Month: June 2023

Story: Not Like That

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

June 25, 2023

Genesis 21:8-21
Romans 6:1-11

There were three fledglings in the ‘apapane nest, a sister and two brothers. All three had hatched on the same day, which is pretty common for ‘apapane. All three had steadily grown from the food their parents brought to them each day. They’d just begun to learn to fly.

For whatever reason, and who knows the reasons for these things, the sister grew more quickly than her two brothers. Her wing muscles got stronger faster, and she stood taller than they in the nest and on the branches near the nest. And… she started to take charge.

When father or mother came by at mealtimes, she got to the front first. Her brothers got the same amount of food that she did, so the parents didn’t remark on it, but she increasingly got fed first. When it came time for their first test flights, she summoned more of her parents’ attention than her brothers did. She’d fly a little farther among the branches of the nesting tree so they had to keep track of her. But she’d also sing out, “Look at me!” when father or mother started giving instructions to one of her brothers.

When they settled down at night, her brothers had to be satisfied with what room she left them in the nest. She began to push them aside when she wasn’t comfortable, and she began to order them to do things for her. She was bigger. She was stronger. They did what she ordered them to do.

They weren’t happy about it.

“Don’t complain,” she told them. “I’m the oldest and the biggest. You have to do what I tell you.”

She wasn’t actually the first to hatch, but they didn’t dare to tell her so.

Father and Mother didn’t actually notice all this. When one of them was nearby, they were the oldest and the biggest, and she didn’t try to dominate them. But the moment the three chicks were alone, she was in charge, and when she was in charge, she got what she wanted.

If one of her brothers had flown to a particularly nice cluster of ohi’a blossoms, she’d come along and order him away. If one of her brothers was relaxing in a sunny spot, she’d push him off the branch. If it was raining and one of them found a spot where the leaves kept the drops away, guess who would be dry at the end of the shower?

You guessed it. She would.

It was grandmother who spotted all this, observing from a neighboring tree. She flew over when big sister had taken over a cluster of ohi’a flowers.

“Not like that,” she told her granddaughter.

“Not like what?” said granddaughter.

“Stop bullying your brothers.”

“I’m not bullying them,” she said.

“You certainly are,” said grandmother. “You just took over this flower cluster.”

“I’m entitled,” said the big sister. “I’m the biggest and the oldest. How should I treat my little brothers?”

“Not like that. You all hatched on the same day,” said grandmother, “and soon enough your brothers will catch up to your size and one or both of them might get bigger than you are. Will you be content to be kicked off your flowers then?”

Her granddaughter had to admit that she wouldn’t.

“Treat your brothers the way you want to be treated. Treat them better, in fact. That’s how we build a strong family. It’s how we make peace among ‘apapane.”

She did change her ways, though it took a little while. Fortunately she did it before one of her brothers did, in fact, grow to be bigger than she was – but he had learned that lesson, too, and treated his sister as he wanted to be treated, and even better.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

First I write the story (you’ve just read what I wrote). Then I tell it without the written copy in front of me. And… things change.

Photo of an ‘apapane in flight by Eric Anderson.

A Well of Water

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“Cast out this slave woman with her son; for the son of this slave woman shall not inherit along with my son Isaac.” – Genesis 21:10

O God who values children, how could You
applaud this hideous, this (dare I say it)
visibly unholy plan to send a mother and
a child out to die near Beer Sheba,
and of all places, this the Well
of Seven, this the Well of Oaths.

What of the oath a parent makes to child
when he is born? What of the oath a mistress
lays upon herself when making one a slave?
What of the oath a man should owe
to one with whom he has conceived a child?
What of the oaths pure decency demands?

Instead an oath to Sarah’s son is paramount.
Instead You credit Sarah’s oath to see her son
to elevation. Instead You make another oath
to make another nation from another child.
Could not You value these two lives
for Ishmael’s life, for Hagar’s life itself?

I’d like to judge You, God, but I cannot.
I’ve wondered if, like Hagar, I could bear
to see my child’s life come to its end.
I’ve tried to comfort those whose children
died and known that mine had not.
If anyone can judge You, it is they.

