Stories

Story: Who Should Hear?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 11, 2023

Hosea 5:15-6:6
Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

The red-billed leiothrix, like myna and the mejiro, is a bird that’s a relative newcomer to Hawai’i Island. They’ve been here for a little over a hundred years.

They can be pretty cheerful singers, on the whole, with a nice lilting chirp. They’re better known on Hawai’i Island for what they sound like when they’re alarmed, though. It’s a loud and harsh rapidly repeated sound that almost sounds like some sticks being rubbed together. If you’re walking about in the forests or the kipukas up the mountains, you’re likely to hear it, because they tend to make it when humans are about.

A grandfather was instructing his grandchildren in making the call (I can’t imitate it, I’m afraid). After he’d taught them how it was done, he turned to the times to make the sound.

“You make it when there’s an i’o about, or a pueo,” he said. “And don’t forget to make it when there’s a human around. We always want to let people know about those.”

The grandchicks wanted to know what a human was like, so after explaining that it was a big flightless bird with very peculiar wings, grandfather taught them to make the call again.

“Who should hear this sound?” one of the chicks asked her grandfather.

“What do you mean, who should hear this sound?” he asked.

“Well, I thought this would be just a leiothrix sound,” she said. “Mynas probably aren’t interested, are they? Other birds might not understand.

“And if some birds do understand,” she continued, “it might not be so good for us.”

“What do you mean?” asked grandfather quietly.

“If I see an i’o and make the sound,” she said, “then all the birds will hide. If I’m not as good or as quick at hiding as they are, the i’o might try for me, wouldn’t it? If some other birds are exposed, then we leiothrixes will be better off.”

Grandfather stayed quiet for a long time. Then he sighed.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. “If we don’t alert other birds to the i’o or the human, we’ll be safer when we see the danger first. But what if the ‘apapane sees the pueo first? Or the ‘akepa? Or the mejiro? What if they alert only their own kind, and not us? What happens then?”

Now the chicks were silent, until the one who’d asked the question said, “Nothing good.”

“Nothing good,” said grandfather. “We warn everybody so that everybody will warn us.”

“I see,” said the chick who’d asked, and her brothers and sisters nodded, too.

“How loud do we make the warning sound?” asked grandfather.

“As loud as we can!” said the chicks.

“Who should hear?” asked grandfather.

“Everyone!”

So when you’re walking the kipukas and the forests on the mauna, you’ll hear the leiothrixes, warning everyone that you’re near.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell these stories from my… not quite reliable memory of the text I’ve written. Differences are inevitable – and regular.

Photo of a red-billed leiothrix by Raman Kumar – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=53968581.

Better than Appears

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

June 4, 2023

Genesis 1:1-2:4a
2 Corinthians 13:11-13

The young ‘amakihi had had a bad morning. First there was the big wind that had woken him, first by howling in his ears, then by twisting the branch he was perched on in a very odd way, third by pitching him off the branch into the air, and finally by whirling him along for a way, struggling to get himself upright and under controlled flight.

He’d managed it, but he was still breathing hard when he clutched the twigs of another ohi’a tree tossing in the breeze. It soon settled down, though – that had been a big puff of wind, but just one – when things got exciting again. His eyes caught movement overhead and he took to his wings once more, this time diving further down into the forest canopy to escape the i’o that had just broken from its spotting circle toward a hunting dive. His heart was beating wildly again when he found a space within the branches the i’o couldn’t reach. The i’o flew off to hunt somewhere else.

His breath was just settling to normal when suddenly there was an i’iwi whistling at him. The tree he’d perched in also contained the i’iwi’s nest, and she wasn’t about to put up with an ‘amakihi near her nest. She’d stayed quiet while the hawk was near, but after that. Well. Lots of whistles.

He flew off to another tree, blessedly free of i’iwi, i’o, or high winds, and reflected on his lousy morning. “This is a rotten world,” he said aloud.

“You think so?” said a voice. He looked up. Just to crown his bad morning, just when he’d said something she was bound to criticize, there was his mother.

