Author: Rev. Eric Anderson

Story: The ‘Io’s Christmas Song

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

December 22, 2024

Micah 5;2-5a
Luke 3:46-55

The ‘io is not famous for singing. It makes a loud cry, for sure, which is majestic and dramatic, but nobody would call it musical. Except, perhaps, for once long ago, so long ago that there were no people living here on Hawai’i Island, and it belonged to the birds.

You see, there was an ‘io who wanted to sing. She’d heard the ‘apapane and the rest. She’d even admired the more subtle honks of the nene. When, she wondered, could she sing like that?

One morning, as the sun rose over the sea, the ‘io felt the world change. One moment everything was as it had always been, the next she knew that something different, something extraordinary, something wonderful, had taken place. Somehow she knew, deep in her heart, that the Creator had become part of the Creation in a deeply special way. Somehow she knew, though she never knew the name and didn’t even know what a human baby looked like, that Jesus, the Christ, was born.

When you know something that’s that wonderful, you just can’t keep still. She leapt into the air and soared through the sky. But that wasn’t enough. She danced on the breeze, pirouetted through the sky. And that wasn’t enough. Even though she knew she couldn’t do it, even though she knew it would be the same cry she’d always made, she opened her beak to sing.

Then: she sang.

There’s an old story that on the night Jesus was born, the animals across the world gained the ability to speak in human language. Who knows if that was true on Hawai’i Island, where there were no people whose language they could speak? What there was, was singing. And on that Christmas morning, an ‘io sang.

She sang so loud and so well that the ‘apapane began to sing along, and even to make new harmonies. Then the ‘amakihi chimed in, and the ‘akepa. The koa’e kea soared above the Kilauea caldera, and both noio and pueo flew up from the seacoast and the grasslands. Every one of them, with a voice they’d never known before, sang.

The ‘io led them all in the song, making new melodies, new variations, new rhythms. As she did, she circled and rolled, dove and climbed, dancing on the air, as the smaller birds wheeled around her.

It didn’t last long. Songs, even songs of joy, have an end. The small birds went back to the nectar in the trees. The pueo returned to the grasslands, the noio to the sea.

The ‘io let her tired wings carry her back to a tall tree, where she settled and breathed in, breathed out, because it’s a lot of work singing and flying and dancing at the same time.

An i’iwi poked its beak out of the next tree and chirped, “Thank you for the good news and the good song.”

The ‘io nodded back and said, “You’re welcome. Thank you for singing with me.”

And that is how the ‘io sang a Christmas song.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory (and improvisation), so the story as I tell it in the recording won’t precisely match what I originally wrote.

Photo of an ‘io in flight by Eric Anderson.

Kicked

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments
An image of two women exchanging a kiss and embrace in greeting. Both have halos, one sheds a tear.

“When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit…” – Luke 1:41

I never thought to feel a kick inside.
I’d come to terms with it, at least to see.
Inside I wept the tears which come with loss
of plans and dreams, things yet and not to be.

Then Zechariah came home mute, a shock
that stifled my instinctive laugh.
What partner would not celebrate a bit
to know they’ll now get the last word?

But when he came into the house, his soul
was like a vessel cracked upon the beach.
All I could do was hold his weeping head
and wipe the tears that fell upon my belly.

Six months have passed. His tears have long
since dried, but my belly has grown out
to hold this energetic child, who kicks
and cuffs within as if he cannot wait for birth.

And now, as cousin Mary nears, another kick,
for is there anything to still this child’s leaps?
He strikes again, a pirouette within my womb,
as if to say, “Look there, and wonder, and believe!”

The words gush out with flowing tears
to dampen Mary’s shoulder in our fierce embrace.
He’s kicked again, a blow I know she feels,
and does the one within her womb perceive?

