Author: Rev. Eric Anderson

Story: Imperfect

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

December 17, 2023

1 Thessalonians 5:16-24
Luke 1:46-55

She was making gingerbread cookies for the first time in her life – she wasn’t very old – and she was all excited about it. Her older brother had learned to make gingerbread cookies a few years before, and he’d got rather good at it.

This was her very first time.

She thought it was going pretty well, even if there sometimes seemed to be more flour on the counter than in the bowl. She might have miscounted the amount of ginger, too. She decided she’d better add some more to make sure there was enough. Yes. Just a little more. And a little more.

When she was cutting out the shapes – there were cookie cutters for people shapes, and for star shapes, and for reindeer shapes, and even for Christmas Tree shapes – she got things a little scrunchy. In transferring the cut-out cookies to the trays for baking, things got more disarranged. One poor gingerbread person lost their leg, and she tried to mash it back together.

Her older brother came by about this point and decided to make fun of her more oddly-shaped cookies. The two discussed it calmly and reasonably – well, no. The two of them were yelling by the time the cookies came out of the oven. Which might be why there were a little overdone.

She burst into tears.

Mother gathered her into her arms as she said, “They’re not perfect! They were supposed to be perfect!”

Indeed, they weren’t perfect. Some of the trees looked like they’d been through a windstorm. The mashed-together leg had come off in the baking. At least two of the stars had very bent points.

And, it had to be said, they were a little too brown. Not burnt, quite, but any longer in the oven and burnt they’d have been.

“They’re not perfect for Christmas!”

Mother, who thought about things like this, said, “Do you think Christmas is about being perfect?”

The girl said, “Isn’t it supposed to be?”

Mother told her that Jesus didn’t come into the world because it was perfect. It was full of people doing unkind, even cruel things to one another. Jesus came to show a better way, and help people find and live a better life here on earth and beyond. Jesus came to love the ones who didn’t think they were loveable.

“But my brother’s Christmas cookies are perfect.”

Brother, who was feeling sorry he’d picked on his sister, told her that they certainly hadn’t been perfect the first time. “I really burnt the first batch,” he said. “And the second batch wasn’t much better.”

“Let’s see how yours are,” said mother, and all three of them took a bite. She had, in fact, put in far too much ginger.

“I don’t think these are very good, Mommy,” she said, but she wasn’t crying.

“Not so good,” Mother agreed. “Shall we try again?”

In the meantime, her older brother reached for a second cookie. Mother and sister looked at him.

“I like lots of ginger,” he said. “Can I have the recipe?”

Imperfect we may be, but there’s love for us, too.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

When I tell these stories, I tell them from what I remember of the story I’ve written. And… I make new things up as we go through. There will always be a difference between what I’ve prepared and what people hear.

The image of gingerbread people cookies is by ParentingPatch – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=24263325.

Echo the Prophets

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” – Luke 1:52-53

Echo the prophets, Miriam.
Echo the prophets from Hannah
to Miriam, Samuel to Moses,
Deborah to Jael, Elijah to Elisha.
Echo the prophets, Miriam,
so this prophet’s mother will dance.

Echo the prophets, Miriam.
Echo the call for justice and right.
Echo inversion so those who are “great”
may tumble from comfort.
Echo the prophets, Miriam,
so the ones at the bottom will rise.

Echo the prophets, Miriam,
for the Word is at work within you.
You have been greeted with voices of angels.
You, you alone, know who is to come.
Echo the prophets, Miriam,
so your child will hear you and learn.

Echo the prophets, Miriam.
If the blessings of God seem slow
in their coming, attended with pain
and discomfort for you,
Echo the prophets, Miriam.
Let your voice rise in glorious hope.

Author’s note: The Hebrew name “Miriam” was rendered “Mariam” in the Greek language of the New Testament. Later English translations transformed “Mariam” to “Mary,” while leaving the Old Testament “Miriam” unchanged. I’ve chosen to use the original to emphasize Miriam/Mary’s connection to the ancient prophet Miriam.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 1:46b-55, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Third Sunday of Advent.