“If you’d had the morning I’ve had,” he couldn’t help saying, “you’d agree. The world is rotten.”

“Is it?” she said, and beckoned him to follow. They flew over to a great field of lava rock, dark grey and hard and heating up in the morning sun.

“Right! Just like this! Hard and colorless and hot,” he told his mother, who said: “Look again.”

This time when he looked he saw the water droplets left by a rain shower, shining like stars in a grey sky, but now on earth rather than above. He looked again and saw, in the cracked rock, water soaking into small bits of sand. Some of those bits of sand had green things growing in them, some of them had fern shoots, some had leaves waving above. There was ohi’a growing here and there from those crevasses: shoots, stems, bushes, even small trees. His mother led the way down to one young tree in full blossom. They landed amidst the perfume of its nectar.

“The world isn’t so bad,” he said when she gave him a look. ‘Amakihi mothers have a Look, you know, much as many human mothers do.

“Taste,” she said, and even though he knew what he’d taste, he did.

He gave his mother an ‘amakihi smile. She gave him one back.

“The world,” he said, “is good.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell these stories from my memory of what I’ve written. And, well, my notion of how they might be improved in the telling.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Wind

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 6 Comments

May 28, 2023

Numbers 11:24-30
Acts 2:1-21

I want to talk to you about the wind.

The wind made its way across the ocean. In the distance it could see the green slopes of Hawai’i Island and the great mountains rising. As it swept over the sea, it took water vapor that the sun had raised from the waters and pushed it ahead as growing clouds. As the clouds passed over Hilo, they showered the earth with rain.

The wind moved on, and now the clouds dispersed on the shoulders of the mountains, and the sun poured down in shimmering waves. The wind blew through the town and over the fields, and it cooled the stifling heat. As it did, it blew hard enough to pluck hats from heads and turn umbrellas inside out before they could be closed.

A nene near seaside turned into the wind and spread her wings. The flowing air began to lift her even before she swept them down in a powerful stroke. The wind helped carry her aloft until she turned to fly inland.

Not just birds, but seeds flew on the wind, so that new plants would grow.

In places the wind eased things, but in places I have to admit that the wind broke things. Nails in a roof popped loose. An old tree tumbled to the ground, where its trunk would nourish new trees yet to grow there. A sudden gust scattered a myna’s nest over the ground, and the parents-to-be screeched and started building again.

The flowing wind swept over the summit of Kilauea, where fumes rise from the volcano’s liquid heart beneath. It carried the sulfur and tiny flecks of glassy ash further along the island, dispersing them as it went. Oh, they smelled it and they frowned in Kona!

But when the sun set, those bits of glassy ash caught the light and glowed in red and orange and gold. The people and the creatures and the birds gazed at it with satisfaction. “It’s a Kona sunset,” they said.

The wind laughed to hear them say it, for the Kona sunset depends on the Kilauea wind.

And the wind blew on, far over the Pacific Ocean to lands far distant from our shores, blowing where it will.

It’s an old, old thing to compare the Holy Spirit of God to the winds that blow across our planet. In the ancient languages of the Bible, and also in Hawaiian (but not in English) the words for “wind,” “breath,” and “spirit” are the same: Ruach. Pneuma. Ha. Like the winds of earth, the Holy Spirit brings the things of life, for the spirit as well as the body. Like the wind beneath the wings of the birds, the Holy Spirit can lift us up. Like the wind that brings down trees, the Holy Spirit will shake our ideas and assumptions and make us consider new things. Like the wind that creates a Kona sunset, the Holy Spirit creates, helps us create, and helps us appreciate, beauty.

The Holy Spirit is God’s gift to the world, to the Church of Jesus, and most of all, to you.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

On Sunday I tell the story from memory of the story I’ve written – and I rarely strive to remember it word for word. The differences are part of the creative process – or so I tell myself.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: Eyes on Where You’re Going

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

May 21, 2023

Acts 1:6-14
John 17:1-11

I was a little sad when I realized this week that, because of our Sunday School recognition time, I wouldn’t be telling a story. I’m told that the young people and the people who’ve been young people quite a long time – you know, those young people – appreciate those stories. So I’m sorry that there’s no story today.