In humble, grateful, timid words
I offer you a whispered thanks,
for when the harshest wilderness
was all I saw and knew, I found
beyond all hope and bitter fear,
You’d dug a well of water.

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 21:8-21, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Proper 7 (12).

The image is Hagar and Ishmael by George Hitchcock – Hindman Auctions, Chicago, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=90805891.

Story: Noio’s Love

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

June 18, 2023

Romans 8:1-8
Matthew 9:35-10:8

The little noio chick was convinced that her father didn’t love her.

I have to admit that she had some reasons for thinking this. Noio (or black noddy) nests tend to be kind of shallow, and her parents had chosen a rather bumpy section of the cliff shelf to place their nest. She was never able to get really comfortable, because a bit of rock poked her if she was here, and another bit of rock poked her when she was there, and for quite some time listening to humans she thought of something very different to the word “poke.”

She had to admit that they’d found a spot that kept most of the rain off, but when it was sunny she thought she was going to become a baked noio. If the wind turned the wrong direction while it was raining, well, it blew the water right over her. Big waves would toss spray in her direction as well.

There were plenty of other nearby noio nests, none of which had any great advantages over hers and plenty of them were even pokier, but she wasn’t happy.

There was also the issue of what her father fed her, which was, and forgive me for being gross here, what her father had just eaten. Again, this was no different from what other nearby noio chicks were eating in their no-more-comfortable nests, but she thought that a loving father would have found a better way.

Her father had been a great comfort when she was small, keeping her warm and protected from rain and spray at night, and even shading her from the sun by day. Along the way, however, father had done less and less. As the chick grew, of course, there was less and less room on the nest for father or mother.

The worst, however, had come when it was time to fly. Suddenly father had become the nit-pickiest tyrant ever inflicted upon a daughter. “Spread your wings. Hold them up. Twist the left one. Hold it lower. Lower! Now flap. Not like that!”

She thought she heard the words, “Not like that!” more than any other words in the day.

After a particularly hard day when her flying had been quite erratic and her father quite emphatic about “Not like that!” she settled into the nest. Father perched silently and, she thought, judgmentally on the rocky shelf next to the nest. “Why, Father,” said the young fledgling bitterly, “don’t you love me?”

“Who said I didn’t love you?” asked father, who was quite shocked.

“You show it every day. You watch me so closely, you criticize all the time, you hardly ever hold me close any more, and let’s not even talk about the food.”

Father had to admit that there wasn’t much to say about the food, but he did hop over and sheltered his chick beneath his wings.

“I do love you, and I’m sorry I don’t say it clearly enough,” he said. “First thing in the morning, I’m here to make sure you awake safely. The last thing in the day, I’m here to make sure you’re able to sleep safely, too. I am strict with you about flying, because the ground is hard and the sea is harsh. Hit either of them wrong and I’d be crying for you rather than criticizing you.”

His chick snuggled into his feathers and felt somewhat better.

“I’ll tell you what,” said father. “The quicker you master flying, the quicker you can start catching fish for yourself.”

“Which means?” asked the fledgling.

“You’ll enjoy your meals a lot more -and so will I!”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write the story. I memorize the course of the story… and when I tell the story, it’s simply not the same as the written version.

Photo by Eric Anderson

Author’s note: I originally wrote this story to be about a chick and her mother. Then I remembered it was Father’s Day. It does somewhat change the story’s character.

To the SBC

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 7 Comments

Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord…” – John 20:18

Christ’s first messenger to those
he called as messengers was Mary.
Mary Magdalene. His friend.
She traveled with him on his road.

“Apostle to apostles,”
she’s been called, though they,
it must be said, did not believe.
But she was right and they were wrong.

So, those who now decide
to set aside the witness of
their sisters, you would mute
the Magdalene

As if you’d set your course
into a desert wasteland,
and there deprive yourselves
of water.

A poem written in response to votes at the Southern Baptist Convention’s annual meeting on June 14, 2023, to ban women from pastoral roles and remove churches led by women from the denomination’s rolls.

