“If we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we guide their whole bodies… And the tongue is a fire.” – James 4:3, 6a
My tongue has been trained, yes it has. It has been trained in true and righteous speech, through the best efforts of parents, teachers, friends. I am a credit to them when I speak well.
Well.
My tongue has been inflamed, yes it has. It has sputtered sparks and spat forth fire. When furious clamor has arisen from my foolish words, I am a credit only to myself.
Well.
What bit will serve to govern streams of fire? What governor will guide a flaming tongue? A pity that there is no quick solution, though silence, at the least, constrains the blazing word.
A poem/prayer based on James 3:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 19 (24).
I don’t know what I did to offend a couple of our local mynas, but I have clearly disturbed one or two them. They screech at me as I’m walking along outside the church buildings. Maybe I’m breathing too loudly for them?
Mynas are somewhat quarrelsome among themselves, and when nesting spots are scarce they’ll chase anyone and everyone away, but they typically share feeding spots with anyone around. Kolea, saffron finches, house finches, doves, and others eat their seeds and bugs alongside flocks of mynas.
One mynas flock, however, chose a feeding spot to be their very own, and only theirs. They wouldn’t accept other birds in it. They screeched at them, they advanced threateningly at them, and if they didn’t take the hint they’d jab at them with their beaks.
“No finches allowed!” they’d screech, and then, “Get out of here, dove!”
“Kolea go home!” they said, which seems pretty unfair, and “No room for cardinals here!”
It was pretty ugly, and pretty selfish.
It was also remarkably foolish.
You see, having chosen their ground, they’d also chosen to protect it. There’s a limit to how much ground a flock of mynas can protect, and in this case, it wasn’t big enough for them. Ordinarily, when a patch of land gets picked over for seeds and bugs so there’s not much left, they’d move on to another place. The old place would get some rest for new seeds to form and new bugs to move in. But they’d picked their ground, and they weren’t moving, and the seeds began to get scarce and the bugs harder to find.
Even with the spot limited only to mynas, it wasn’t quite enough.
If they hadn’t driven other birds away, they might have noticed when other birds started looking somewhere else, and they might have followed them to a better spot. They didn’t. If they hadn’t driven other birds away, they might have moved about more freely themselves. They didn’t. If they hadn’t driven other birds away, they might have given their chosen piece of land some time to pause and replenish.
They didn’t.
The flock began to dwindle. One day a myna flew away because she was hungry and there wasn’t enough there. The next day two mynas flew away. The area they could protect got smaller, so even with fewer mynas there still wasn’t quite enough food.
When the flock got down to two or three hungry birds, they looked at one another on the thin grass of their chosen ground, and said to a curious nearby kolea, “This is ours. Not yours.”
“You can have it,” said the kolea. “I’ll be better elsewhere.”
And you know what? The kolea was absolutely right. He did much better elsewhere than these stubborn mynas did in their chosen spot.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in full, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. Therefore the story you just read will sound different from the one that I told.
“Now the woman was a gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, ‘Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.'” – Mark 7:26-27
I had no illusions, Jesus.
I almost didn’t spot you, though I looked. A neighbor mentioned casually that “a healer Jew from Galilee” was near as if it made no difference to me.
You know it did, Jesus.
I left my wailing daughter with a friend and searched the streets to find a face I did not know. Despite our sorrows, I know every face upon our streets.
I knew you from not knowing you, then, Jesus.
You’d made no effort to declare yourself so I could not believe you’d come to help the sick and demon-burdened in our village here, but help you would, if I could have my way.
I had to have my way, Jesus.
I found your stranger’s face. I bowed upon your feet. I begged you for your healing touch to soothe my child’s rage, assuage her fear, give to her peace.
I knew that you’d say, “No.”
You said it with a cruelty that nearly stopped my breath, though I had no illusions, none. I stammered out my need’s reply: “The dogs can eat the children’s crumbs.”
I was not after crumbs.
No, Jesus, I would have it all. Not all or nothing, I would have it all, because what use is partial banishment of demons burdening the human soul?
No crumbs, Jesus. All. And I mean all.
You gave it all to me, you know. You gave me all your cruelty (I hope you used it up). But then you gave me all the healing power of your anguished face.
My daughter got it all.
She’s never seen you, Jesus, as you know. You took your shattered heart, remade it new, to heal and heal again, and left behind a girl once more herself,
And your illusions cast aside.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 7:24-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 18 (23).
Saffron finches don’t fly about in larger flocks like mynas, but they certainly do gather in small groups to feed and chirp and, one assumes, share the news of the saffron finch world. One little group was having a problem with not one, but two, of their members.