The image is Maria bei Elisabeth (Mary and Elisabeth), 19th century, by Werkstatt Sebastian Winterhalder, Rötenbach, Schwarzwald – Dr. Fischer Kunstauktionen, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17821498.

Story: Seeing Greatness

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

December 10, 2023

2 Peter 3:8-15a
Mark 1:1-8

A pueo went soaring one sunny afternoon. He’d been hunting most of the morning and he was no longer hungry. So he just flew, holding his wings and tail out, gliding with the wind, rising and falling on the steady breeze flowing between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea.

As he went, he wondered about greatness.

It started as he looked at the mountains to either side of him. Mauna Kea, he knew, was a little bit higher, and it wears a snowy crown sometimes in winter that’s easy to see from most of the island. Mauna Loa, though – well, it gets snow, too, but it can be hard to see, and it isn’t as high. From the air, though, the pueo could see that over a third of the island is on Mauna Loa’s slopes.

The pueo dipped down over Kilauea and circled around its trees. Some of those ohi’a trees rise a hundred feet into the air, with broad trunks and strong stems. Truly those would have to be considered great.

Other ohi’a grew just a few feet high, but they grew from places which had been solid rock just a few years before. Was it greater, the pueo wondered, to grow broad and tall in good soil, or to grow just a little bit when you had to make the soil yourself?

The pueo saw lava flowing, building up the island. And the pueo saw ferns growing in old lava flows, breaking it up into sand and soil. Which was greater, he wondered?

He saw i’iwi dipping into ohi’a blossoms with their long curved beaks, and saw ‘apapane work harder for nectar with their shorter beaks. But he also saw ‘apapane eat the bugs that also sought out the nectar, while the i’iwi passed them by. Which was greater, the pueo wondered, to have a beak so admirably shaped for nectar, or to have a beak that allowed you a wider diet? Even if it was bugs?

Which was greater, the ocean or the land? The lava flows pushed the island further out, but the ocean wore down the shorelines. Which was greater?

Which was greater, the rain or the sun? Absent one or the other, green things would not flourish, and the creatures would go elsewhere.

Which was greater? He wondered and he flew.

Greatness, he decided, can be found wherever you look. The greatness he preferred, in the end, was the greatness that built things up and made new things.

by Eric Anderson

Author’s note: A Pueo is a Hawaiian owl, a relative of the short-eared owls found in many places.

Watch the Recorded Video

I tell these stories from what I remember about what I’ve written – which means, of course, that I don’t always remember it quite the same.

Photo of an ohi’a in blossom – a small one – by Eric Anderson.

Turn Around

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” – Mark 1:1

“John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” – Mark 1:4

My life needs refreshing – turn around.
My body is aching – turn around.
My soul needs renewing – turn around.
My sad eyes are streaming – turn around.

Turn us around, John, turn us around.
Turn us and spin us to cleanse us today.
Turn us around, John, turn us around.
We’re desperate for living anew.

He came to the shore – turn around.
To be baptized by John – turn around.
The first to be bathed in the Spirit of God
Was Jesus himself – turn around.

Turn us around, John, turn us around.
We look for what’s greater than we – turn around.
Turn us around, John, turn us around.
Equip us for living anew.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 1:1-8, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Second Sunday of Advent.

The image is John the Baptist in the Wilderness, artist unknown but in the manner of Jusepe de Ribera – Royal Collection, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=92145938. The smile on the Baptist’s face suggests, to me at least, that he knows something about me and it amuses him.

Story: In the Rain

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

December 3, 2023

1 Corinthians 1:3-9
Mark 13:24-37

The heavy rain this past week put me in mind of some hard rain that fell on some young ‘elepaio. I would guess you weren’t happy about all that hard rain? Well, neither were the ‘elepaio.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back a bit.

When the eggs hatched, there were two chicks in the ‘elepaio nest, a brother and sister and within just a couple of days they were constantly hungry, keeping their parents jumping to bring them food. Mother would stay with them while father fetched food, then father would stay with them while mother fetched food. As they got older (and hungrier) both parents would be away finding them things to eat.

