Story: Settle Down, ‘Amakihi

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment
A yellow bird taking off from a tree with green leaves and red blossoms.

August 16, 2026

Isaiah 56:1, 6-8
Matthew 15:21-28

‘Amakihi aren’t the most social birds in the world. We’re used to seeing the flocks of myna around Hilo, and we’re used to seeing saffron finches in pairs. I’ve never seen more than one ‘amakihi at a time, which I grant you isn’t all that useful as information, because there could be six of them near me and if five of them are on the other side of some trees, I won’t see them. And probably haven’t.

That said, ‘amakihi do participate in mixed flocks of birds over the summer, and they are pretty mellow about other birds getting near their nests – but that is the time when they’re the most anxious and the most aggressive. When they’ve got eggs or young in the nests, they’re not very happy to have other birds about. Parents can be protective like that.

One first-time father was particularly eager to see that his eggs and then his hatchlings and then his fledglings stayed safe. He warned other ‘amakihi away from the nest, and he chased mejiro and ‘apapane. He even dared to chase i’iwi away, which is kind of unusual in the mountain forest. I’iwi are far more accustomed to chasing ‘amakihi than being chased, but fortunately the i’iwi was more amused than angered by it all. Besides, eggs are important, and so he kept a respectful distance after that.

The ‘amakihi kept it up as the youngsters learned to fly. It didn’t take all that long before they were flying with him and their mother about the forest. In a short time they had flown off for themselves, joining with some other young ‘amakihi and ‘apapane in the forest.

That’s when most ‘amakihi stop aggressively defending their nests. For whatever reason, he didn’t. Or rather, he did: he kept chasing birds away from a nest without eggs or young or anything. His wife was confused, and told him so. “I’m keeping the nest safe,” he said.

“Keeping it safe from what?” she asked.

“From everyone!” he said.

“Why? There’s nothing in it but sticks and grass,” she said.

“It’s got to be safe!” he said, and nothing she said changed her mind.

Nothing his auntie said changed his mind, either. He was so anxious and afraid. Nothing his tutu said – and you know he was would up if he wouldn’t listen to Tutu.

It was the i’iwi that got through to him. That same i’iwi he’d chased away months before fluttered over to perch just far enough to prevent a quick rush by the nervous ‘amakihi, who was fluffing up his feathers and getting ready to chase him anyway.

“Settle down, ‘amakihi,” said the i’iwi. “I’m staying away from your nest. But I’m confused. Why are you still protecting it so fiercely?”

“Nests are for protecting!” said the ‘amakihi, “especially from strange birds.”

“Nests are for protecting?” asked the i’iwi. “I thought eggs and chicks were for protecting. Was I wrong about that?”

“Eggs and chicks…” repeated the ‘amakihi, and suddenly the light flashed in his head. He looked at the empty nest, which would fall to pieces before it was time for eggs and chicks again, and then looked back at the i’iwi.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been foolish.”

“That’s all right, ‘amakihi,” said the i’iwi. “You can recover from foolishness. If you’d like, you can come fly with this flock I’ve found for the summer. There’s some birds who can spot nectar a mile away.”

The two birds flew off together.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them on Sunday mornings from memory and improvisation. The story you have just read does not exactly match how I told it.

Photo of an ‘amakihi by Eric Anderson.

Foreigners and Eunuchs, Eunuchs and Foreigners

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A single image with three elements of the same story. In the upper left, a child flailing in bed. In the center, a woman leaves the home to follow a group of men, one of whom is Jesus. In the the lower right, she kneels to him in petition, with a dog next to her.

Do not let the foreigner joined to the Lord say,
    “The Lord will surely separate me from his people,”
and do not let the eunuch say,
    “I am just a dry tree.”
– Isaiah 56:3

Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.
Anathema they are in the words of the law.
Anathema they are in the tales of the histories.
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.

Suddenly, inspired by God
a new word: “These I will bring
to my holy mountain,”
to joyfully raise up their prayers.
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.