We’re kicked, the pair of us, by God,
and by these lives we’ll nurture long beyond
the days they’re born. We’re kicked into these roles
of mother-prophets, angel-listeners. But now,

In this brief moment of embrace, of mutual tears,
we share the strength and wonder of our miracles,
the shock of being kicked, and finding we
are stronger, wiser, and more loving than

We ever knew.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 1:39-55, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Fourth Sunday of Advent.

The image is The Visitation of Mary, a wall painting from the Sundre Church, Gotland, Sweden. Photo by Wolfgang Sauber – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3170502.

Story: Start with You

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A nene (Hawaiian goose) walking along a road.

December 15, 2024

Philippians 4:4-7
Luke 3:7-18

The nene (a Hawaiian goose) was going to change the world.

He wanted to change a lot of things. Some of them, he thought, might be more difficult than he could actually do. He wanted ‘ohelo to grow more evenly through year, for example. Without learning how to plant and cultivate, which is hard to do when you have wings rather than hands, he didn’t think he’d get that accomplished anytime soon. Still. It’s nice to have a goal.

Mostly, though, he had ambitions to change the way that creatures interacted with one another on Hawai’i Island.

Most creatures in the forest don’t bother one another very much. Yes, the i’iwi gets possessive about flowering ohi’a trees sometimes. Yes, the ‘apapane get touchy around their nests. And there are mongoose that eat eggs. The nene thought that could change, too, but like the ‘ohelo idea, he thought it would take some time to persuade the mongoose to turn vegetarian.

What he most wanted to change, however, was the careless actions of human beings.

Other creatures don’t bother nene much, but human beings do. They come walking up where nene are feeding, they pick food the nene need to eat, and worst of all, they drive fast through places where nene walk and rest. I’m afraid that the biggest danger to a nene these days is getting hit by a car.

So our ambitious nene developed a plan to stand by the side of a road and talk to the people driving by. Or, well, honk at the people driving by. Yell at the people driving by.

I’m afraid it didn’t go well. The cars went by at the same high speeds they had before. A few of them stopped instead. One person even got out and went over to try to pet the nene, who decided that flying away was the best thing to do.

He watched for some time as the cars raced by at the same high speed with no change at all.

It made him sad.

Another set of wings fluttered next to him. It was a curious ‘elepaio. “What were you doing?” she asked.

The nene told her he was trying to get people to drive more carefully.

“That takes a lot of doing,” the ‘elepaio observed. “There are a lot of people to persuade. How is it going so far?”

The nene admitted that it wasn’t working so far.

“There’s an easier place to start,” mused the ‘elepaio. “What if you started with yourself?”

“What do you mean?” asked the nene.

“It’s right to be concerned about what others do,” said the ‘elepaio, “and to get them to change it. But the first step and the easiest step is to do what you can about yourself. Step back from the road. Walk further away. Do what you did a few minutes ago, and fly away from foolish people.

“You’ve got to start somewhere,” said the ‘elepaio. “Start with you.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them on Sunday mornings from memory and improvisation. What you have just read is not exactly what you’ll see in the video.

Photo of a nene by Eric Anderson.

You Warned Us, John

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John said to the crowds coming out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?” – Luke 3:7

Who warned us, John? You did.
We heard your words through others,
much as those you called “a brood of vipers” heard
your words through rapid rumor’s run.

We heard your warning through
the memories and tongues and pens
of those you had impressed with word,
with deed, with baptism, with righteousness.

We heard because they passed along
your warning that to wash with water would
not cleanse the soul, but full repentance, all
enacted, would receive the nod of God.

They came to hear themselves.
They came to learn how they might change.
They came to leave upon a road that might look like
the one on which they had arrived, but was a road made new.

They came. They heard. They washed.
They went away and told the tale.
More came. More heard. More washed. More told.
Soon one would come to wash though you would tell him, “No.”

You warned us, John, across the years.
But tell me, we who follow him whom you baptized,
have we been heedful of your warning? Do
we bear the fruits of righteousness?