The first one who bothered them was, well, unwashed. Routinely. A finch is going to get dust and bits of grass and, I suppose, the occasional bug wing on their beak and face, and he did that. They’ll also get dirty feet and, if they’re hopping about on muddy ground, get dirty feathers. He did that, too.
Most saffron finches find ways to wash it off. They’ll clean with beak and toes and let the rain wash them off when they can. On a gray day a saffron finch is a pretty bright sight. But not this guy. Somehow a rain shower left him muddier. If he pushed bug wings off his head he’d get dirt in the feathers.
He was a sight, let me tell you.
The other troublesome bird was clean and bright. He not only got himself clean, somehow he avoided most of the dust and dirt that the other birds had to deal with. And… he let you know it.
“Are you going to clean those feet?” he asked. “There’s a bug wing on your beak,” he said. “Can you believe it? You’ve got a speck of mud on your feathers,” he commented.
He went on and on about the finch with the dirty feathers. “Look at that, he’s a disgrace,” he’d say, and “I’m so glad I’m not like him.”
They say “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me,” but you know? Words hurt. And nearly every bird in the little flock of saffron finches felt the sting, with our dirty finch feeling it the worst.
What to do?
They got together, the other finches. They talked it over while the dirty finch and the absolutely clean finch were elsewhere. They come up with some possibilities. They made some decisions. They got ready to offer some options.
They called the whole flock together, including our two problem finches, and said, “We’ve got to see some changes here. First,” they said to the dirty finch, “we’re going to give you some help, because clearly you need it. We’ll help you with the preening and the cleaning and make sure you stay both healthy and show off your bright feathers.
The dirty finch, who thought he was going to be kicked out of the flock, chirped a grateful “Mahalo!”
The absolutely clean finch huffed, “I can’t believe you’re going to put up with him and his filth. You’re as bad as he is.”
“What we’re not going to put up with,” said the spokesfinch, “is your bullying any longer. You’ve been hardest on this finch here, but you’ve been at all of us at one time or another. Yes, your feathers are always immaculate, and no, our aren’t always at their best. But your tongue is never at its best, and that needs to change. Now.”
The absolutely clean finch was speechless for a moment (which was a good thing, if you think about it), and then he burst out with a harangue that few have ever heard. I’m afraid he didn’t learn his lesson, and I’m afraid he couldn’t stay with that flock.
When it came down to it, the things that make a finch dirty from the outside are things they could help with. But the things that make a finch dirty from the inside, all the harshness and bullying, those are the things that have to go.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory – memory and inspiration. What I’ve written does not match how I tell it.
“[Jesus said,] ‘…there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.'” – Mark 7:15
The awkward hour – well, not quite an hour – takes place each morn as I step in the shower. While water cascades on my form and soap dislodges clinging dust, my memory tunes to regret.
I sigh into the foam.
I’ve plenty to regret, and hope that you have less. I recall failed relationships, the ways I’ve failed my family and friends. I wonder how I’ve grieved my God – and wonder, too, how I can claim to wonder…
My feet shift with discomfort.
The exercise might be worthwhile if it prompted me to understandings new, new ways to make amends, repair what had gone wrong, but mostly I just grieve.
I close my eyes against the shampoo’s sting.
Symbolically, I’m doing all I can to cleanse, but in my spirit: no. These demons have not been expelled. They live quite happily within my memories and recollected thoughts.
Knobs turned, the water does not fall.
Yes, Jesus, it is from within these things emerge, defiling once again my spirit, laying low my joy in you. I ask myself, “Why do this to yourself?” and know I am not reconciled to me.
I pray that I am reconciled to you.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 17 (22).
A newly hatched honu isn’t very big. Two or three inches long. They spend their time feeding on the seagrasses in which they hide in the shallows of our island.
A kupuna honu is a lot bigger, up to four feet long and weighing over 300 pounds.
Our honu today was bigger than a hatchling and smaller than a kupuna. He was maybe a foot long, had well developed flippers and tail, and enjoyed both swimming in the ocean waters and in the shallows near the beach. And, like all honu, he liked sunning himself on the rocks or the sands.
But… he was worried about manō. Sharks. A good size tiger shark could be a real problem. He kept a wary eye out for manō as he swam along the reef, and he listened intently for the sound of water passing over their sleek fins. He had a good strong shell, he knew, but… well. Who could tell if that would be enough?
