God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day. – Genesis 1:31
Praise the Poet, Breath and Wind and Word, who movement on the waters stirred up light and night and land and sea, stars and planet whirling on the cosmographic page.
Praise the Poet, summoning the earth to green abundance, summoning the seas to swarm with life, summoning the trees to welcome birdsong, summoning the land to bear the tracks of feet.
Praise the Poet, maker of more poets, speakers of the word, creators in the image of Creator, author of more authors. A human writer often finds their characters find their direction. The Poet watches poets make a universe of words.
A poet of the people, though, relies upon the languages of human speech, on rhyme and rhythm and multiple meanings, while God has written in broad rays of light, in buzzing bees, in sweet perfume, in gentle touch, in salt upon the tongue.
Praise the Poet, Breath and Wind and Word!
A poem/prayer based on Genesis 1:1-2:4a, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Trinity Sunday.
I don’t know what it was that he found in the tree. Maybe it was a collection of seeds. Maybe it was some burrowing insects. Maybe it was material for a nest. Whatever it was, he was the only house finch to know about it, and as far as he knew (or I know) the only bird in the neighborhood to know anything about it.
“Wow!” he said to himself, but not very loudly. He had already decided what to do with it all, you see (whatever it was). He had decided to keep it to himself.
“I’ll be really happy with all this,” he told himself, and he didn’t tell anybody else.
Having decided this treasure (whatever it was) was his, he settled into a nearby branch to protect it. He made sure he had a good lookout on the whereabouts of other birds, but he also made sure that he wasn’t too obvious. If other birds noticed that he wasn’t going much of anywhere, they might get curious. Not to mention if a cat noticed him staying still, the cat would get interested for different and more dangerous reasons.
So he perched on his branch, ducking down from time to time to avoid notice, and guarding his treasure. He only snuck away briefly to get water and eat. If you’re thinking, “Ah, ha! His treasure wasn’t food!” all I can say is, what if he wanted to avoid birds noticing that he didn’t have to go anywhere else to eat?
He kept guarding whatever it was.
One of his sisters finally noticed that she wasn’t seeing him in the usual places. She got worried, of course. When a brother goes missing, sisters get worried. She looked about for some time before she finally spotted him just before he ducked his head down out of sight again.
“What are you up to?” she asked him.
“Nothing,” he lied.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “Have you been in this same spot all day? Why would you do that?”
“It’s a fine spot,” he said. “You should find one of your own.”
“What are you up to?” she said, and flew a little closer. Then she saw it.
Whatever it was.
She was impressed. “I can’t believe you found all that,” she sighed.
“It’s mine,” he told her. That surprised her. She didn’t think of him as that kind of bird.
“All right, it’s yours,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?”
Now, for the first time, he thought about it. His day in one spot in the tree hadn’t been all that great. He’d never really eaten or drunk quite enough, so he was uncomfortable. He was worried about cats. He hadn’t spoken to any of his friends or family until his sister came along. He hadn’t even seen when the finch races had taken place a short distance away.
“Keep it,” he said, but he didn’t put much heart in it.
“You can, I suppose,” she said, “but it seems lonely and uncomfortable to me. Wouldn’t things go better if you shared it?”
He thought some more. Then he nodded.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll stay here a bit longer to protect it, while you fly around and tell everyone about it. Then we can all share in it.”
And that’s what they did. They all shared it.
Whatever it was.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in full in advance, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation). The story as I’ve written it is not the same as the way I told it.
Photo of two house finches by Eric Anderson. I don’t actually know that one of them is guarding anything at all.
He was a year or so old, and he wore the red and black of an adult ‘apapane. He still thought of himself as young and growing and learning, and truly he was all of those things.
He was also the target of a bully in his generation and his neighborhood, and that wasn’t such a good thing.
There are, I’m afraid, bullies among the ‘apapane sometimes, as there are among the i’iwi and the ‘amakihi and, as I’m sure you know, among human beings. Like other bullies, this ‘apapane bully didn’t have much if any real reason to dislike our young and learning ‘apapane. He’d just taken it into his head that this was a good bird to pick on, and pick on him he did.