I fear, old harsh-voiced friend,
that you would find us heedless of your words
despite our claim to follow Christ. I fear you’d rail
once more at broods of serpents writhing in the dust.

I fear it would not only be
the ones I judge as frauds,
or casual extortionists,
or simply selfish souls withholding all their wealth,

But also me, secure in my
self-righteousness, and satisfied
with my reputed rectitude.
What sins do I ignore, refuse to cleanse?

Shout on, old Baptist friend.
Across the years, through others’ words
I hear your call. Shout on, and by the grace of God
may I repent, and wash, and bear good fruit.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 3:7-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of Advent.

The image is John Preaching in the Desert, a mosaic in the series of the Life of John the Baptist in the Florence Baptistery, Florence, Italy (ca. 1225-1330). Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=41892069.

Story: Important Things

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A cattle egret in tall grass.

December 8, 2024


Philippians 1:3-11

Luke 3:1-6

The cattle egret is a relatively quiet bird. Most of the time it goes about its business of hunting insects and such without talking about it. When a cattle egret has something to say, it will say it. But if it doesn’t have something to say, it doesn’t say anything.

Unlike a lot of people you’ve met, I’m sure.

There was another bird who really wanted a cattle egret to say something. I don’t know why a saffron finch decided that he wanted wisdom from a cattle egret, but he did. Maybe it was their relative sizes (rather small to quite impressively tall). Not that size reliably indicates wisdom. Maybe it was the bright white feathers, but color doesn’t tell you much about wisdom, either. Maybe it was the silence.

Not saying anything until you have something to say could be a good sign of wisdom.

At any rate, it’s wiser than saying something when you don’t have anything to say.

The saffron finch landed on the ground near a cattle egret and the two of them fed side-by-side without speaking for a while. The cattle egret ate bugs. The saffron finch ate one or two spiders and a good amount of seeds. Neither of them chose to speak with their mouths full.

When he was feeling pretty satisfied, the saffron finch asked, “What’s the most important thing?”

The cattle egret looked around to see if there were any other birds the finch might have been talking to. She didn’t see any, but she also didn’t think that this was a question a complete stranger was likely to ask her, so she didn’t say anything.

“No, really,” said the saffron finch. “What the most important thing?”

The cattle egret looked carefully at the saffron finch. He was clearly asking her, though she didn’t know why. She took a couple more mouthfuls of insects to give her time to consider the question. Then she cleared her throat and said:

“Love.”

She looked around and didn’t see any more bugs, so she nodded to the saffron finch and took off to find another spot with more bugs. When she got there, she was surprised to find the saffron finch landing beside her.

“Could you say that again?” he asked.

“Love,” she said, and went on eating.

“Really?” he asked.

“Love,” she repeated for the third time.

“I’m not sure I know how to love,” he said sadly.

The cattle egret paused her hunting for a moment and looked carefully at the saffron finch.

“Ask,” she said.

“Really?” he said.

“Ask,” she said.

I’m still not sure I’d go first to a cattle egret for wisdom – which is mostly my problem for not understanding what a cattle egret might say – but I have to agree with this cattle egret. What’s the most important thing? Love.

And if you’re not sure how to love: Ask.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation, so it won’t sound exactly like you’ve just read.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Stripped Down

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A painting showing a man with a long white beard in a prison cell holding a book and quill and looking at a sheathed sword.

“And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what really matters, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.” – Philippians 1:9-11

I am stripped down. I wait my fate.
What will it be? Will it be gain?
Will it be Christ? I will not choose,
except, of course, that I have chosen
by the words I’ve spoken,
by the things I’ve done.

I am stripped down.

I have been stripped of agency.
Another will decide my course.
I’ve lived in faith that God has set
my way, but set my way through me.
A crueler hand now rests upon the tiller
of my time. Does it grow short?

I am stripped down.

I struggle to bring influence,
to speak good news, for few
may hear me now. Is it hubris to
believe that they who hold me in
this place consider what I’ve said
and turn their souls toward Christ?