Once upon a time there was a young ‘apapane who was struggling with flying.

So, OK, I wasn’t sorry about there not being a story for very long.

This young ‘apapane’s problem was not, in fact, flying. He had mastered all the tricky business of holding his wings just so, and moving them down just so, and moving them back up just so, so that he moved forward through the air without diving or climbing or veering off to the left or slanting off to the right. Straight and level – it was so pretty to watch.

It was also, to some extent, the problem. Straight and level works just fine when you’re above the treetops or there’s short trees or bushes or grasses beneath you. When you’re in the trees, though, straight and level is a recipe for straight into a painful encounter with a tree branch.

He could turn just fine, and go up and down. Somewhere along the line, however, someone told him to fix his eyes right ahead, and not to look to either side. “Keep your eyes on where you’re going,” they said, and that’s what he did. It was kind of an accomplishment, actually, because an ‘apapane’s eyes are on the sides of the head, so they’re always looking all around. But he learned to focus, and he kept his focus, and it worked just fine until he whacked a wing on a cluster of leaves to one side, or smacked his feet against blossoms just below, or clocked his head against a tree branch that was just out of the tiny circle where he’d been looking.

He struggled with flying, and it was a painful struggle.

One evening as he was nursing a headache his grandmother asked him what he thought he was doing. “I’m keeping my eyes on what’s ahead of me,” he said.

“Then why do you keep flying into things?” she asked.

“Because they’re off to one side,” he said.

I will spare you the long lecture she gave him about the need to pay attention to more than what’s just ahead of you. Although maybe I shouldn’t – because you and I, we have to pay attention to more than just what’s right in front of us, too, don’t we? There’s the things that are coming from one side or the other. If we keep our eyes on our footsteps we’ll bonk our heads on what’s above. If we think only about what’s just in front of us, how can we ever be ready for what’s coming farther along?

The long lecture from his grandmother stung, I admit. But not as much as his head and his wings and his feet hurt from all those collisions. He learned to look ahead, and to the side, and up and down, and beyond.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

This story was told from a copy of the text above, so the usual warnings about differences due to memory don’t apply. Instead, there are differences because there are differences.

Photo of two ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Unexpected Peacemaker

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 14, 2023

Acts 17:22-31
John 14:15-21

A peaceful morning on a Hawaiian beach was… less than peaceful. There were birds screeching – at least two birds and birds of different kinds screeching. There was also a sound that was harder to identify because it’s so rarely heard. A nearby cat decided she had to find out what was causing all the ruckus.

Besides, it was interrupting her first nap of the day. She’d really prefer that it stopped.

The loudest voice was, predictably, a myna. The other bird voice turned out to be a koa’e kea, and it was nearly as loud as the myna. The third voice wasn’t a bird at all. It was a honu, and although she wasn’t as loud as the two birds, she put plenty of passion into her part of the argument. Because it was a three way full scale all out argument.

The cat really wanted them to stop. She briefly considered a hunting charge, which would certainly drive off the myna and might startle the koa’e kea into flying away. She decided not to, though. It would just add more chaos to a chaotic morning.

“What,” she asked, “are you three arguing about?”

“They do it all wrong!” said the myna, and was promptly echoed by the other two.

“They do it all wrong!” they shouted in chorus.

“They do what all wrong?” asked the cat, who really wanted to bury her head in the sand and take her early morning nap rather than ask about an argument she didn’t care about.

“Eggs!” “Chicks!” “Hatchlings!”

“Children!” all three said at once.

“This one doesn’t even build a nest!” shrieked the myna, indicating the koa’e kea. “She just lays her egg on any old shelf in the rock.”

“That one buries her eggs in the sand!” shouted the koa’e kea, “and goes away and doesn’t take care of them!”