The bully would squawk at him when he saw him, and he’d call him names which I’m not going to repeat, because I don’t want you to go up to the mountain forests and start bullying ‘apapane. Sometimes the bully would dive at him while flying, and sometimes he’d dive at him when he was quietly perched in a tree. Worst of all, if the bully found him feeding on an ohi’a lehua, he’d land next to him and startle him away from his meal.
That’s pretty much what you’re seeing in the photo, isn’t it?
Our young and learning ‘apapane didn’t really know what to do about it. Not all, but all too many of the other birds in his flock and neighborhood seemed to egg the bully on. When he squawked, they’d stay silent. When he called him names, they’d laugh. When he swooped, they’d giggle. And when he drove him away from a meal, the most they’d do was cluck softly. The thing they simply wouldn’t do was help.
“What am I to do?” he asked his auntie one day. “Nothing stops this bully. Not soft chirps, and not loud protests. He’s pecked me more than once, and I’ve never pecked back, and if I even show signs of it he pecks harder. Nobody helps. Why? And what can I do?”
Auntie said, “I’ve seen more than a few bullies in the flocks, and there’s always someone they pick on worse than anyone else. It’s always bad and it’s always wrong. I’m really sorry it’s you.
“The other birds, I’m sorry to say, are afraid of the bully. They know that if it’s not you, it’s going to be somebody else, and that somebody will be one of them. It’s not very caring and it’s not very brave, but it’s what a lot of birds do.”
“So what do I do?” asked her nephew.
“You continue to be a kind, sensible, and caring bird,” said Auntie. “You help your flock to find food and sing songs and keep away from predators – even the bully. It takes time, and sometimes a long time, but the flock usually realizes that they are a flock, and a bully is just a bully, and when they realize that, the bully loses his hold on everyone, including you.”
“So I just wait?” asked our young and learning bird.
“You wait, and you show the rest of the flock what a good ‘apapane is,” said Auntie. “One of these days they’ll choose you.”
It took longer than it should have, but Auntie was right. The bully lost his power in the flock, and they stopped giggling and they stopped allowing him to pick on the other birds.
Among people, bullies can seem awfully strong, and they can be. Most of the time, communities figure it out and act to end the bullying, but it can take much longer than anyone thinks it should. We are also held in the heart and mind of God, who tolerates no bullying at all. So summon all your courage and summon all your heart, and remember that God wants you to be the best person you can be, and not to be like those who bully you.
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 completely match the story as I told it.
Photo of two ‘apapane by Eric Anderson. In fairness, there’s no reason to believe either one is a bully.
This story didn’t take place on our island, because although one of the birds in it lives on Hawai’i, the other doesn’t. I took this picture on Kauai, though both birds also live on O’ahu.
The one on the left, swimming in the water, with its red beak and red on its forehead, is an ala’e ‘ula, or Hawaiian gallinule. The one on the right, standing on long thin pink legs with white and black feathers and a very long straight black beak, is an ae’o, or Hawaiian black-necked stilt.
Both of them like to search for food in roughly the same kinds of places: relatively still and shallow water, like old fish ponds or coastal marshes. They don’t eat the same food, however. The ala’e ‘ula likes plant roots and seeds and shoots, and enjoys a snail or two. The ae’o mostly looks for fish, but will snap up water insects when it finds one.
Actually, the ala’e ‘ula will eat those insects, too, but neither of them is so fond of a diet of bugs to get very upset about it.
On this day the ae’o was getting somewhat upset, but not about bugs. It was fish. He couldn’t find many. Oh, one or two swam his direction, but where were the rest of them? He was getting hungry, and he was also getting irritated with the world. Being hungry does that to some people, and to some birds as well.
“Where are the fish?” he squawked in frustration.
“You can’t find fish?” asked an ala’e ‘ula a short way away.
“No, I can’t, and is that any of your business?” he said rudely.
“No, I suppose not,” said the ala’e ‘ula, who’d been feeding quite happily on roots and shoots and therefore wasn’t hangry with the world. “Would you like me to tell you if I find some fish?”
“You do what you want to do,” said the ae’o irritably, and as the ala’e ‘ula swam off to another section of the fishpond, grumbled to himself, “It’s not as if you’ll be of any help.”
It wasn’t very long, though, before the ala’e ‘ula swam back toward the hungry, grumpy ae’o. “Say, friend,” he said. “Take a look over there. There’s a good sized school of fish milling around eating flies.”