We have heard other words,
have we not, from this time,
from our time, from the times
of so many others rejecting outright
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners?

We can choose what we read
and believe from the Bible.
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners
Exiled from the homes that they made
with their families, commanded by Ezra.

Foreigners and eunuchs
Eunuchs and foreigners;
would challenge the limits that Jesus
imposed on himself and win
healing for children, not dogs,
with great wit and compassion.

Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners
would read in Isaiah
of a lamb deprived justice,
and persuaded by Philip
would seek out the waters.

So which shall it be,
and how shall we be, with
Foreigners and eunuchs,
Eunuchs and foreigners?
The cruelty of Ezra?
The welcome of Philip?

Or perhaps we might follow
the quick turn of Jesus
to hear wisdom and heal
and to lay down our limits on
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.

A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 56:1, 6-8, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year A, Proper 15 (20).

The image is Jesus and the Woman of Canaan by Lucas Cranach the Elder (1537) – https://www.sammlung.pinakothek.de/de/artwork/8eGVWjr4WQ, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=105154922.

The editors of the Revised Common Lectionary chose to omit Isaiah 56:2-5 from the reading, which specifically address the welcome for eunuchs in the prophet’s vision. I’ve chosen to include their inclusion in this poem.

Story: Wide World

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Two birds near each other in mown grass. One is dark brown with a yellow beak and feathery mask. The other is cream colored speckled with darker brown.

July 26, 2026

Romans 8:26-39
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

Over the next few weeks we’re likely to start seeing one of our famous Hawaiian birds again. We’re approaching the time of year when the kolea make their 3000 mile non-stop flight from Alaska to Hawai’i where, like sensible birds, they’ll spend the winter.

A myna and a kolea happened to be scrounging for worms and insects side-by-side one day. As you know, kolea are generally pretty quiet, and mynas are frequently pretty noisy. They didn’t much mind one another, though, poking through the grass stems to put together a good breakfast.

The myna, naturally, was the first to say anything. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you for months.”

“A long way away,” she said. “Someplace that’s pretty cool in the middle of summer.”

“Oh, come on,” said the myna. “There’s no such place.”

“There is,” she said. “It’s a long flight, though. It took me four days to get there, and it’s taken me four days to get back.”

“Look, if you want to spin fables for me, go ahead,” said the myna, who was getting increasingly grumpy about all this. “The world isn’t that big.”

“It is,” she insisted. “It’s even bigger, as far as I can tell. There are coastlines and lands far, far away. I’ve even met birds who’ve come from other lands with other shores. It’s a big world.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed the myna.

“Go take a look,” said the kolea. “Fly as high as you can. You won’t see the shore where I spent the summer, but you’ll see at least one other island, and you’ll see a great big ocean.”

“I’m not going to stick around to be lied to,” grumped the myna, and he flew off to another lawn where there wasn’t a kolea to tell him stories. But her last words stuck. She’d seemed so sure and so sincere. It seemed incredible. At the least he should take her challenge and prove her wrong.

So he flew up along the slopes of Mauna Kea, bound for the sky above the summit. He’d never been there before, since he had all the seeds and worms he needed right here. Up he went, and to his surprise it got cold. Then the air got thin, and he had to work harder to keep his place in the air. He was a determined myna, though, and he kept going, until he could see the ocean all around the shores of Hawai’i Island. It seemed to go on forever, much further than he’d imagined.

And he could see the summit of Haleakala rising above the clouds on Maui.

He spiraled his way back down to the lawn where he’d disbelieved the kolea. She was back again, poking at the ground, making herself a good breakfast.

He broke the silence. “It is a big world, isn’t?”

“Bigger than I imagined,” she said. “I couldn’t believe there was anyplace like here the first time I made that flight.”

“I’m sorry I disbelieved you,” he said. “Could you tell me about the places you’ve been?”

