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.
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.
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.
Today marks the 75th anniversary of the Japanese air and sea attack on the United States at its bases around Pearl Harbor. The day continues to fulfill President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s prophecy that it will “live in infamy” to Americans, and indeed to others around the world. Over 2,400 Americans died in the one-sided two hour battle, the first of some 419,000 who would perish before the war ended four years later.
Hundreds of survivors attended today’s observance at Pearl Harbor, according to news accounts. They honored the friends they lost seventy-five years ago for the dedication and valor they showed on the last day of their lives. War calls upon human beings to offer all they have to give – their talents, their freedom, and their very lives – on behalf of others. They offer it all for their nation, they offer it all for their families, and they offer it all for those beside them.
There is a greatness in that. It calls for the best.
Here in Hawai’i, however, I find it easier to see the price of that greatness. The commitment and the dedication and the valor (which can be found on both sides of the battle) preserve a nation, but also imperil its values. Martial law was imposed on the Territory of Hawai’i within hours, and would not be lifted until 1944. American citizens were detained and imprisoned without criminal charge or conviction. Military courts suspended the writ of habeaus corpus. In fear for their liberty, people buried or burned possessions that linked them to Japan: records, photographs, mementos.
The infamy of Pearl Harbor has company, lots of company: The Bataan Death March. The horrors of Germany’s invasion of the Soviet Union. The firebombing of London. The abduction and rape of thousands of women by Japanese soldiers. The murders of millions of military prisoners, gay men, Romani, and Jews in German death camps.
Lest we assume a virtue that is unwarranted, however, the infamy of Pearl Harbor has plenty of Allied company: The savage campaign on the Eastern Front. The firestorm of Dresden. More firestorms in too many Japanese cities to list. The atomic bombs of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Over 60 million people died in the fires of World War II.
We may, and should, honor the best. We dare not ignore the worst.
As 94-year-old World War II veteran Kenzo Kanemoto told Hawai’i News Now, “If you win, you still lose a lot.”
Let Pearl Harbor Day be one we honor for its summons to peace, for its warnings of the costs of war. Let it stand for the infamy of war itself, and its crushing weight upon humanity. Let it shine as a beacon for peace.
Last Friday was Veterans’ Day in the United States, which is a day off for those of us who work for Church of the Holy Cross UCC in Hilo, Hawai’i. I wasn’t relaxing on a beach, however (which isn’t where I relax in any case). I was presiding at a funeral.
The funeral of a veteran. A different kind of veteran.
On Veterans’ Day we honor those who serve the country and defend it from war, “who stand between their loved homes and the war’s desolation” (Francis Scott Key). And as Abraham Lincoln observed at Gettysburg, it is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. Yet there are others who endure the impact of the world’s and the nation’s conflict, and receive no honors, no recognition, no holy day. Evelyn was one of these.
Evelyn was a native-born American citizen interned by the United States Government during World War II.
Between 110,000 and 120,000 people whose parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents had been born in Japan, 62% of them U.S. citizens, were ordered from their homes in Pacific coastal states (though not Hawai’i, where it was simply impractical) and housed in camps from Louisiana to California. Evelyn, a college-age young woman, observed that disabled children received no schooling at the Tule Lake, California, camp where her family was sent. So she taught them.
Thinking about Evelyn led me to think about so many others who endure the stresses of war. Gold Star families endure terrible losses in each conflict. Parents, siblings, spouses, and children live each day with anxiety for those they love who go in harm’s way. Support people, some who wear the uniform and some who do not, labor to support those who return. Some they treat for wounds. Some they assuage the psyche. Some they help find housing, or to resume interrupted careers. Some they aid to understand the now-unfamiliar ways of civilian life.
There are other veterans, too. These are the people who live where the war occurs, where if somebody had stood between their homes and the war’s desolation, their efforts failed and desolation came. These are the ones we see bloodied in films and photographs from Syria. These are the ones who come weeping for their dead to shuttered government houses. These are the ones swimming desperately to shore from overcrowded boats, and mourning their drowned children who lie silently on the beach.
In many conflicts, more civilians die than soldiers. They die from bullets and grenades that come their way, they die from bombs and shells, and they die from malnutrition and disease. The catastrophe we call World War II claimed the lives of 21 to 25 million people in uniform. It slew 50 to 55 million civilians, including 19 to 28 million who died from contagion or hunger.
Today, I honor these civilian veterans: the refugees, the interned, the families, the supporters, and those who pray that the shooting and shelling around them will just stop.
Today I honor them, and for their sake, I pray that God’s children will learn the ways of peace, and make no new civilian veterans to endure the sorrows of war.
The voters have spoken. They have chosen. They have selected the next President of the United States.
I have been cautious in my own political advocacy, at least about publicly supporting candidates. In the light of this day, with a President-elect who has espoused policies I condemn, I pledge here and now to advocate for what I believe to be good, and just, and right, and to resist what is evil, and oppressive, and wrong.