“How would you know?” demanded the ae’o, who couldn’t make out the flies on the water from where he stood.
The ala’e ‘ula shrugged. “One might know if one looks under water,” he said. “I was pulling up a root and there they were, all around. When I got my head out of the water I saw the flies swimming on the surface.
“I suppose you could make a meal of the flies if you have to,” he said thoughtfully, “but I imagine you like the fish better.”
“One might know,” muttered the ae’o as he stepped over to where the ala’e ‘ula had been, “but one probably doesn’t. More fool I.”
Then he saw the milling flies, and he saw the ripples where the fish had risen to the surface. He saw the water swirl as they swam beneath. In a moment he was there, and dipping his beak, and catching his fish, and feeling better than he had all day.
“I guess one might know at that,” he said when the ala’e ‘ula found him again shortly after.
“One might know,” said the ala’e ‘ula.
“Even better,” said the ae’o, “one might share what one knows. And the world gets a little bit better than it was.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them in worship from memory and improvisation. The story as written and the story as told are not identical.
Photo of an ala’e ‘ula (Hawaiian gallinule) and an ae’o (Hawaiian black-necked stilt) by Eric Anderson.
For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.’ What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. – Acts 17:23
Not looking carefully, I typed “Kiijubg” as first word for the title of this poem/prayer.
It’s not a word I’ve seen before; I’d struggle to define it, and truthfully it’s definitely not the word I meant.
But Shaw once wrote that when a thing is funny, search it for a hidden truth (and promptly replied to himself that it takes all the fun out of it).
That fierce and fascinating man from Tarsus, though offended by the shrines to idols all about, found one shrine
Which honored Agnostos Theos (perhaps); enough to base a sermon on, to find a common root within a verdant forest
Of complex and disparate devotion, and twist a cord to complement relationship
Between the human children worshiping the God of Jacob, and the human children worshiping Olympians.
If Paul had looked less carefully, perhaps his ire for idols would have leapt to his lips.
Instead his plea for understanding fell on ears which heard. Some scoffed, it’s true,
But if he’d launched into a diatribe against the shrines, what could they do but scoff and turn away?
For anger, like a hand misplaced upon the keys, makes meaningless its words, however filled with hope.
A poem/prayer based on Acts 17:22-31, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Sixth Sunday of Easter.
The image is a photo of the “Altar of the unknown god” ca. 90-110 CE, discovered on the Palatine Hill in Rome (not Athens) in 1820. Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=56294298. The inscription can be translated, “Whether sacred to god or to goddess, Gaius Sextius Calvinus, son of Gaius, praetor, restored this on a vote of the senate.”
The ala’e keokeo – also known as the Hawaiian Coot, and I guess it is pretty cute – lives along the shorelines, particularly enjoying the old fishponds built by the Hawaiians because the edges are rich in the water plants they like to eat. “Ala’e” means forehead, and “keokeo” means white – so the Hawaiians certainly called it by its appearance.
One young ala’e keokeo liked a lot about his life. He liked the sun, and he even liked the rain when it fell. He had brothers and sisters and parents and aunties and uncles in plenty, and even when they were teasing one another he liked them. He liked swimming in the fishpond, even if he didn’t have webbed feet like a duck. He liked the foods he ate: seeds, stems, and roots for the most part. There was only one problem.
He was afraid of the water.
Does it seem odd that he liked swimming but was afraid of the water? Well, it did to me, too. What he was afraid of was putting his head in the water. Plenty of people don’t like that, either. They’ll step into the water up to the shoulders, but put their head in? No.
That was his feeling about it. Put his head in the water? Absolutely not.
To be truthful, he could get along with his head firmly above water. The plant seeds he ate waved over the water, so that was OK. He could pull on stems from above, too. The only time it became a problem was with roots, and wouldn’t you know it?
One of his favorite foods was the root of a pond grass that he absolutely could not pull up from overhead. He tried and tried, and he could not do it.
He resigned himself to a life without his favorite root, but it turned out he didn’t have to. It turned out that when it came time to find someone to build a nest and hatch chicks with, she was a generous and compassionate bird. She didn’t tease him about not diving, the way his cousins did. Instead, from time to time she dove down and brought one or two up, and gave them to him.
He loved her for it.