And she did. The world was more wonderful and more amazing than he’d thought, and he was glad to know it.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation – so the story you read is not precisely how I told it.

Photo of a common myna (at left) and a kolea (Pacific golden-plover, at right) by Eric Anderson.

Story: One Loves

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Most of the frame contains a massive lava fountain, but also visible is a white bird with black bars near the end of its wings and a long thin white tail.

July 19, 2026

Psalm 86:11-17
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

The koa’e kea (white-tailed tropicbird) loved to fly. She loved to fly over the sea, and to hover over the water before diving to capture a fish or squid. She loved to fly over the land as well, to feel the thermals lift her wings as she crossed from sea to shore. And of course, as a koa’e kea from Hawai’i Island, she loved to fly around the Kilauea summit, with all the excitement of the rising hot air and, from time to time, the thundering lava fountains.

When Kilauea has fountained recently, she’s tried to be there.

“You can’t love all of these,” said a grumpy friend. “Love isn’t like that. You love some things, but that means that you don’t love other things. You can’t love all those different airs.”

“But of course I love them,” protested our koa’e kea, but her friend repeated:

“You can only love one. Just one. Love is for one. Pick just one.”

That’s all her friend would say.

How was she to choose? She couldn’t imagine. Yes, flying over the water could be more challenging, because sometime the spray would leap toward her, but she liked that. Flying over bare rock gave her a lift, and flying among and around trees and branches gave her a thrill.

She supposed that she probably loved flying around a lava fountain the best, but that was mostly because it didn’t happen that often. She flew over water every day. Lava only fountained once or month or so. If it happened every day, it wouldn’t so special, and she thought she’d probably love it, but not quite as much.

And besides, as much as she loved flying around the fountains, she still loved the other flying. How could she choose one? She just wanted to weep.

“What are you sad about?” asked another friend, one who wasn’t quite as grumpy as the first friend.

“How can I choose what kind of flying to love?” she asked, and was very surprised when her friend said:

“Why would you?”

She explained what their other friend had said, and he shook his head in unbelief.

“Love is bigger than that,” he said. “I love all sorts of things and all sorts of birds. Sometimes I love them in different ways. I love squid, but I love to eat it. I love my parents, but I’m not going to eat them.”

The two birds laughed at that.

“I think you’ve got enough love in you for lots of things, and lots of birds, and lots of different kinds of air and flying. Besides, it’s all the same in the end. It’s the world we were given, and I say we can love all of it.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” said our koa’e kea. “I’ll love all of it. Come fly with me. Let’s have a lovely time.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it is not identical to the way I told it.

Photo of a koa’e kea in flight near a lava fountain by Eric Anderson.

Wholehearted

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments


“I give thanks to you, O Lord my God, with my whole heart, and I will glorify your name forever.” – Psalm 86:12

My heart is fractured, God.

Let’s face it, it’s been broken by
the disappointments and betrayals of
my all-too-human life. What mortar can
rebuild the broken soul?

My heart is fractured, God.

My heart is torn by contradictions, pulling me
from one side to the other. If
it were a matter of but two directions, I
could manage – but it’s more than two.

My heart is fractured, God.

Not all my inclinations and desires
content me, God. I know that some are sin,
and know you know which other ones are sin,
that I am happy to delight in.

My heart is fractured, God.

How can I give you thanks
with a whole heart? My heart is shattered in
the bony cage which carries it.
I sing a wild cacophony of praise.

My heart is fractured, God.

But you, O God, are merciful.
Your grace abounds beyond imagination. You
forgive and heal and give me strength. Someday,
perhaps, I’ll praise with a heart that’s whole.

A poem/prayer based on Psalm 86:11-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate Psalm Reading for Year A, Proper 11 (16).

The image is A Paper-made “Broken Heart” by Sakazaki at English Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=55764723.

Story: Unexpected Blossoms

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

July 12, 2026

Isaiah 55:10-13
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

In all her lifetime, there was a grove of ohi’a that had never, ever blossomed.