“The mynas build their nests in a tree!” rumbled the honu. “Anybody could find those eggs and break them!”

The three continued to explain – well, argue – that their method for laying eggs and raising children was the only right way to do it, and how the others’ failure to do it that was indicated a complete lack of good sense and proper parental responsibility. The cat, who didn’t lay eggs at all, was getting a headache.

“Can we find some common ground?” she said.

“Like what?” they demanded.

“Like the common ground of this island. You all lay your eggs on this island, even if they are in different places in different ways.”

They had to agree that was true.

“And do you get children who thrive?” asked the cat.

“I do.” “Of course I do!” “I’ve got over a hundred children swimming in the ocean,” said the honu. The myna and the koa’e kea looked startled.

“And do you do the very best you can to make your eggs and your children safe, even if those ways are different?” asked the cat, and watched each head nod, and a thoughtful look come into each pair of mothers’ eyes.

“Then I think you’ve got some common ground,” said the cat.

“I guess we do,” said the myna. “More than I thought,” said the koa’e kea.

“Good,” said the cat. “Talk to one another. Maybe you’ll find more common ground. Maybe you’ll learn something from each other. Keep talking.”

“Quietly,” she added as she turned away to resume her early morning nap.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell these stories from memory of the text I’d prepared (which you’ve just read). My memory isn’t that good and my delight in improvising is so great that the story as told may be rather different from the story as prepared.

Photos of a myna (left), koa’e kea or white-tailed tropicbird (upper right), and a honu or green sea turtle (lower right) by Eric Anderson.

Story: Show Me the Spiders

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 7, 2023

Acts 7:55-60
John 14:1-14

The ‘elepaio was hungry. He had been up and down, back and forth, and side to side on his favorite koa tree. He’d found a caterpillar, a few smallish bugs, and no spiders at all. This was unusual. His favorite tree was normally a favorite place for caterpillars, bugs, and spiders as well. On this day, however, they’d mostly decided to go someplace else.

He was hungry.

He searched the tree once more from top to bottom and all the way to the ends of its long branches. He found a couple more bugs, but no spiders at all. He was particularly fond of spiders, at least he was on this day when he couldn’t find any. He perched on a branch and sang a short, sad, “I’m hungry,” kind of song.

“What’s wrong?” came a voice from a neighboring tree. It was a friend of his, another ‘elepaio, and she seemed concerned.

“I’m hungry,” he complained, “and all I’ve found are a few bugs, one caterpillar, and no spiders at all.”

His friend was puzzled. She was not hungry. She’d been foraging in a couple of ohi’a trees all morning and had quite a nice breakfast from them.

“How strange,” she said. “I’ve been having a nice breakfast, myself.”

“I’m not sure I believe you,” he said. “It’s been such a miserable morning.”

Fortunately his friend decided not to be insulted. “Where have you been looking?” she asked. “Perhaps you’ve just been unlucky.”

“Right here,” he said, “here in my favorite tree.”

“Where else?” she asked.

“Where else would I look?” he said.

She was silent for a moment before she suggested, “Well, anywhere else, I would think.”

“How would I find spiders in anything but a nice koa tree?” he asked. “Why would they want to be anywhere else but this, their favorite tree?”

“There are plenty of them over here in this ohi’a tree,” she said.

“Show me the spiders,” he said, “and I’ll believe.”

For a moment his friend was offended this time – it feels bad when your friends tell you they don’t believe you. She decided to make allowances because he was hungry. Sometimes when creatures are hungry they get hangry, you know. She took a quick look around, made a hop or two to the side, and plucked something off a cluster of ohi’a leaves. Then she spread her wings and flew over to settle beside her hungry friend.

She said nothing because she had a spider in her beak. She set it down next to him. He looked at it.

“Sometimes you’ve got to look in more places than you expect,” she said.

“I guess so,” he said.

“Let’s have some breakfast together,” she said.

