Yesterday, as promised, I took myself to the Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park and specifically to the summit area of Kilauea, to hike through groves of ohi’a and sandalwood, and refresh myself with reality and truth.
Walking down a trail to the serenade of songbirds, and later looking down into the furnace that is Halema’uma’u Crater, and hiking back to my car through the dark woods (poor planning, that), I thought about things I’d learned:
Birds sing their songs. If they don’t sing, they don’t live – the next generation doesn’t happen. They sing different songs. They sing to exist.
We must sing our songs.
What you don’t see is still there. Reality exists whether I see it – or you see it – or not.
Look closely. Don’t assume we’ve seen all there is to see.
Going up is more work than going down. Going down you’re more apt to fall.
Let’s be careful about going down. Let’s summon up our strength to go up.
Beauty grows at the edge of devastation.
Let’s appreciate truth and beauty where we find it.
Steam fogs your glasses, making it even harder to see the holes at the side of the trail (which are also steam vents).
Heated words may distract us from truth. We need to look for the realities they hide, and focus on them lest they trip us up – and never fail to name the heated words for what they are.
Marcher’s eye view of the Women’s March in Hilo
Now today – today I marched.
Not as far as I hiked yesterday, I grant you. Hilo has a small downtown! But I marched because our new President has already made clear that not all citizens’ rights will be respected, and not all people’s worth will be considered. He has already taken steps to hamstring the Affordable Care Act, without presenting a replacement plan. Millions could lose access to insurance, and those who are now protected from being denied coverage because of their health now face a terrible risk of losing their insurance again.
Today both he and his press secretary repeatedly asserted an untruth. They would accept no evidence to the contrary; they would brook no contradiction. And it is a lie. The crowds at the inauguration today were significantly smaller than those eight years ago.
Women – people of color, both men and women – non-Christians – Christians who refuse to praise the President – journalists who do their jobs with diligence and integrity: These people have all faced the President’s ire.
And so I marched. To face the ire. To declare the truth. And most of all:
I thought and thought about this question. It was not an easy or comfortable debate. Close to my core is a deep love for the democratic forms of this country. The fact that we change policy through the application of the vote, and not through the advances of armies, makes this nation precious to me more than the coincidence of my birth into it. I value the peaceful transfer of power (a phrase I’ve heard several times this past week). I honor it.
Does that mean I need to watch it?
Yes, it would be virtuous of me as a citizen to celebrate the peaceful transfer of power. Yes, it would be virtuous of me as a political creature (i.e., human being) to listen carefully to his words, and assess my appropriate response of support or resistance to particular policies or proposals. Yes, I probably should watch the inauguration.
I don’t want to.
It could be sour grapes. It could be a petulant reaction to a political disappointment.
It could be solidarity. As a candidate, the man who will be inaugurated tomorrow insulted broad swathes of human beings in ways I thought should doom his candidacy. His political senses are better than mine; he won the office. But he left great numbers of people in great anxiety that their economic well-being, their physical health, and their liberties were at risk. They’ve called for a boycott of his inauguration, and as I believe that they should retain their economic well-being, their physical health, and their liberties, I would be proud to stand in solidarity.
Yet I think that will probably wait for another day (most likely the next day, if I can get to the Hilo edition of the Women’s March on time).
Because in truth, I just don’t care to be lied to. I need to spend the day with some truth.
“All politicians lie,” I hear you say, and as generalizations go, this one has more to support it than most. The man who will take the oath of office tomorrow, however, gets caught in falsehoods all the time and it makes no difference to him. He contradicts himself on matters of fact, on assertions of causation, and on predictions of policy with no apparent concern.
He never apologizes. He never says, “I had that wrong, and now I’ve come to a new conclusion.” He simply says the new thing, denies he ever said the old thing (for heaven’s sake, hasn’t a reality television star heard of recordings?) and moves on.
To me, that means that there’s no point to what he says tomorrow. His views on those topics could change by Sunday – or the end of the day Friday. Or they could be the guiding principles for his decisions for months. Who knows? I don’t. I wonder if he does…
Originally, I’d planned to simply say, “I’m working; I don’t have time to watch the inauguration. Oh. Darn,” and go on. I’ve found myself with a day off, however, after working over the weekend. So. Now I’ve had to make the choice.