Admittedly, she was young. There hadn’t been a great deal of her lifetime for the ohi’a to blossom. But they never had, she knew. Because that stand of trees was really handy, she had visited it regularly when she was younger – which wasn’t a long time ago, you understand – and although there’d been bugs to snack on, there just wasn’t any nectar and there just wasn’t a lot of reason to visit those trees.

So she stopped.

For one thing, there were plenty of other trees to visit, including ohi’a and koa and even a little grove of mamane trees. She didn’t need those ohi’a trees to bloom, though she did wonder if they were coming down with the disease that has left a lot of dead trees on the mountain slopes. They weren’t sick, though. On the increasingly rare occasions she flew over that grove, they were rich with dark green leaves – just no flowers.

So she stopped flying over them.

She joined a little flock of ‘apapane and ‘amakihi and one or two i’iwi, some of whom were really good at finding those blossoming stands. She followed their lead with confidence, because they tended to guide her to good places.

Then came the day that one of them announced that the flock would be flying over the stand of trees that she’d stopped visiting. “There’s blossoms there, I’m sure,” he said.

She was young but she was also confident, so she objected. “There aren’t any blossoms there. There are never any blossoms there. We might find some bugs, but the smart bugs will be where the nectar is, and that won’t be in those trees.”

“Oh,” said the leader. “Have you been there today?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve been there plenty of times, though, and they never blossom. Never. Not in my entire life.”

The other birds looked a little doubtful about this. One or two of them, who were older, had seen tree stands bloom unexpectedly after long periods without flowers, but many of them thought that “never blossomed” sounded pretty final.

“Let’s try,” said the leader.

“I’m not going,” said our young ‘apapane, “because it’s a waste of time and effort. I’ll be here when you come back so I can tell you I told you so.”

The leader shrugged as only an ‘amakihi can shrug, and took off along with nearly all the birds in the flock. Three or four thought they’d just as soon trust the youngster. They hunted around the tree they were in, and waited for the rest of the flock to return empty-beaked.

But they didn’t.

One by one, the other birds flew off to join the rest of the flock. One by one, they didn’t return empty-beaked, either. Finally she took off as well, with her stomach (and her song) grumbling away.

She found that grove full of flowers, of course, as the leader had expected. She settled in to sip nectar, rather embarrassed but also rather hungry. She didn’t know what to say.

“Nothing is forever,” said the leader kindly. “Trees bloom and then stop. Trees die and new shoots rise. Sometimes what you think you know isn’t so; and sometimes it is. You just have to look again.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it and as I told it do not precisely match.

Photo of an immature ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: Unsatisfied

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

July 5, 2026

Genesis 24:34-38, 42-49, 58-67
Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

It was her first time to be leader of the flock. She greatly appreciated the responsibility. Look at all those birds – twenty or more – who would rely on her to help them find food and shelter and safety. There were ‘apapane like herself, there were ‘amakihi, there were ‘akepa, there was even a pair of ‘alawi and a remarkably patient i’iwi.

She thought the i’iwi might be trouble, but he was quiet and polite and seemed to be thoughtful, not like the grumpy, crabby ones who’d sometimes chased her around the forest. She was glad for his presence and, it turned out, eventually glad for his wisdom. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

While the i’iwi wasn’t a problem, quite a few of the ‘apapane were. One or two seemed irritated that she was a leader so young. One or two didn’t seem to like having a leader at all. And one or two just didn’t pay much attention, so they flew in the wrong direction a lot.

Quite a few of them, however, criticized everything she found, everything she did, and everything she didn’t do. If she found koa in flower, they muttered about ohi’a. If she found a tree full of fruit, they muttered about nectar. If she found a big selection of caterpillars, they wanted full-grown bugs.