When she laid their eggs, she stayed with the nest continuously for the first couple days – it would take them a while to learn that he could keep them warm, too. She got hungry, and he went back and forth from the grasses to the nest bringing her seeds and shoots.
As he set out for another foraging trip, he overheard her sigh, “I’m so hungry for a root or two.” She didn’t mean him to hear her, and he didn’t let on that he’d heard. That trip, though, he made sure to find some of those plants as he plucked seeds and shoots.
The next trip, he returned to that same spot. He looked at the water. It was fairly clear. He could see the bottom of the pond and knew just where the root would be. He closed his eyes and held a memory of his wife in his mind – then he dove into the pond.
He wasn’t good at it, because diving takes practice, but he did it, and he did it again until he gripped a root in his beak. He brought it back to the nest, where his wife gasped to see it.
“Here you are,” he said. “I knew you’d want one.”
“Thank you so much,” she told him. “This was so good of you.”
“I wanted to do it for you,” he said. And then he went back to do it again.
Sometimes courage comes from what we need, and sometimes it comes from wanting to do something for someone we love. Love can help us move through the fear and help us do amazing things for one another and for God.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation). The story as I wrote it and the story as I told it are not identical.
“But filled with the Holy Spirit, he [Stephen] gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God.” – Acts of the Apostles 7:55
I wonder about Stephen, what he knew when he was brought before the council of the priests. Did he expect they’d hear him out? Or see the door as gateway to his grave?
Oh what a fool he was to speak the words he did if he had hope they’d hear him as they’d heard out the apostles not so long before, and waited on the signs of God.
Yes, “stiff-necked people” echoed Genesis, and all he said about the troubled times of their ancestors had been said before by those who crafted First and Second Kings,
But telling those in power that they lived just as their grim progenitors had done, as faithless slayers of the prophets, roused their wrath and spurred them order his death.
Now, if he had a hope of being heard he spoke the ravings of a fool, and died for it, but if saw the writing on the wall, he spoke a liberated word.
Without a hope of living through this trial, his mind and tongue could speak his fearless truth, his soul adjust to choose another hope, one which did not rely on human beings.
“I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man, who stands there next to God,” he said, and as they dragged him to his death, he found that hope is flexible enough for all.
A poem/prayer based on Acts 7:55-60, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Fifth Sunday of Easter.
What do you need to know if you’re an ‘elepaio? It helps that most of the ‘elepaio are very curious, so they tend to ask themselves the questions and then find out the answers. Is it sunny on that side of the tree? Are there bugs to be had in that stand of koa over there? Can I catch a bug in mid-flight?
One young ‘elepaio was having some difficulty answering his questions, though. He was a bit overwhelmed with options. There were so many bugs flying around him, and how was he to know which ones were OK to eat, which ones were OK to eat but tasted bad, and which ones tasted the best? The world swirled with possibilities as the insects danced around him in the air and on the branches and on the leaves.
“What should I eat?” he chirped aloud, and a somewhat devious ‘amakihi heard him.
I think I’ve told you that most birds are basically truthful. Telling lies often means that you deceive yourself as much as anyone else, and a bird can’t live on lies in the mountain forests. This ‘amakihi, however, thought he might amuse himself (in a cruel way) with this young ‘elepaio and keep some of the tastiest insects for himself at the same time.
“Don’t you know, young one?” he called in his friendliest voice.
“Not really. There’s so many choices,” said the ‘elepaio.
“Let me sample them for you,” said the ‘amakihi. “That will help, won’t it?”
Honestly, the ‘elepaio thought that suggesting which ones to try would be more help, but before he could say so, the ‘amakihi had plucked a big spider off a tree branch.
“Oh, this isn’t very good,” he said, as he polished it off and laughed to himself because it was, in fact, delicious. “Stay away from these.”
“Okay,” said the ‘elepaio as the ‘amakihi plucked at another bug.
“Try one of these,” said the ‘amakihi. “They’re very good.” Which they weren’t, in truth, and small besides.
“Okay,” said the ‘elepaio, and he didn’t really think the bug tasted as good as other bugs, but maybe he hadn’t developed an appreciation for fine bug dining yet.
This went on for an afternoon, as the ‘amakihi enjoyed tasty bugs and recommended the sour bugs to the ‘elepaio. Eventually the ‘amakihi flew off with a cheery, “I’ll help you some more tomorrow!” and the ‘elepaio went to find his family.