As it happens, I’ve got a gathering to go to for lunch, but when it’s over, I’ll point my car toward the summit of Kilauea and drive. Rather than listen to lies, I’ll spend the afternoon in contemplation of Truth.
Truth that human beings are, after all, very small creatures on a very powerful planet.
Truth that the world is building itself, and reshaping itself, and reforming itself. It has done so before; it will do so again.
Truth that the world is also fragile. The ground can open in great rifts; the air can be poisoned; the water can blast forth in gushes of steam to scald all those about. It can be molded, and molded badly, by human hands.
Truth that I, though small, and frequently reshaped, and sharing the fragility of my home, can also choose.
Who knows? I may learn some new Truths up there.
With this Truth, I will stand to watch the orange glow from the crater, with its promise, and its peril, and its power.
This address in honor of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Day was presented on January 16, 2017, at Ho’oheau Park in Hilo, Hawai’i. I am tremendously grateful to have been invited to participate in the program.
It is confession time: I have spent too long silent.
If you’d like excuses, and if if you don’t, I can provide some: I thought the victory had been won: by thousands and tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands of marching feet when I was still a child. I thought the victory had been won.
I thought the victory had been won: by attorneys contesting unjust statutes for the highest courts, and winning their cases. I thought the victory had been won.
I thought the victory had been won: by people of color coming out to vote with courage and commitment. I thought the victory had been won.
I thought the victory had been won: by the repentance of haole hearts.
I was wrong.
The statistics told me the truth. And as long as the rates of incarceration, or poverty, or ill health correlate to a race, the victory has not been won.
People I love told me the truth. And as long as stories told by people of color in their encounters with authority fail to match the stories I tell about my encounters with authority, the victory has not been won.
When the President-elect condemns John Lewis faster than he condemns David Duke, the victory has not been won.
And it has gotten worse.
In my lifetime, I have heard public racial epithets fade away, as those who spoke them paid a social or economic or political price. And in my lifetime, I have heard them return, as those who spoke them failed to pay a social price that they were not willing to pay.
The words, and even more the deeds, the policies, and even more the structures, must face a social, economic, or political price that they are not willing to pay, or the victory will not be won.
In his Letter from the Birmingham Jail, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., wrote: “My friends, I must say to you that we have not made a single gain in civil rights without determined legal and nonviolent pressure. Lamentably, it is an historical fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily. Individuals may see the moral high light and voluntarily give up their unjust posture; but, as Reinhold Niebuhr has reminded us, groups tend to be more immoral than individuals.
“We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.”
I would add now, that we are finding through painful experience that freedom may be denied again by a resurgent oppressor.
I must not be silent. You must not be silent. We must not be silent. And the time to speak is now.
Dr. King also wrote, in that same Letter from the Birmingham Jail: “More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co-workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge the time is always ripe to do right.”
The time is always ripe to do right.
The time is ripe to reject religious tests for entry into our nation. The time is ripe to demand that citizens not face hurdle after hurdle to exercise their right and responsibility to vote. The time is ripe to demand that health care not be limited to those with wealth, and that those who are sick may obtain the treatment which is their due as human beings. The time is ripe to do right.
I must not be silent. You must not be silent. We must not be silent. The time is ripe to do right.
Well, last week I told you a story about an ‘ea, a hawksbill sea turtle. So, you know what this week’s story is going to be about, right?
Because you know I tell stories about birds a lot, and there’s one particular bird I keep coming back to. Anybody have a guess as to what this story is about?
That’s right. It’s about an ‘apapane.
Actually, it’s about several of them, and for once, they’re not nestlings. Well, OK, they were nestlings when then met. They happened to grow up in neighboring nests in an ohi’a grove, so they all knew each other. They’d fly about together, and they played games together.
You know, the usual games of small birds, like… football. Or soccer (that’s football in Europe). Or… board games.
Growing up together, whatever games they played, they knew a lot of the same things. Their parents taught them how to live in an ohi’a forest: what an ohi’a lehua blossom is like when it’s the ripest, and which bugs are tasty, and which ones aren’t.
There was one question, though, that none of them could seem to get a straight answer to, no matter how many times they asked their parents.
(Does that ever happen to you? It happened to me. I’d ask my parents something and they just wouldn’t have an answer. It still happens.)
(It probably happens to my kids, too, now that I think about it.)
The question was, “How do you know when it’s time to sing?”