The image is Mary Magdalene, a Profoundism work by Koorosh Orooj – http://profoundism.com/free_licenses.html, http://profoundism.com/free_licenses_mary_magdalene.html, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=108033456.

Stop Talking, Paul

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“And not only that, but we also boast in our afflictions, knowing that affliction produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.” – Romans 5:3-5

Stop talking, Paul.
You had me there at
“We have peace with God.”
That’s good. That’s great.
That’s all I want (or need?)
to hear. Stop there.

You can’t just stop
there, can you?

“We boast in our afflictions” –
but complaining isn’t boasting.
“Affliction produces endurance” –
unless it kills your spirit, Paul.
“Endurance produces character” –
it also fosters hubris.
“Character produces hope” –
is hope the same as resignation?
“And hope does not put us to shame” –
well, Paul, I’m with you there,
as long as you do not expect me
to assume I’ll get just what I hope for.

You can’t stop talking, can you?

Still, I’m grateful that you looped
back round again to God’s salvation.
We’re reconciled by Christ’s gift of self.
We’re saved because we share Christ’s life.

But now, be still – not Paul, but me.
If Tarsus’ famous correspondent can run on,
the same is true of those of us less known.
Stop, Eric, for we’ve made the crucial point:

We have peace with God.

Story: Who Should Hear?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 11, 2023

Hosea 5:15-6:6
Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

The red-billed leiothrix, like myna and the mejiro, is a bird that’s a relative newcomer to Hawai’i Island. They’ve been here for a little over a hundred years.

They can be pretty cheerful singers, on the whole, with a nice lilting chirp. They’re better known on Hawai’i Island for what they sound like when they’re alarmed, though. It’s a loud and harsh rapidly repeated sound that almost sounds like some sticks being rubbed together. If you’re walking about in the forests or the kipukas up the mountains, you’re likely to hear it, because they tend to make it when humans are about.

A grandfather was instructing his grandchildren in making the call (I can’t imitate it, I’m afraid). After he’d taught them how it was done, he turned to the times to make the sound.

“You make it when there’s an i’o about, or a pueo,” he said. “And don’t forget to make it when there’s a human around. We always want to let people know about those.”

The grandchicks wanted to know what a human was like, so after explaining that it was a big flightless bird with very peculiar wings, grandfather taught them to make the call again.

“Who should hear this sound?” one of the chicks asked her grandfather.

“What do you mean, who should hear this sound?” he asked.

“Well, I thought this would be just a leiothrix sound,” she said. “Mynas probably aren’t interested, are they? Other birds might not understand.

“And if some birds do understand,” she continued, “it might not be so good for us.”

“What do you mean?” asked grandfather quietly.

“If I see an i’o and make the sound,” she said, “then all the birds will hide. If I’m not as good or as quick at hiding as they are, the i’o might try for me, wouldn’t it? If some other birds are exposed, then we leiothrixes will be better off.”

Grandfather stayed quiet for a long time. Then he sighed.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. “If we don’t alert other birds to the i’o or the human, we’ll be safer when we see the danger first. But what if the ‘apapane sees the pueo first? Or the ‘akepa? Or the mejiro? What if they alert only their own kind, and not us? What happens then?”

Now the chicks were silent, until the one who’d asked the question said, “Nothing good.”

“Nothing good,” said grandfather. “We warn everybody so that everybody will warn us.”

“I see,” said the chick who’d asked, and her brothers and sisters nodded, too.

“How loud do we make the warning sound?” asked grandfather.

“As loud as we can!” said the chicks.

“Who should hear?” asked grandfather.

“Everyone!”

So when you’re walking the kipukas and the forests on the mauna, you’ll hear the leiothrixes, warning everyone that you’re near.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell these stories from my… not quite reliable memory of the text I’ve written. Differences are inevitable – and regular.

Photo of a red-billed leiothrix by Raman Kumar – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=53968581.