They were never satisfied with the things she found. And they weren’t satisfied with the things she had nothing to do with. “Why isn’t it sunnier?” they demanded when it was raining, and “I’m so thirsty” when the sun came out. “It’s too windy to fly!” they complained while flying perfectly well, and “It’s so much work to fly with no wind,” they’d moan an hour later when the breeze subsided.

She felt like a horrible leader, the worst one ever, and she considered stepping down before her turn as leader was done.

“Don’t worry about them,” said the i’iwi unexpectedly. “They’re never satisfied. If you were perfect, they wouldn’t be satisfied.”

“Do you read minds?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “I read the sad way you’re perching and the way you flinch every time they complain. It’s easy when you’ve seen it before.”

“You’ve seen it before?” she asked. “I thought it was me.”

“It’s you, it’s the leader before you, and all the leaders before that,” the i’iwi told her. “If they said left, these birds would say right. If they were in midst of a grove of ohi’a, they’d be asking for mamane – and out of season.

“I don’t know why some birds are never satisfied,” he said, “but it’s true. Some never are. All you can do is the best you can, realizing that it won’t be enough, because perfection wouldn’t be enough. And when your time as leader is over, maybe you’ll take a moment to reassure the next one that they’re doing better than any of these other birds will ever admit.”

The ‘apapane looked at the i’iwi again, and realized that he’d been through it himself. He’d been through it, knew how it felt, and knew that she was doing her best.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll follow that advice.”

“Thank you for your leadership,” he said. “You’ve done well for us, and I’m grateful.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation, so the story as I wrote it does not precisely match the story as I told it.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Like Jesus

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments


“For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon’; the Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!’ Yet wisdom is vindicated by her deeds.” – Matthew 11:18-19

There was a time they said I looked like Jesus. I
had grown my hair quite long, and wore a beard
whose scraggly thinness I would not wish on a Savior.

Has anybody ever said I act like Jesus? I
cannot say I have overheard the words,
although it’s true I like to eat and drink.

Nobody, I’m quite sure, has said I look like John,
or act like him. I’m no ascetic. As I said,
it’s true I like to eat and drink.

Nor does it matter. Whether clothes are soft
or ragged, whether wine is sweet or sour,
the task is still to testify to truth:

That God is real, and God is loving. God
cares about the ways we treat each other, more
than making regular appearances at worship.

God is not fooled by fools, and not by shrewd
deceit. Yes, God will judge, and yes, God will forgive,
but God will grieve for every sin we wreak upon each other.

So unconcerned about my clothes and diet, I
still wonder: does anybody think I act
like Jesus, righteous, showing love and grace?

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 9 (14).

Photo of Eric Anderson by Eric Anderson.

During my first year of college, I was cast in a play set in the 17th century. To look “the part” a little better, all the male actors let their hair and beards grow. During my spring break back home, a number of old friends insisted that I looked like Jesus, much to my surprise and consternation. I think I’ve finally lost the portrait photo taken for the lobby display, which is all for the best.

Story: Fish Stories

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

June 28, 2026

Jeremiah 28:5-9
Matthew 10:40-42

I’m not a fisherman. You’re not likely to find me along the shore with a long fishing rod or standing in the shallows somewhere with a net. What I do know about fishing, however, is a piece of advice I’ve only picked up in recent years.

“It’s called fishing, not catching. There’s a reason for that.”

People who fish spend more time not catching fish than they spend actually catching fish, and that matches my admittedly limited experience.

The ‘auku’u doesn’t have much choice about whether to go fishing or not. If you want to eat, and your diet is basically fish, well, you’ve got to go fishing. For our young ‘auku’u here (you can tell she’s young because of her brown feathers and orange eyes; the older ones have blue-black feathers and red eyes), that wasn’t a problem. She liked fishing.

She liked catching better, but she didn’t mind fishing, at least if it led to some catching. The problem was that she wasn’t entirely clear on where to go to minimize the fishing and maximize the catching. That’s one of things you learn if you’re a young ‘auku’u, and she was still learning.