So the parents, no matter which ones they were, would start out by saying, “Well, you know it’s time to sing when…” and their voices would trail away.
“Oh, I know,” they might continue, “it’s when… No. No, that’s not it.”
Long silences would follow, and then this:
“You’ll just know.”
The young ‘apapane didn’t think this was a good answer.
No, not a single one of them.
Fairly soon, the time came for the birds to move on. Ohi’a bloom for a time, and then other trees go into blossom, and the ‘apapane followed their food. Soon the young birds were scattered into several groves, still within earshot, but they couldn’t always see one another.
That’s when they realized how they’d know when it was time to sing. Because it would just happen.
One bird, for no reason he or she could ever describe, would suddenly burst into the distinctive ‘apapane call. The others would join in so quickly that sometimes they couldn’t be sure who had started the song. It just happened.
Over and over again, it just happened.
Someday, it’s going to be time for you to sing. And you’ll know. Somehow, you’ll know, and I know that’s not a great answer to the question, “How will I know?” but you will.
You’ll know.
Sometimes it will be you who’ll be the first to sing – or it will be you – or it will be you. It might be all three of you. Or it might be somebody else’s turn.
But you’ll know. You’ll know when it’s time to sing, when it’s time to lead the song.
You know what an ‘ea is, right? It’s the Hawaiian name for a hawksbill turtle. They live in the sea, and hardly ever come to shore.
So. One day an ‘ea was sort of lazily swimming along the beach, when along came a group of people. They were part of a church and they were there so that some could be baptized.
The ‘ea watched, first rather lazily, but as time went on she got more interested. The people were talking about how much God loved everybody, and how they should share that love with everybody else. The ‘ea thought this sounded like a wonderful idea. Then, one by one, the people to be baptized stepped into the water with the leader, ducked beneath the rolling waves, and came back up to everybody’s smiles and applause.
The ‘ea was particularly impressed with how broad the smiles were of everybody stepping back onto the beach. With the water still streaming from them, their grins seems to add new sunbeams to the day. The ‘ea, in fact, couldn’t help smiling as well.
Or at least trying to. An ‘ea’s mouth, sad to say, isn’t built to change expression.
So the ‘ea decided to become a Christian.
How to do it, though, remained a puzzle for her. Clearly Christians were baptized, but the ‘ea observed that she’d been baptized nearly all her life, having spent all but a few moments surrounded by ocean water. She didn’t think it would work well to go live on the shore. Her flippers moved her gracefully through the currents, but she’d done enough sunning on the beach to know they were decidedly awkward on land.
The people didn’t help, and I can’t really blame them. They hadn’t thought at all about the problems of a sea creature who’d overheard them – in fact, they didn’t know she’d been listening. So they left her with an awkward question:
“How do I stop being baptized?”
She stayed near the beach for a few days, hoping the people would come back, but even when they did she didn’t overhear the answer to her question. So she decided to go find an older, wiser ‘ea. Perhaps one of them would know.
It took a little while, but she found one, and she described the scene on the beach, the words of love, the entry into the water, the smiles, and the steps of a new life on the land.
“I want to be a Christian,” she told the older ‘ea. “How do I stop being baptized?”
The older ‘ea thought about it. He turned lazily about in the rollers as he did. After a meditative spiral crowned with a gentle loop and a slow roll, he came back and said:
“I’m not sure you do stop being baptized.”
Even without a face that moved much, her confusion must have been evident, because he went on.
“I think God’s love surrounds you all the time,” the older ‘ea told her. “In fact, the ocean bears you up just as God’s love carries you along. Even those humans, once they’re out of the water, dry, and on land, are still surrounded by God’s love. They’re being held up and they’re swimming in an ocean that they can’t feel with their senses, but they know it’s there.
“Isn’t it lovely to be an ‘ea, a sea turtle, where you always feel God’s love right on your skin?”
“I also think the ocean – of water or of God’s love or both – can carry you places where you can share awareness of that love with others. As you did today with me.”
The younger ‘ea watched him slowly roll through the ocean of God’s love, and said, “As you did today with me, too.”
If you find yourself wondering why I’m trying to capture what was a very visual worship experience this morning on text, well, I’m ahead of you. What made it work was the real interaction with the participants, some of them children, some of them adults. I’m not going to attempt to quote any of their contributions here, but instead indicate them by my responses.
Wish me luck.
