“Then Moses said, ‘I must turn aside and look at this great sight and see why the bush is not burned up.'” – Exodus 3:3
Before the Name, there was the charge. Before the charge, there was the word of grief. Before the word of grief, there was the word of heritage. Before the word of heritage, there was the holy ground.
Before the holy ground, before toes dipped into the Earth, there was his own name. Before his own name, before he knew the voice knew him, there was the voice.
Before the voice, before air waved and wove, there was the question. Before the question, before the wonder at strange sights, there was the vision.
There was the vision, light flickering on the hillside, flames orange and red, flashing despite the sun, but somehow still green, still verdant, aglow with the life of its leaves and its stem.
Before all that followed, curiosity led a man without nation, a tree without root, to turn from his path and take a new course, and just for a moment, plant his toes in the soil.
A poem/prayer based on Exodus 3:1-15, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Proper 17 (22).
He’d done it at last. He’d graduated from nene school. He’d learned to forage, and he’d learned to fly even better, and he’d learned to fly in formation. He knew everything there was to know about living well as a nene.
I have to say that that’s a pretty good accomplishment for anyone moving on in school.
So now he formally joined the flock as a certified adult nene. He was pretty young, but he was also pretty confident. After all, he’d done very well in school. What more was there to being a nene?
It turned out that the little flock had a leader. That surprised him, and it shouldn’t have. Learning to fly in formation, there had always been a bird, usually the teacher, at the very front of the “V” of the flock. The same thing was true among the adults in flight. Somebody had to be at the point.
“Welcome to the flock, youngsters,” said the leader kindly. “We’re so glad to have you here with us and to increase the flock. Let me just introduce you to some of our specialists here.”
The young nene was caught again. Specialists? But he held his tongue – for a moment, anyway.
“This is our ‘ohelo specialist,” started the leader, but the youngster interrupted.
“I know how to find ‘ohelo,” he said. “It’s easy.”
“We can all find ‘ohelo,” said the leader, “but she’s been able to spot it farther away than any of the rest of us. By all means tell us when you find ‘ohelo, but the chances are that she will spot it first.”
The youngster thought that seemed unlikely, but he didn’t say it.
“This is our pukiawe specialist,” continued the leader, “and he’s also really good at spotting ‘aiakanene.”
“I can do that, too,” interrupted the youngster again, and the leader calmly continued:
“We’ll find out if you can do that faster than him. Now, this nene is the best among us at forecasting the weather. If there’s a storm coming, she’s been great at telling us to find shelter in time.”
“Seriously, can’t the rest of you do that?” burst out the young nene. “It’s simple!”
“It’s simple when the clouds are getting tall and dark,” said the leader. “It’s not so simple when they’re white and fluffy.”
“Can’t any of you do anything?” demanded the youngster. “I can’t believe a flock would be so full of birds that can do only one thing.”
The young nene’s former teacher – who was also his auntie, since nene flocks are small – answered him. “Of course we can do all these things, nephew,” she said. “We can forage for ourselves, we can fly for ourselves, we can see danger coming for ourselves. We can all do that. You can do that. I know because I taught you.
“But some of us went beyond what all of us can do. They got really good at seeing storms coming, or spotting ‘ohelo in the lava field. I’m not quite as good at holding formation in a high wind, so I don’t take the lead when flying, but I am pretty good at teaching other fliers, so that’s what I do.
“Think of the flock as a nene made up of nene. Some have really enhanced their skills, and that means that all of us benefit from it. I can’t spot the ripe pukiawe as far away as he can, but on the other hand, he can’t teach how to find pukiawe as well as I can.”
There was silence for a moment, and then the leader said, “Welcome to the flock, young nene. Over time we’ll find out which of your skills we’re all grateful to receive. And you’ll find out which skills you’re grateful one of these other birds possesses and shares.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not exactly match the story as I told it.
“Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of the minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God–what is good and acceptable and perfect.” – Romans 12:2
Who would know more about being transformed than Paul? Not me. How many were sightless in mind and then eyes like Paul? Very few. Who sought to transform his entire world view like Paul? Not so many. Who managed carry along all his quirks as did Paul?
Well, that’s me.
Who probably thinks of himself much too well (as did Paul)? Yes, that’s me. Who knows he conforms to the world’s expectation too well? Me as well. Who exaggerates just how much faith is within him? Any guesses? It’s me. Who struggles for balance between faith and knowledge and action?
Well, that’s me.
Transform me anew, living God, Holy One, Conform me to mercy, encouragement, diligence. Transform me anew, living God, Holy One, That I may continue to follow your Way.
A poem/prayer based on Romans 12:1-8, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year A, Proper 16 (21).
The image is The Apostle Saint Paul by El Greco (between 1610 and 1614; painting displayed at the El Greco Museum, Toledo, Spain – 1QEs4novinaf3A at Google Cultural Institute, zoom level maximum, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29844105.
From the available evidence, I think Paul’s besetting temptation was always arrogance and hubris. Writing to strangers, he held it in check in Romans. It’s much more visible in other letters – but I think his advice “not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think” was addressed to himself as much as his readers.
It is the one attribute I can safely say I share with a saint.
‘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.
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 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.
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.
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.
“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).
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.
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.
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