She knew two older ‘auku’u who were happy to give her advice. One was a cheerful uncle of a bird who was always enthusiastic about guiding her to good spots. The other was a rather gloomy auntie, and she was much more likely to say, “Don’t go to this spot; there’s no fish there.” The number of spots she could tell you had no fish in them was impressively long, but also downright depressing. The young ‘auku’u wanted to be told where to go, not where not to go.

So she tended to listen to the happy uncle.

It worked out less well than you’d hope. When she asked him, “Uncle, are there fish in that pool in the next cove?” he tended to say something like, “Oh, my, yes. I’m sure there are. Go have a good breakfast!” Reassured, she’d go see. Sometimes there were fish there, but more times than not, there weren’t.

She learned to ask him, “Have you checked that lately?” but he always said he’d checked it today, and strangely, the fish had often gone somewhere else by the time she arrived.

She did far more fishing than catching in the spots uncle suggested.

Gloomy auntie, on the other hand, didn’t get things wrong very often. There were times when uncle said, “Fish here!” and auntie said, “There’s no fish there,” and auntie had been right. When auntie said she’s found fish recently, there were always fish to catch there. She was always gloomy, but she was often right.

The young ‘auku’u asked her straight out one day: “Auntie, why do you and uncle tell me different things about fishing, and why don’t I find fish where he says more often?”

Auntie considered this question rather sadly, then said, “Niece, I tell you what I actually know about. I know the spots I’ve been to on the day, so I know when there’s no fish there. I might not always know where the fish are, but I can tell you where I haven’t found them.

“Your uncle, on the other hand, likes to tell happy stories, and he doesn’t check things before he tells them. Sometimes he’ll be right by pure chance, but most of the time he just doesn’t know and he says it anyway.”

The young ‘auku’u considered this. “Sunny stories are all very well,” she said to her auntie, “but fishing is fishing and catching is catching, and one of them will have me hungry and the other won’t. If it’s all right, auntie, I’ll ask your advice more than uncle.”

“That’s fine,” said auntie, “and when you have nieces and they ask your advice, try to tell them what you know, and not what you’d like to believe. They’ll eat better that way.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not precisely match the story as I told it.

Photo of an immature ‘auku’u (black-crowned night heron) by Eric Anderson.

Don’t You Think I’d Rather Tell You What I Want to Hear?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“And the prophet Jeremiah said, ‘Amen! May the LORD do so; may the LORD fulfill the words that you have prophesied and bring back to this place from Babylon the vessels of the house of the LORD and all the exiles.'” – Jeremiah 28:6

I hoped I’d have a simple life. I had
ambition, certainly. I would succeed
but in a nation resting in its justice, peace,
its people living all in righteousness.

It was a pleasant dream. Though some
may learn while young how hard the heart
of human beings may be, I hardly knew.
With age I learned that things were not as I assumed.

And so I find myself today a croaking voice
of warning, heard sometimes with pity (which
is better than contempt). I’d tear my hair,
except I know I’d add derision to contempt.

Do you not think I’d rather say that everything
will be all right? Do you not think I’d rather claim
that the illusions of my childhood will
become our daily bread and feed us all?

The prophets long before me named the sins
impoverishing the poor, empowering the rich,
and warned that these would undermine
the underpinnings of the covenant,

The covenant with God, and with the people who
are paid so little, and who ask that if
they lack the wealth, at least they might receive
the justice to maintain themselves in life.

Increasingly this justice is denied. Increasingly
this covenant is broken, as the rich
grow wealthier, and the poor grow desperate,
and imperiled populations walk in fear.

Do you not think I’d rather tell you what
I want to hear? I yearn to live my working life
and my retired life in peace. The times say otherwise.
And though I’d rather tell you lies, I’ll speak the truth.

I’ll speak the truth I do not wish to hear.

A poem/prayer based on Jeremiah 28:5-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year A, Proper 8 (13).

The image is Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem by Rembrandt van Rijn (1630). Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15417236.