One day when both had been away for what seemed like a long time but was probably five minutes (they were both hungry), brother said to sister, “What good are parents?”

“Yeah!” said sister. “Parents are so slow.”

Mother returned to feed them a moment later, and then father, so with their mouths full they said nothing more. But I have to admit that from time to time over the next few days they continued with these complaints when they were hungry.

“What good are parents?”

“Parents are so slow.”

“I’m so hungry!”

And so on.

A little over two weeks after hatching, they spread their wings to fly. They didn’t go far – just a couple branches away – but they didn’t go back to the nest, either. They started gathering their own food from the leaves around them, and their parents continued to feed them on their branch. They continued to complain if it took more than a minute.

“What good are parents?”

“So slow!”

And so on.

That’s when the clouds opened up and the rain streamed down on the ohi’a forest. Even sheltered by the ohi’a leaves, the two young ‘elepaio were soon soaked and cold and miserable.

“What good are parents?” said sister to brother.

“I’m so cold!” said brother to sister.

That’s when mother hopped over to brother and led him toward the tree trunk, where there were more leaves overhead. She got him to crouch down on the branch and spread her wings over him. Father and sister were soon alongside, with father’s wings over sister, keeping her warm as the rain cascaded down.

“Parents are the best,” said sister to brother.

“They’re right there when you need them,” said brother to sister.

I’m afraid not all ‘elepaio parents are right there with their chicks, or all human parents with their children – it’s not just rain that makes the world an uncomfortable place. What I can tell you is that God is always there when you need, and we shelter beneath God’s wings when it’s wet, and cold, and dark in the night.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, and tell them in worship from memory. Memory plus… re-creation. What you read and what you hear will not be the same.

Photo of an ‘elepaio by Dominic Sherony – Hawaii Elepaio (Chasiempis sandwichensis), CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=52150179.

Clouds

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

“But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory.” – Mark 13:24-26

Outside my window, Jesus,
I see clouds (and sun; no moon).
The clouds will bring us rain
in fifteen minutes, thereabouts.

They will not bring the end of history.

Heaven and earth remain with us.
So do your words, of course.
Some stoke the watching fires,
peering into day and night.

They have not seen the end of history.

Perhaps we have it wrong.
Perhaps rain’s immanence
is not the story of the clouds,
nor do they promise Christ’s return.

They do not bring the end of history.

But just perhaps, if I look close,
in leaden billows or in silver froth,
I’ll see in them a mirror image
of their blessed Creator.

They need not bear the end of history.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 13:24-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, First Sunday of Advent.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Ambitious ‘Apapane

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

November 26, 2023

Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24
Matthew 25:31:46

Do you know what it means to be ambitious? An ambitious person wants to do better things, and then better things, and then better things. An ambitious person might want to be rewarded for this by other people, with money, perhaps, or recognition, or more responsibility, or just simply with applause.

This story is not about an ambitious person. It’s about an ambitious ‘apapane.

Gazing over the summit of Kilauea, he couldn’t help but notice the koa’e kea soaring about on the rising warm air of the volcano. He determined to outdo the koa’e kea at soaring. He spent hours and days and weeks with his wings extended, carefully catching every breath of air.

But an ‘apapane’s wings are not the same shape or size as a koa’e kea, and he found himself either falling into an ‘apapane’s normal quick wing beats and a brief descent with wings closed, or… well, he found himself falling.

He briefly considered becoming an great ‘io, but he knew what his feathers tasted like from cleaning and preening them with his beak, and they didn’t taste good, so fortunately he didn’t become the first predatory ‘apapane.

He watched the ‘elepaio tapping tree limbs to find bugs and spiders, and he thought, yes, this would work. There must be some difference between an ‘elepaio’s beak and an ‘apapane’s, though, because the first time he tapped a tree it gave him such a pain. The second time it felt like he might turn his beak all the way around to the back of his head.

He was sitting there with a sore beak when his grandmother turned up.