One day, though, he got an idea. He’d just seen a wave move some rocks up and down the beach. What if he could find some way to attach rocks to his shell? Corals and opihi and, for that matter, the sea grasses he liked to eat managed to stick to things. What might give him an extra shell?
I still don’t know what he found to do it, but he did find something sticky, and he covered his shell with it. Then he went to a beach loaded with loose stone, moving back and forth with the waves. As they went clattering down the beach, they stuck to his shell, and suddenly he was the best armored honu in history.
He rested on the beach for a while, delighted with his success. He napped in the sun. The rocks actually made him just a little warmer as the sun warmed them, which was really nice. When he woke up, he was hungry. So he started crawling down the beach into the surf.
He was surprised to find it really difficult to move along. The stones on his shell weighed him down, and his flippers strained to push him along. “It will be better when I get into the water,” he thought.
He was wrong.
As difficult as moving along the beach had been, swimming was worse. The stones dragged him right down to the sea floor, and he struggled to swim back up to breathe – honu aren’t fish, you know. They breathe air. Every time he caught a breath he’d be back under a moment later. Honu can hold their breath a lot longer than I can, but this was not good. Not good at all.
He struggled back to the beach until his tail was in the water and his head out of it, with waves lapping at his shell as he gasped.
“Too heavy?” asked a passing ‘ulili.
“Too right,” said the honu, who started scraping the stones off. The ‘ulili used his long beak to help pray them away.
“Thanks for your help,” said the honu, and the ‘ulili replied, “I’m happy to help, Rocky.”
Rocky the honu laughed, and he wore the name the rest of his long life, but he never wore any rocks again.
Armor has its price, you know. Sometimes its protection is too heavy for living. Sometimes we do best by relying on what we can carry.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them on Sunday morning from (occasionally poor) memory and (occasionally creative) inspiration. What you’ve just read will not match what I said.
“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power; put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil…” – Ephesians 6:10-11
I’m grateful that the struggle is not with the powers of blood and flesh. Not if I’m to rely upon these items for protection of my vital spark.
What happens to the righteous? Why, they suffer, as do those who speak of peace. A shield of faith is powerless against an arrow, or a club, or fist.
Should I entrust my head to its salvation? The logic doesn’t work for me. I wish I thought an offense of the Spirit, of the Word, protected anyone, but… no.
And worst of all, to recommend I gird my waist with Truth, as if the truth has ever carried any weight when cut so easily by lies.
But then I see a brilliant coral called “The Armor of our God,” protected by no more than truth, feebly anchored to its rock.
These corals can be shattered by a careless underwater step, the floating residue of sun protection, by a current that directs its food away.
If coral, brilliant in its indigo, can live its fragile life beneath the sea, I might, perhaps, submit my life to living with this unprotective armor,
Rooted in the truth, acting righteously, striding ever toward the reign of peace, with faith displayed before me, head a-crowned with Christ’s salvific work,
Equipped to bring the Spirit’s Word to those who might, in turn, take on this truth, this righteousness, this peace, this saving faith, this summons from our God.
Author’s note: I have no idea what I was going to write about before I found this photo of an “Armor of God” Zoanthid coral.
A poem/prayer based on Ephesians 6:10-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 16 (21).
This is not an uncommon condition for an ‘elepaio, or for that matter for any bird up in the forests of Hawai’i. They tend to be small birds, but the things they eat are also small, so they tend to eat often or, to put it another way, whenever they can. Kind of like a human child in the middle of a growing time.
This ‘elepaio, however, had a somewhat different problem. It wasn’t that there wasn’t food around. There was plenty. It was that, well, she liked to look ahead.
Again, plenty of ‘elepaio look ahead. They’re the curious birds of the forest. They check out the people moving through the woods, and they check out the trees – for food, generally. But they do it up close and personal. If you’re walking through the forest and an ‘elepaio wants to find out more about you, they’ll perch pretty close.
This ‘elepaio, however, had somehow got the idea that the way to learn what was happening was with the big picture only. She’d perch high in a tree, looking out over the slopes for signs of the insects that she ate. And… she’d find them. Sure. Bugs get around, and you’ll find them high in a tree. What you won’t do is see them in a distant tree. They’re small. They don’t move the leaves and branches. In fact, if you look at leaves and branches from a distance, you’ll pretty much see… leaves and branches.
She was so intent one day on looking for bugs in distant trees that she didn’t hear her mother land behind her.
“Child,” said her mother, “what’s the problem?”
“I’m hungry,” said her daughter, “and I’m having trouble finding bugs to eat.”
“Why do you think that is?” asked her mother, as she watched a bug walk along the very branch her daughter was perched on.
