are also below:
Peter’s Song (Palm Sunday)
Hosanna!
At last, our Exodus has come!
Hosanna!
Our master marches in glorious triumph
Hosanna!
Once again, he throws down the horse and rider
Hosanna!
He is a warrior mighty in power
Hosanna!
His right hand will shatter our enemies
Hosanna!
He will overthrow our oppressors
Hosanna!
At last, our Messiah has come!
The Things We Do (Good Friday)
Didn’t he just raise Lazarus from the dead?
Didn’t we just march in triumph into the city?
Didn’t the crowds just yell Hosanna?
Oh God, what are you doing?
Why didn’t we have weapons?
Why didn’t he lead us into battle?
Why didn’t he summon his legions of angels?
Oh Judas, what did you do?
Where were our swords?
Where was our fight?
Where else can we go?
Oh brothers, why did we do nothing?
Don’t just stand there, Master.
Call down fire!
Rain down fury!
Oh Lord, why don’t you do something?
No, woman, I’ve never seen this man in my life!
No, you fool, I’m not one of them, leave me alone.
No, man, I wasn’t in a garden, and I wasn’t in Galilee, how many times do I have to say it?
Stop doing this to me
The conversation around the fire lapses
Then, unmistakable, the rooster’s crow.
The Lord turns and looks straight at me.
Oh God, what have I done?
Times Three (Resurrection Sunday)
I’m in the water before I fully know what’s happening.
What I do know is I need to be near him.
Near him before he disappears again.
Water at my waist, my knees, my ankles.
Sloshing up onto the beach I hesitate.
A push: “Go away from me, I am a sinful man!”
A pull: “Please come for me, I am a sinful man!”
On the shore, we are by ourselves for the first time since…
I can’t bear to think of it.
Self-conscious, I rub my neck, staring past him to a pile of embers.
The boat shoves in behind.
He smiles, “Bring me some of those fish.”
We haul the fish in, flop, flop, flop.
Look at each other. Is this really happening?
For a carpenter, he’s got a knack for grilled fish.
But I don’t follow any of the conversation.
Then he says, “Simon, come walk with me.”
I fall in step alongside him.Now we’re really alone.
I still can’t make eye contact.
“Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?”
I hear a hiss and my own voice: “No! I don’t know him!”
I push the thought away. “You know I love you.”
“Feed my lambs,” he says.
He asks again, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”
A sneer in my ear, my words again: “No! I’m not one of them!”
I tremble inside. “You know I love you.”
“Take care of my sheep,” he says.
A third time he asks, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”
A cock crow echos. “Curse you! I don’t know the man!”
But I do know him, and I do love him.
“Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.”
“Feed my sheep.”
My tears spill out.
I look up, straight into his eyes.
Tears stream down his cheeks.
“Do not be afraid, Simon. Follow me, fish for people.”
Poetry by Emily Morrison and Art by Melissa Hardy