Skip Lightly

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 7 Comments

As Jesus was walking along, he saw… (Matthew 9:9)
And as he sat at dinner in the house… (Matthew 9:10)
While he was saying these things to them, suddenly… (Matthew 9:18)
Then suddenly a woman… (Matthew 9:20)
When Jesus came to the leader’s house… (Matthew 9:23)

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
Just a pause at the table, just a quick word.
Look how he rises to follow your call!
How lightly his step echoes yours.

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
Your words will dance at the table with all.
“Why eat with these people? They know that they need me.
They know I am with them, God’s mercy bestowed.”

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
A father arrives; he has fear in his eyes.
“Skip quickly, Jesus, or my daughter dies.”
The dishes, untasted, rest cooling behind.

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly,
as need reaches out for your power to heal.
Stop quickly, Jesus, stop and assure her
her body, renewed, can flourish again.

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
Death has come quicker than your skipping feet,
but Death cannot hold what you have raised up,
and the little one joins in the dance.

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
From outcast to souls disregarded,
from parent to patient to mourners and on
for a moment, skip lightly with me.

Skip lightly, Jesus, skip lightly.
I cannot hold you to my place and time.
Teach me the skipping, the light-footed step,
that carried your grace to each person’s need.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 5 (10).

The image (which includes the healing of the woman as well as the resurrection of the daughter) comes from the Phillip Medhurst Collection of Bible illustrations in the possession of Revd. Philip De Vere at St. George’s Court, Kidderminster, England. Photo by Philip De Vere – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44393013.

Better than Appears

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

June 4, 2023

Genesis 1:1-2:4a
2 Corinthians 13:11-13

The young ‘amakihi had had a bad morning. First there was the big wind that had woken him, first by howling in his ears, then by twisting the branch he was perched on in a very odd way, third by pitching him off the branch into the air, and finally by whirling him along for a way, struggling to get himself upright and under controlled flight.

He’d managed it, but he was still breathing hard when he clutched the twigs of another ohi’a tree tossing in the breeze. It soon settled down, though – that had been a big puff of wind, but just one – when things got exciting again. His eyes caught movement overhead and he took to his wings once more, this time diving further down into the forest canopy to escape the i’o that had just broken from its spotting circle toward a hunting dive. His heart was beating wildly again when he found a space within the branches the i’o couldn’t reach. The i’o flew off to hunt somewhere else.

His breath was just settling to normal when suddenly there was an i’iwi whistling at him. The tree he’d perched in also contained the i’iwi’s nest, and she wasn’t about to put up with an ‘amakihi near her nest. She’d stayed quiet while the hawk was near, but after that. Well. Lots of whistles.

He flew off to another tree, blessedly free of i’iwi, i’o, or high winds, and reflected on his lousy morning. “This is a rotten world,” he said aloud.

“You think so?” said a voice. He looked up. Just to crown his bad morning, just when he’d said something she was bound to criticize, there was his mother.

“If you’d had the morning I’ve had,” he couldn’t help saying, “you’d agree. The world is rotten.”

“Is it?” she said, and beckoned him to follow. They flew over to a great field of lava rock, dark grey and hard and heating up in the morning sun.

“Right! Just like this! Hard and colorless and hot,” he told his mother, who said: “Look again.”

This time when he looked he saw the water droplets left by a rain shower, shining like stars in a grey sky, but now on earth rather than above. He looked again and saw, in the cracked rock, water soaking into small bits of sand. Some of those bits of sand had green things growing in them, some of them had fern shoots, some had leaves waving above. There was ohi’a growing here and there from those crevasses: shoots, stems, bushes, even small trees. His mother led the way down to one young tree in full blossom. They landed amidst the perfume of its nectar.

“The world isn’t so bad,” he said when she gave him a look. ‘Amakihi mothers have a Look, you know, much as many human mothers do.

“Taste,” she said, and even though he knew what he’d taste, he did.

He gave his mother an ‘amakihi smile. She gave him one back.

“The world,” he said, “is good.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell these stories from my memory of what I’ve written. And, well, my notion of how they might be improved in the telling.

Photo by Eric Anderson.