I expect that I will find a good deal to say over the next few years.
The President-elect has called publicly for a ban on Muslims entering the United States. Amidst the horrors perpetrated by the Islamic State, I understand the fear. I understand it, but I will not be governed by it. Nearly a quarter of the world’s population, 1.6 billion people, lives and worships peacefully guided by the Muslim faith. I will resist an America that excludes or oppresses people because of their religion. I will do it for Muslim, I will do it for Jews, I will do it for Buddhists, I will do it for Christians, I will do it for those who espouse no faith.
No religious tests. Ever.
The President-elect has pledged to repeal the Affordable Care Act. He has announced no replacement plan. His party has sketched a plan, but it remains nebulous.
I have family members and friends who, without the ACA’s protections against denial of coverage, could become uninsurable because of pre-existing conditions. They, more than any, will have need of health care. They are now at much higher risk of losing access to it.
Health care should serve the health of our nation’s citizens, and not the financial interests of a few of its citizens.
The President-elect has pledged to appoint officials who will actively work to end the marriages of people I know and love. He would tell them that they are secondary citizens in the society, unworthy of full participation.
I say that love between people deserves the acclamation and support of its society. Commitment is hard. Love is hard. Family is hard. Making it harder is a rank injustice.
Marriage equality must remain the law of the land.
The President-elect has declared that global climate change is a myth perpetrated by a foreign nation. He defies the evidence of scientists from around the planet. People already suffer from sea level rise. It will get worse even if we make significant changes now. It will get much worse if we make no change at all – and much, much worse if we accelerate the transfer of carbon from earth to atmosphere.
We must change our ways.
I could go on. I should go on. And in the days ahead, I will go on. Because health care is important. Because #BlackLivesMatter. Because human dignity is worth defending. Because the seas rise.
For now, though, I return to the day of my ordination, when I asked to have these words read:
‘Now the word of the Lord came to me saying, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.” Then I said, “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” But the Lord said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’; for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you, Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you, says the Lord.” Then the Lord put out his hand and touched my mouth; and the Lord said to me, “Now I have put my words in your mouth. See, today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant.”’ (Jeremiah 1:4-10)
I was young, then, and that was part of what resonated with me. I admired the fierceness of the prophet, his willingness to challenge the powers of his time, and his insistence that the king’s faithlessness, follies, and faults would lead to national disaster. I did not think that I would be called to echo him.
I fear, however, that I shall have to do just that, and warn against the senselessness and sin of excluding some of our citizens from full participation in our society. I fear that I will have to warn against the senselessness and sin of favoring the powerful over the marginalized. I fear that I will have to warn against the senselessness and sin of proclaiming greatness in the absence of goodness.
I fear that, more often than not in these coming days, I will fail.
In company with many of my fellow citizens, I’ve felt a lot of sorrow this week, and a burden on my soul. The deaths of Alton Sterling, then Philandro Castile, then Lorne Ahrens, Michael Krol, Michael Smith, Brent Thompson, and Patrick Zamarripa, came as a relentless beat of violence. They laid bare once again how incomplete is America’s effort to eradicate racism from its society, and how overly ready we are to turn to force – deadly force – when fear and rage drive us.
On Saturday, I took the road south from Hilo to another UCC church, Kalapana Mauna Kea First Congregational Church, as they were celebrating their 193rd anniversary and holding a Ho ‘Ike, a musical celebration including musicians from a number of congregations around the island and a 90-person group of young people doing service projects at local churches across Hawai’i.
As I was watching liturgical hula for the first time (video below), I felt my soul rise. It was exactly what I needed.
Later on, I joined the kahu (pastors) and other church leaders in the house for an impromptu rendition of a Hawaiian song. Well, I’ve only been here three months, my Hawaiian can be generously described as minimal, and I simply didn’t grow up with the songs – but when you don’t know the melody, you can harmonize, and when you don’t know the words, you do your best with the vowels as they come along.
So thank you, Kalapana Mauna Kea, Kahu Mike Warren, and all the leadership and musicians of the day that made it so special. I’ve been richly blessed. May God bless you even more.
You don’t get to kill someone because they’re different. God made LGBTQ folks. Muslim folks. Black folks. Brown folks. You don’t get to kill them because of any of that.
You don’t get to kill people because you’re angry, or scared, or offended, or embarrassed. You don’t get to kill them out of resentment or a sense of betrayal. You don’t get to kill them out of privilege or pride. You don’t get to kill them.
When the sword flashed in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus said, “Enough of this.”
Two thousand years and millions of dead later, haven’t we had enough?
What should I do on Inauguration Day?
Today marks the 75th anniversary of the Japanese air and sea attack on the United States at its bases around Pearl Harbor. The day continues to fulfill President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s prophecy that it will “live in infamy” to Americans, and indeed to others around the world. Over 2,400 Americans died in the one-sided two hour battle, the first of some 419,000 who would perish before the war ended four years later.
ordainedgeek 