All right. For the story today, I need some help. I need some folks with energetic feet this morning (I realize this is a rough day to ask for that). But come on down now. Right here. Join me.
No, don’t sit down. We’re moving about today. That’s why you need your energetic feet.
OK. We are now the magi, the wise men who went to bring gifts to the newborn Jesus. So. We’ve read the stars in the sky, and we know that there’s a new king that’s been born in Israel. But… Where do we go? The stars aren’t telling us that much.
Where can we go to find a newborn king?
The North Pole? Well, yes, I suppose so, but that’s awfully far and I doubt we’ll find a King of Israel there.
Well, where do you usually find a newborn King?
That’s right, in the palace in the capital. So we’ll go to Jerusalem!
Follow me up the aisle. Here we go. Now we cut through this pew here, and then up that way. Some of these valleys get pretty narrow.
All right. We made it. Now, can I get somebody to be King Herod? We’ve got to ask him. Great. Thank you.
So, King Herod, where do we find the newborn King?
Perfect. That shrug was absolutely perfect. Folks, this is exactly the shrug that King Herod used when the magi came to visit, because he didn’t know, either. He had to ask.
And the person to ask would be a religious professional. Hm. Are there any religious professionals in the house?
Well, yes, we can ask the Chair of the Board of Deacons, but I did have somebody else in mind.
Me? Why, yes, I am a religious professional. And so, King Herod, I tell you that the Messiah is to be born in Bethlehem of Judea.
Oh, you’d like me to tell the magi that? Now that’s delegation for you!
All right, magi, now we’re off to Bethlehem. Which is down this aisle, and between these pews, and gets a little rocky when we get back up to the front of the church. Everybody here? Great!
Who brought the gifts?
You’ve got one? What did you bring? Spices? Hey, that’s cool. You’re right, they are worth their weight in gold.
Say, gold. What a good idea. Did anyone bring any gold? Wonderful! All right, we’ll leave the gifts here. And it’s time to go home. But… wait.
Now we need somebody to be an angel in a dream. Great, we’ve got you. What’s your message to us?
Not to return to Herod? Because he’s going to do this baby in? Right. Back home by another road.
Now we’re switching roles. We’re still in Bethlehem, but we’re no longer the magi. We’re the Holy Family – granted, a rather bigger Holy Family than three, but that’s great, the more the merrier. And we need our messenger angel to come in a dream again.
What’s that you say, messenger angel? King Herod is after us, and we should go to Egypt?
Oh, you don’t want to go to Egypt? It doesn’t sound safe there, huh? Well, I have to agree with you. But still. We’ve got two options: stay here with King Herod, or go to Egypt. So which is it: Herod or Egypt?
Right. Egypt it is.
So. Up this aisle, and cut across, and down the other way, and across again, and here we are in Egypt.
Yes, I know it looks a lot like Bethlehem.
All right. So, we’ll spend some time here, and watch the baby grow – wow, look at how big he is! – and we’ve got some news that King Herod has died. We can go back home! Joseph’s got family in Bethlehem, so we could go there.
Except that… Herod’s son Archelaus isn’t any better than his father. We’re not going to be safe.
OK. Scratch Bethlehem. Where else can we go?
Nazareth, you say? Well, why not?
With another trip up and down the aisles and between the pews, we’re safely in Nazareth, and Jesus will be safe here.
And it should feel rather like home, since it looks so much like Bethlehem, and, for that matter, Egypt. And like Church of the Holy Cross in Hilo.
I thank you so much for coming up and helping. I hope it’s given you a sense, if not of how far everybody traveled, at least of some of the difficulties they faced, and the roads they followed. I hope you’ll all travel your roads with God’s help all along the way.
One final note: the lay leader observed that reading the Matthew 2 text after this “story” was a tad anticlimactic.
Let’s face it, the difference between the Old Year and the New Year is pretty arbitrary. The calendar doesn’t align well to any particular astronomical phenomenon (why isn’t it on the solstice, anyway?) or historical reference of great note. One may well ask why observe it now as, say, on March 1st, or September 8th, or April 31st (“Eric, there is no April 31st.” “As long as we’re fiddling with the beginning of the year, why stop with that?”).
And one will not get a very useful answer.
But as I wrote in a Pastor’s Cornercolumn that hasn’t been published yet, touchstone points are valuable things. People who worship regularly have developed a habit that, potentially, offers them a valuable reflection point every week. Birthdays and anniversaries alike provide additional moments to look back and consider. National and cultural holidays can do the same.