“Grandson, what are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m trying to outdo the ‘elepaio,” he said.

“Really?” she said. “How is that going?”

“I’ve got a sore beak.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Why are you trying to outdo the ‘elepaio?”

“I’m trying to be better and better and better than I am now,” he said. “I’ve got ambition.”

“So what else have you tried?” she asked.

He told her about trying to soar like a koa’e kea and admitted that he’d considered hunting like an ‘io. “I’m thinking about fishing like a noio next,” he said.

“You don’t eat fish,” she said.

“Perhaps I could be a better upside-down feeder than an i’iwi?” he asked.

“At least you’ve got close to the right feathers for that,” said his grandmother. “Have you ever considered getting better and better and better at the things you already do well?”

In fact, he hadn’t. His imagination had been entirely on being better than other birds, not getting better than himself.

“Try getting better and better and better at the things you do,” said his grandmother. “Let the ‘io and the koa’e kea be good at their things. None of them will ever be as good an ‘apapane as you.”

Be better and better and better at being you, my friends. Be better and better and better at being you.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them from memory – well, from memory and from re-creation. It won’t and doesn’t sound the same as the prepared text.

Photo of an ‘apapane and an ‘ohia blossom by Eric Anderson.

Story: Storing Up

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

November 12, 2023

Amos 5:18-24
Matthew 25:1-13

She was young, young enough that she took a nap every day. She was old enough to think that she didn’t need a nap every day, and she played hard enough that in mid-complaint about taking a nap every day, she’d fall asleep.

It didn’t stop her from complaining about it the next day, but I’m sure I did the same thing when I was that age.

Strangely, it was going to be her first Thanksgiving with a big group of her family. She had been born while her parents were living at quite a distance from grandparents and aunties and uncles and a big crowd of cousins. She’d only met a few of them, and only a household at a time: a couple of grandparents. An auntie and a cousin.

Thanksgiving promised to be a big crowd. She was all excited.

In the couple weeks before Thanksgiving, her parents started buying extra food for the things they’d bring to share: flour and sugar and eggs and pumpkin for pies. “Why are you getting those things?” she asked. “So we’ll have enough to share,” said her parents. “We don’t want to run out, do we?”

Oh, no, we don’t want to run out.

That took a new meaning about a week before Thanksgiving, because as the family was returning from some errands, the car ran out of gas. I guess everything had been so busy that the didn’t pay attention to the gas gauge. It all worked out fine. Some friends brought some gas so they could get to a gas station, and they got home a little later than expected, but it was barely an adventure.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The car ran out of gas,” said mother.

“Is that what happens when you don’t have enough?” she asked.

“It is with a car,” said father.

A couple days later she was all upset and started to cry.

“What’s wrong?” asked father and mother both.

“I don’t want to run out!” she sobbed.

“Run out of what?” they asked.

“I don’t want to run out of love on Thanksgiving!” she wailed.

“How are you going to run out?” asked mother, and she said, “Like the car! Or like falling asleep when I don’t want to nap!”

(I should probably mention that this was happening around nap time, which probably isn’t a surprise.)

“Tell you what,” said father. “We’ll see that you get filled up.”

“What?” she said.

“That’s right,” said mother. “We’ll take time each day to fill you up with love. You’ll have plenty of love for Thanksgiving.”

“How?” she asked, but you probably know the answer. Her parents gave her hugs, and they told her how much they loved her. They praised the cool and clever things she did, and when she misbehaved, they told her they loved her and how to do things better. They played games. They sang songs.

When Thanksgiving came she didn’t run out of love for her grandparents, or her aunties and uncles, or her big crowd of cousins. Nope. She didn’t run out of love at all.

She did skip her nap. She fell asleep in the car on the way home, but I’m sure it was because she was full of pie.

She never ran out of love at all.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories, then tell them from my memory of what I’ve written. Oh, and I improvise along the way, so what I wrote and how I tell it can be very different.