I am stripped down.

Thank God Epaphroditus has
recovered, though for him, like me,
to die is gain. For Jesus and for me
he’ll carry word to those I love
that… well, that I love them from the heart.
I am stripped down. What more to say?

Just that I love.

A poem/prayer based on Philippians 1:3-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Second Sunday of Advent.

The image is St. Paul in Prison by Rembrandt van Rijn (1627) – photo by anagoria, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27638749.

Story: High Tide

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

December 1, 2024

1 Thessalonians 3:9-13
Luke 21:25-36

The auku’u, or black crowned night heron, likes to eat. If you look out along the shallows of Hilo Bay, or in the rivers of the valleys, you’ll find auku’u perched on rocks or grass or just standing in the water looking for fish. Although they’re called “night herons” in English, in Hawai’i auku’u fish during the day, and do pretty well at it.

One auku’u, however, developed a somewhat unusual habit. He didn’t like being wet, which is a sad thing for a bird living in Hilo, and he discovered that if he waited for high tide he could spend less time with his feet in the water, since the water, as it were, brought the fish to him.

The thing about a high tide is that it happens just about twice a day, roughly twelve and a half hours apart. That means that sometimes high tide will be in the middle of the day, but a couple weeks later it’s well into the evening. At some times there would be two high tides during daylight, but at other times one high tide would be in the middle of the night. That meant he’d go over a day between meals. And that would make him hungry.

He was moping on the shoreline one morning, waiting for the next high tide (coming in at noon) when a friend landed near him. Noticing that he looked unhappy, she asked him what was wrong.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

She looked at him. Auku’u have been known to say, “I’m hungry,” but they usually say it while they’re on their way to start fishing. An auku’u sitting near the water and saying, “I’m hungry,” was a new and different experience. She didn’t know what to say.

“I haven’t eaten since about this time yesterday,” he said.

“For heaven’s sake, why? Aren’t there any fish?”

Then he explained about fishing at high tide.

“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You’re going hungry for hours because you don’t want to get your feet wet?”

“Do you like wet feet?” he demanded.

“I like being hungry a lot less,” she replied.

He was silent because, he realized, he like being hungry less than he liked having wet feet.

“Sometimes things are perfect,” she said, “like when you get to fish at high tide. But most of the time, we have to muddle along with things as they are. At those times you do the best you can, and look forward to it getting better later on.

“Now come with me,” she told him. “Let’s go fishing. I’m hungry.”

The two of them flew over to the shore.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation), so what you’ve just read does not match what I said.

Photo of an auku’u in Hilo Bay by Eric Anderson.

Aren’t You?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“[Jesus said,] Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory.” – Luke 21:27

I’m looking, Jesus.
I’m looking for those terrible disasters.
I’m looking for the sun-signs, moon-signs, star-signs.
Where is the earth distressed?
Where are the nations fuddled by the roaring of the seas?

I’m looking, Jesus,
and I’m finding all those terrible disasters.
The sun burns warmer on the sands than once it did.
Distressed, the earth would wrap itself in coolness,
water rising, inundating coastlines of both continents and islands.

I’m looking, Jesus:
where to find you?
The clouds still float along without your figure
stepping down to earth in glory and in power.
Where are you, Jesus, when the seas are salt with tears?

I’m looking, Jesus,
as disciples have been looking
for two thousand years, to see the reign of God
in light and thunderclaps and incense-scented wonder, but…
You’re just behind my shoulder, aren’t you?

A poem/prayer based on Luke 21:25-36, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, First Sunday of Advent.

The image is Christ Appears to Two Apostles in Emmaus by Duccio di Buoninsegna – The Yorck Project (2002) 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. ISBN: 3936122202., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3799693.