I told a few family members, friends, and colleagues, and they predictably shared the news a bit further. One friend shocked me by asking if I was going to Hawai’i before it was public. It turned out that he’d visited the Holy Cross website and found the material about their upcoming vote.
Other friends, well, they just got the word. The photo above is of me and my friend Kim Hoare, Executive Director of the Carpenter’s Boat Shop in Maine. She was visiting Connecticut for a few days between Christmas and New Year’s, and knowing it might be the last opportunity to see her for some time, I made a point of getting together. I’d also planned to give her the news.
Well, she already knew. But it was the beginning of many farewells, farewells that dominated (what I experienced as) the winter of 2016.
I tried hard not to “leave in place,” as happens so often in transitions, and found that while I could succeed to some degree, I also had to let more and more things go as those who would follow me in that work needed to take the lead. Still, I made podcasts and took photos right up until the end – I spent my last official day with the Connecticut Conference taking photographs at the March Super Saturday.
The Conference’s farewell service had me laughing and smiling and in tears. So many people expressed so much love for me – so many people revealed that they understood the things that have been important to me and which I’ve tried so hard to do – so many people offered their best wishes and their prayers. I confess I still go back and watch the video of that service sometimes.
Moving from Portland was somewhat bitter, and mostly sweet. I don’t miss that apartment, which had never been a home to me despite living there for over ten years. However jarring it was to see the floors cleared of everything and the hatrack empty (and it was jarring), it was more exciting to see the boxes loaded into the container as it made it trip across the continent and then halfway across the ocean.
Last karoake nights, last collections of photos, last hugs to friends and colleagues as their near neighbor… and then I was off. I had hoped to make something of a “Grand Tour,” visiting friends in three or four cities across the country as I made my way to Hilo, but it just didn’t come together. I ended up making one “side trip” to spend a few days in Orlando, Florida, with my good friends Leigh and Sue. Leigh and I have known each other since our days at Andover Newton Theological School, and she was a tender and gracious host as I caught my breath before beginning my ministry in Hilo.
Church of the Holy Cross members welcome Eric Anderson to Hilo.
The photo of my arrival at Hilo International Airport, greeted by many church members, rapidly became the most “liked” photo I’d ever posted to Facebook. I came to the office the very next morning – late. The hours are different in Hawai’i – work days run from 8:30 to 4:30, not 9 to 5. Well, I learned that fast. I’ve also started to learn about the people, and about the community, and about the communities of the Big Island, and about the communities of Hawai’i.
There’s a lot to learn. The people who live here come from many different cultures, many of which I know little about. There are differences not just between people of varying heritages, but also between the different islands (and, heaven help us, between sections of the same island – ask someone from the Windward Side of O’ahu about Honolulu and you’ll get an earful). The accents are different, the music is new.
Just as an indicator, Church of the Holy Cross also provides time and space to six other worshiping communities speaking six different languages and coming from two faith traditions. That doesn’t count Church of the Holy Cross itself!
I’ve been re-learning the joys and sorrows of pastoral ministry. The people are wonderful, simply wonderful, and that’s the root of the joys. It’s also the root of the sorrows. I’ve officiated at nine funerals since I arrived, and although some were for people peripherally connected with the church, others were not. The most recent funeral was for the woman who greeted me so warmly on my first day in the office, and made sure that I pronounced her name correctly. She is only one of the ones I miss terribly despite having known them such a short time.
That is, of course, the downside of this move, because there are others far away whom I miss terribly. Parishioners have graciously invited me to share in their Thanksgiving, Christmas, and (tonight) New Year’s celebrations with them. Those have been wonderful occasions. There are still faces I long to see at those times, and it will be some time yet before I can see them again.
I’ve been fortunate, however, to have some visitors. My daughter Rebekah spent nearly a month with me last summer, and we were able to celebrate her 21st birthday together with her uncle (my brother) Christopher who came out that week. In September, as the Hawai’i Island Association installed me, my dear friend and singing partner Paul Bryant-Smith came out to charge me and to get a quick sense of the island. We literally drove all the way around in a day.
In addition to installing me as pastor, Church of the Holy Cross celebrated its 125th anniversary this year. That meant, among other things, that I wrote a song for the occasion, which Hawai’i Conference Minister Charles Buck managed to record on this video:
Did I mention that I’ve been learning ukulele?