“I think it’s just hard to do,” said the young ‘elepaio, who now had two bugs crawling along in front of her.
“Could it be that you’re looking too far ahead?” asked her mother, who knew it was.
“I don’t see how it could be,” said her daughter, who was so still that one of the bugs was near to climbing onto her.
“Look right in front of your beak,” said mother, and her daughter looked. Then she looked again, and then she ate one bug, then the other, and found two more on a nearby leaf.
“Better?” asked her mother.
“Better,” admitted her daughter, “but shouldn’t we be looking ahead for things?”
“It’s useful to look to the distance,” said her mother, “because there are important things there, which might be bugs, or storms, or a hunting ‘io. But there are also important things right in front of you, like breakfast, and water, and the materials for a nest.”
“And someone to teach me to look there,” said her daughter.
“And someone to be with you and care for you,” said her mother.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, in full, but I tell them from a combination of memory and new creation. Therefore the recording does not match the text above.
“Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery, but be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs to one another, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts.” – Ephesians 5:18-19
I know the psalm: “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom.” How did you not know that, Paul?
(Especially since you gave advice to Timothy to drink not only water, but a little wine to soothe the stomach.)
It cannot be denied, of course, that alcohol debauches so much of our bodies, brain and liver and good sense.
Yet I would think that you would have more puritanical advice than this, to be filled with the Spirit.
I guess old Martin Luther got it right when he set his great lyric to the tune of an old drinking song,
And told his critics that the Devil should not get all the good tunes. Fill up, you say, with Spirit, and rejoice.
Not fear, but celebration; not in gloom, but in rejoicing; not in silent prayer, but in the flood of song:
This is wisdom. This is living faithfully. This is making deep connections with God’s grace.
The fount of wisdom springs from reverence, but gains its height from joy and thanks. May we be wise.
A poem/prayer based on Ephesians 5:15-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 15 (20).
Last week I told you a story about an ‘apapane who, when he was selected to lead a mixed flock of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, and ‘alawi, learned a lesson about proper leadership. He may not have liked learning it, but he learned it, and in just two or three days.
This week, I’m sorry to say, the story is about an ‘apapane who didn’t learn that lesson in their week as leader, and… Well, maybe I should just tell the story.
He was big for an ‘apapane (not so big for an ‘io). That made him bigger than pretty much all of the birds, especially the smaller ‘akepa and ‘alawi. Other ‘apapane tended to hop or turn out of his way when he came to their branch or crossed his flight path. Even i’iwi, who tend to be the more aggressive of the forest birds, learned to recognize this ‘apapane and stayed out of his way.
It seemed natural that such a big, strong, confident bird should be selected as leader. Right? Leadership is what big, strong, confident people – er, birds – are for. Right?
It didn’t go well.
First of all, he didn’t really pay attention to the other birds. He’d just give orders. “Go find a better tree!” he ordered one bird, who was nearly caught by an ‘io that the leader hadn’t troubled to look for. “Let’s go!” he shouted when they headed to a new tree, but he didn’t bother to make sure that all the birds heard it. Half of them stayed behind. When he discovered that, he flew back to the old tree, screamed and shouted, and even beat at one or two of them with his wings.
Worst of all, he picked on the smaller birds. He’d find ‘akepa sipping nectar and he’d push them out of the way. He pecked at ‘alawi with his beak if they got close. And if they weren’t close, he’d hop over and peck them.
In short, he’d crossed the line from “leader” to “bully.”
Flock elders talked to him, and the next day went the same. His parents talked to him, and the next day went the same. Flock elders came in a group with his grandparents – always listen to tutu, right? – and it went exactly the same the next day.
The flock had had enough.
The last morning of his leadership, five flock elders perched before him. “Just so you know,” they said, “you will not be elected leader again.”
“How can that be?” he screeched. “I’m biggest and strongest. I’m made to lead!”
“We require leadership,” they told him. “We will not tolerate bullying.”
“You’ll do what I tell you!” he shouted.
“No,” they said. “Never again.”
Every single bird in the flock turned away from him. Not one turned in his direction. Not one followed his screeched orders. When he flew over to peck at an ‘akepa, ten other birds flew over and formed a living shield to protect her.
“You’ll be sorry!” he shrieked and flew away.
But as far as I know, that flock has never been sorry that they know the difference between leadership and bullying, and that they insist on leadership, and send bullying away.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I writes these stories in advance, then tell them from memory on Sunday morning. It’s a different medium, and the results differ, too!
Photo of an ‘apapane (who is not, as far as I know, a bully) by Eric Anderson.
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