Story: Bully Price

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

November 24, 2024

2 Samuel 23:1-7
John 18:33-37

The noio, or black noddy, nests in the cliffs above the breaking waves on Hawai’i Island (and, actually, on lots of islands. They’re all over the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans). You’ll tend to find a lot of them close together. They raise their young together, they fly together, and they fish together.

One of the younger noio was fast, big, and strong. There were a few who were faster. There were one or two that were bigger. Nobody could remember anyone who was quite that strong, though. He used that strength to pick up fish that were just a little bigger than everyone else, and as you might expect, that was part of what made him big and strong.

One day as he was out fishing with lots of other noio, he saw an ‘Iwa, a great frigatebird, soaring around overhead. He didn’t think much of it until the ‘iwa dove down upon the flock of circling noio. It chased a noio who had just caught a fish until the noio dropped it, and then snatched the fish from the air, ate it, and climbed back into the sky.

Then the ‘iwa did it again. And again.

When it was no longer hungry it flew away. The frustrated noio returned to their fishing.

The big, strong noio was impressed. The ‘iwa had had a complete meal and never caught a fish on its own. That seemed like a lot less work than sweeping over the surface to pluck a squid from below.

So he tried it. He chased another noio, and it worked. The noio dropped its fish, and the bigger, stronger noio ate it. Then he did it again. And again.

The other noio squawked at him to no avail. He did it over and over until he was satisfied.

Nobody would speak to him later.

Nobody would speak to him the next day when he did it again. His friends, his cousins, even his own sisters wouldn’t say a thing except to squawk as he swooped and pecked to make them drop their fish.

Later, though, one of his uncles landed next to him on his ledge, which should have been crowded with noio, but everybody left when he landed. Except, now, there was his uncle, another big, strong bird.

“I heard what you’ve been doing,” said his uncle. “You’ve learned to be an ‘iwa.”

“I’m eating pretty well, too,” said the nephew. “You’re big enough to try it. It would work for you.”

“I did try it, long ago,” said his uncle, “but it wasn’t worth the price.”

“What price?” asked his nephew, though he already knew.

“The price of an empty ledge,” said his uncle. “The price of never having a friend, except for someone else who’ll bully with you, and who will bully you the first chance they get. The price of the skies emptying when they see you. The price of hearing only the wind and the waves when you should be hearing the cries of other noio.”

The nephew said nothing.

“Look around, nephew,” said the uncle. “Where are your cousins now? Who are your friends? Who do you fly with?

“Is it worth the price?”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I writes these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory (and improvisation), so what you read will not match what you see and hear.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Paragon

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

The God of Israel has spoken;
the Rock of Israel has said to me:
“One who rules over people justly,
ruling in the fear of God,
is like the light of morning,
like the sun rising on a cloudless morning,
gleaming from the rain on the grassy land.”
Is not my house like this with God?

– 2 Samuel 23:3-5

My eyes no longer see as far as they once did.
My hands are creaky, laid upon the strings.
My knees and elbows crack, and truth to tell,
I’d rather spend the day in memory than rule.

The time will surely shortly come when I
shall make my bed in Sheol rather than
within this palace of my grandeur. No more
shall Abijag console me with her warmth.

But then, no longer must I listen to
the not-so-welcome words of Nathan. There
are benefits to dying. Such as making peace
with shame and guilt (if not with those I slew).

And so:

Was not my reign a paragon of right?
(Ignore the tales of rape and sons’
rebellion, though another looms e’en now.)
Did I not shine as dew reflects the morn?

Who now will contradict my words? They’ll hold
them close and celebrate how wise I was
when, near the end, I sang the truth
that earthly power, even mine, is judged by God.

How will they know that as I played
my fingers caught upon the strings, my voice
was husky with the tears that streamed, because
I knew the truth and then composed the lie.

A poem/prayer based on 2 Samuel 23:1-7, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year B, Reign of Christ.

The image is King David by Peter Paul Rubens (by 1640) – Corel Professional Photos CD-ROM, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10324682.