I’ll say this for pastoral ministry: it’s better suited to songwriting than Conference communications work! I’ve written far more this year than I have for some time – perhaps ever. It’s not all great, I’ll be the first to admit, and I’m a little stymied to find recording time (and keeping traffic noise out of the studio). But it’s happening.
A brief weekly video is happening, too, for those who miss my face or voice. The series is called, “What I’m Thinking,” and it comes out on Mondays on my YouTube channel (and embedded in the Church of the Holy Cross website).
I’ve also been exploring and appreciating this beautiful place which is now my home. I keep coming back to the Kilauea Crater with its power and stark beauty. Lava entering the sea means that this island is bigger today than it was when I arrived, and it will be bigger tomorrow than it is today. There are waterfalls and rainbows, waves and caverns, blossoms and birds which regularly astonish me.
And there are the people whom I’ve been called to serve. I’m very fortunate to be among them, and I hope that I’ll be a blessing to them in the days and years to come.
May you all have a New Year of wisdom, insight, inspiration, determination, and abundant blessing.
When Christmas falls on Sunday, it’s not just any service. It’s not just any Sunday service, and it’s also not just any Christmas service. Though every worship experience should connect with the heart and soul, Christmas truly demands it, and it also demands that we step outside the “usual” – since God did precisely that by coming to Earth in Jesus.
Thus this song, which was the pastoral prayer this morning. Mele Kalikimaka – Merry Christmas!
[Chorus]
Come to us, Christ Child
With the wailings of a newborn
Interrupt our sleep with an infant’s shrill demands.
Let us clothe your flailing arms with hope for all tomorrows.
Let us feed your hungers for deep peace around the world.
Let our arms enfold with the tender love of mother.
Let us sing a lullaby of joy
As our Christmas prayer:
As our Christmas prayer.
Your family fled from Herod
So we pray for refugees
May the ones oppressed by rage and fear
Soon shout that they are free.
You were given gifts by magi
So we pray we might be wise.
When we turn away from suffering
Redirect our eyes.
[Chorus]
As you grew from child to teacher
So we pray for all to learn
The depth of your compassion
And the love for which we yearn.
From your first hours in the manger
To your triumph over the grave,
Give us hope and confidence
You were born on Earth to save!
[Chorus]
Let us sing a lullaby of joy
As our Christmas prayer,
As our Christmas prayer,
As our Christmas prayer
We have heard the stories. We have sung the songs. We have lit the candles. We have shared Christmas greetings. We have shared Christmas treats.
Now comes the silence which comes so rarely in this busy technological world. Gradually, the excited children will succumb to the fatigue excitement brings. The wide-eyed stares of anticipation will relax into dreams, whether there is snow outside to cushion the anticipated sleigh or not. Ears tuned to the clatter of reindeer will be disappointed, once again, to find that the miracle happened while they slumbered and could not warn their owners that the moment had arrived.
Two thousand years ago, there must have been such a moment. I doubt it lasted long, babies being babies, but there must have been a moment when the exhausted newly-christened mother dreamed, and when the wondering father slumbered, and when the infant made only the soft snuffling sounds that reassure anxious parents that their child breathes.
In that moment, God could appreciate the miracle new-wrought in Bethlehem, and make whatever cosmic sound we imitate with a contented sigh. The miracle new-wrought, alive, and growing.
What should I do on Inauguration Day?
This address in honor of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Day was presented on January 16, 2017, at Ho’oheau Park in Hilo, Hawai’i. I am tremendously grateful to have been invited to participate in the program.
Well, last week I told you a story about an ‘ea, a hawksbill sea turtle. So, you know what this week’s story is going to be about, right?
If you find yourself wondering why I’m trying to capture what was a very visual worship experience this morning on text, well, I’m ahead of you. What made it work was the real interaction with the participants, some of them children, some of them adults. I’m not going to attempt to quote any of their contributions here, but instead indicate them by my responses.
When Christmas falls on Sunday, it’s not just any service. It’s not just any Sunday service, and it’s also not just any Christmas service. Though every worship experience should connect with the heart and soul, Christmas truly demands it, and it also demands that we step outside the “usual” – since God did precisely that by coming to Earth in Jesus.
ordainedgeek 