Photo by Eric Anderson

Fuel

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

“Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps.” – Matthew 25:2-4

Be ready, you told us, Jesus,
over and over. Watch the fig trees.
Watch for floods. One will go,
one will be left. Do your work.
Fuel your lamps. Invest your talents.
Care for the sick, imprisoned, and needy.

Over and over: “Be ready.”

Be ready to shine. Be ready to care.
Be ready to share. Be ready to welcome.
Be ready to celebrate. Be ready to help.
Be ready. Be ready. Be ready.

But.

Jesus, for how long?

If the groom had been on time,
ten glowing lamps would have
illuminated him along the way.

Not five.

How long? How much extra fuel
will keep my lamp alight to welcome you?
How much investment of my talents?
How many welcomed, visited, assisted?

How long, belated bridegroom Christ?
How long?

Just so you know I know: the only source
to feed the lamp of human light, the only
place to fill the soul is you, O God.
Is you.

If I am to endure to shine before you,
fill my lamp, O God, my flasks and barrels.
Only with your aid will my light shine
today, tomorrow, and in days to come.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 25:1-13, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 27 (33).

Photo by Eric Anderson. I know it’s of a tealight candle, not an oil lamp, but I like this picture.

Story: Big Cloud

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

November 5, 2023

Joshua 3:7-17
Matthew 23:1-12

It was a Big Cloud, with a capital B and a capital C. There have been bigger clouds in the history of the world, but this one rivaled the clouds of hurricanes and typhoons. It swept across the Pacific Ocean with a kind of ponderous majesty, with the trade winds gently carrying it along. Other smaller clouds would try to go north or south to get out of its way. If they succeeded, they breathed a sigh of relief. If they failed, well, they became part of the Big Cloud.

It rained on the ocean as it sailed along, but warm sunlight ahead of it raised plenty of water vapor to replace what substance it lost and, in fact, to make the Big Cloud even Bigger. With a capital B.

In the distance it saw Hawai’i Island.

Some clouds accompanying it – after all, what cloud wouldn’t want to ride the Pacific Ocean trade winds? – warned the Big Cloud. “You see those mountains?” they said. “You want to turn aside for those mountains. Bad things happen to clouds that try to go through those mountains.”

The Big Cloud said nothing. It was the Big Cloud, after all, with a capital B and a capital C. What had a Big Cloud to fear from mountains?

“No, really,” they told it. “You’ll rain out on the slopes. You won’t make it through the saddle.”

The Big Cloud coughed, and it sounded like thunder.

“Make a turn to the south or the north,” they urged. “You can do it. Plenty of storms have done so before.”

The Big Cloud was not pleased, and its displeasure flashed in lightning bolts along its forward edges, like a giant electric frown.

“I will go my way,” it said. “I am the Big Cloud, and I go where I choose. I fear no mountains.” And the Big Cloud set its course right between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa – and actually over both of them, because the Big Cloud was so big it didn’t fit between them.

Rain fell here in Hilo, of course, and way up the Hamakua Coast to Honoka’a and Waipio Valley. Rain fell in Puna, drenching Pahoa and Nanavale and all the way down in Opihikao.

As the Big Cloud rained on the island, it stretched toward the saddle between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, with rain thundering down the rising slopes. “I will go my way,” it thundered.

But the other smaller clouds had been right. The rising slopes coaxed more and more rain from the Big Cloud, and didn’t lift moisture from the ocean to replace it. The Big Cloud became a big Cloud with only a capital C, and then a big cloud with no capitals at all. Then it was a medium cloud, and a small cloud, and by the time it got to Kona, it wasn’t a cloud at all.

The other clouds watched with sadness that the Big Cloud’s pride had prevented it from taking their advice.

“The Big Cloud was too proud,” said one.

“It certainly was,” said another. “Now it’s been rained away. Pride goes as the rain falls.”

If you ever hear a human being say something like, “Pride goes before a fall,” well, that’s true enough for people, but among the clouds they say, “Pride goes as the rain falls.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories and then tell them from memory – well, memory and improvisation. As a result, the story as written differs from the story as told.

Photo by Eric Anderson