“Grandmother, when will I learn to like the tasty bugs?” he asked her when he found her?
“The what?” she asked, and he explained the helpful ‘amakihi whose suggestions hadn’t tasted all that good to him.
“Oh, grandson,” she sighed. “I wish you’d come to me or another of our family with that question. The ones who know and love you are the ones who’ll give you the best advice. We care about you. We’ll do the best we can. We don’t know everything, and sometimes we’re wrong about things, but we’ll tell you the truth as we know it.
“I’m afraid this ‘amakihi told you a lot of things that aren’t true. And you’ve had a sour afternoon because of it. Here. Try this,” she said, and she plucked one of those spiders off a branch, and sure enough, it was delicious in his beak.
“Two things, grandson,” she told him. “The ones who know and love you will give you the best advice they can. More than that, remember: you’re an ‘elepaio. When you don’t know, try it for yourself. That’s what we do. We look at the world, we ask questions about it, and then we try to learn what’s true.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them during worship from memory (plus improvisation). The story as I wrote it does not match the story as I told it.
“So again Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.'” – John 10:7
It’s not your most compelling image, Jesus. In a section where you said, “I am…” three times, how many hold this one in memory? To say the truth, I barely do.
And yet a gate is comforting. It guards a home, a sheepfold, or a soul from harm. It’s hardly perfect, since a thief may climb the wall: They’ll have to work to work their ill.
The beauty of a gate is not protective force, but its capacity to swing, admitting those outside who’ve recognized the voice and come to claim their place and home.
You tell us you are gatekeeper and gate. May we remember that the gate is you, and when we close it, we usurp your power, your authority. and you yourself.
May we have faith and wisdom both to hold the gate wide open for the gathering flock and only close it in the most compelling circumstance, then open it with welcome love.
A poem/prayer based on John 10:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday of Easter.
The ‘apapane was young. He didn’t have his red and black feathers yet. That was OK. He knew they’d come. He was content even with the somewhat odd look of red patches on his mostly white chest. He’d be wearing red and black soon.
It was also OK that he’d learned to fly and fly pretty well. There had been some awkward moments in the learning, even one or two painful moments when he’d misjudged a landing, but all in all, he was content with his feet and his tail and his wings.
What he wasn’t happy about was the local ohi’a trees.
He wasn’t very old after all, and he’d never seen the cycle of the ohi’a trees before. As far as he knew, ohi’a trees wore their red flowers all the time. That was his experience. But now whole groves in the forest had no flowers, and he thought that was awfully careless of them.
“Where will I find flowers?” he wanted to know.
He followed the flock to find them, of course, and each day they found plenty to eat, whether it was ohi’a nectar or bugs and caterpillars in the trees. But why weren’t all the trees in flower? That was how he remembered it. Wasn’t that how it should always be?
“Why aren’t the trees in bloom?” he asked aloud one day, and his grandfather overheard him.
“They can’t always be in bloom,” said grandfather, who had seen a few seasons and knew that flowers come and go.
“Why not?” demanded the grandson, who couldn’t think of any reasons why the world shouldn’t run the way he wanted it to run.
“Because otherwise we don’t get new trees,” said grandfather.
The grandson thought this sounded ridiculous and said so, but he followed his grandfather as they flew over to an ohi’a tree that was definitely bare of blossoms. They landed near the end of a branch, where there was a cluster of short brownish stalks. The grandson recognized that they had formed from a cluster of flowers.
“The flowers have died,” he said. “So what?”
“Look closer,” said grandfather, and he did.
One or two of the brown stalks had opened, revealing tiny flecks. “Those are ohi’a seeds,” said grandfather.
“They’re tiny,” said the grandson.
“They are,” agreed grandfather, “but if one roots in the right place, it can become a great tall tree. In another place, it becomes a shorter tree. Both of them will blossom many times. And both of their blossoms will fade and become these seed pods. Then the seeds blow away on the wind and new trees rise up.
“You can’t just look at what’s in front of you, grandson. You also have to look ahead to what might be, can be, or will be. Today’s flowers fade so that tomorrow’s flowers will bloom. Today’s seeds fly so that tomorrow’s trees can grow.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation during worship on Sunday morning. The story you read does not precisely match the way I told it.
ordainedgeek 