So they did.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

There was a problem with the lavaliere microphone at the beginning of the story. Thanks to our technical crew I switched to a working microphone after a short time.

Photo of an ‘elepaio by Bettina Arrigoni, HarmonyonPlanetEarth – Hawaii Elepaio (male) | Pu’u O’o Trail | Big Island | HI | 2015-11-06at15-07-453, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=45577718.

Story: Will the Myna Ever Learn to Share?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

April 30, 2023

Acts 2:42-47
John 10:1-10

Two humans were watching a small flock of mynas. The mynas were doing myna things, which was basically hopping around the grass looking for things to eat, finding the things to eat, and then eating them. By and large this went fine, but every once in a while one myna would hop closer to another myna, and sometimes the second myna would object, and then the first myna would object, and the result would be a lot of myna noise that was… objectionable.

The two humans shook their heads at this. One wondered, “Will the myna ever learn to share?”

They kept watching and somehow didn’t notice that when one myna objected to another myna, it wasn’t trying to steal food. It wasn’t trying to chase it away from food. It just wanted space. A little space. A little more space than you’re giving me, please. Thank you very much and would you kindly remember that for next time you…!

They squabbled about spacing. Not about feeding. Somehow the two people failed to notice that the mynas were sharing by making sure everybody had a spot to hunt for things to eat.

Eventually the humans got hungry. One had prepared a really nice lunch, with lettuce and pickles on the sandwich along with spreads and meats and cheeses. When one of the mynas managed to get a crumb later, she thought the bread was pretty special, too. With the sandwich the person had a big bottle of flavored ice tea. The mynas never learned how that tasted. The human finished every drop. Oh, and there were chips and a salad and there was chocolate for dessert. The mynas didn’t taste any of those, either.

The other human had a sandwich, but the space between the slices of bread was a lot thinner. No greenery poked out the sides. The myna consensus from trying the bread crumbs later was that it was pretty ordinary bread, rather lacking in flavor. This person drank water and had no other food than the sandwich. They finished sooner than the person with the bigger lunch, and didn’t taste any more of that than the mynas did.

Later on, the two people stopped watching the mynas for the day and got set to return home. The one with the nicer lunch got into a big, shiny car. The one with the small lunch got into a smaller car with dull paint and a few rust marks. When they drove off the small car left behind a cloud of oil-smelling smoke.

Two of the mynas looked at one another. One of them asked, “Do you think humans will ever learn to share?”

In fairness to the humans, one of them was sharing knowledge with the other – teacher to student. But still, doesn’t that question linger:

Will humans ever learn to share?

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell the stories from my memory of the text I’ve written. Sometimes memory changes things. Sometimes creativity does. To be honest, it’s hard to tell one from the other.

Photo of a common myna by Eric Anderson.

Story: Flight School

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

April 23, 2023

Acts 2:14a, 36-41
Luke 24:13-35

The myna chick was in flight school.

She’d already been to flight school, but now she was in a different flight school. The first flight school was what you think it is, and her instructors were mostly her parents, with occasional helpful contributions from random mynas near the nest – because a myna has something to say about just about anything – and not-so-helpful contributions from her sisters and brother, who also had plenty to say about her first attempts at flight but they didn’t really know any more about it than she did, and sometimes less.

They were mynas, of course, so they had something to say about it whether they knew anything or not.

She had graduated flight school, however, with flying colors. By which I mean, she could fly.

And now she was in flight school. This one, however, was not about flying. It was about fleeing. The first flight school taught her how to make her way through the air. The second flight school taught her about the things to fly away from.

There were a good number of them. The problem was that she found it all very boring. The instructors would suddenly shriek, “Cat!” and all the students would fly away. Then they’d do it again. And again. It was tiring. And boring.

When everybody was wing-weary and tired, the teachers announced a short break. The students scattered to the trees to rest.

Our myna hadn’t been settled long when some other birds also perched on nearby branches of her tree. She didn’t know much about them. There was a kolea, and a couple of finches and doves, and a yellow-billed cardinal. She was really startled, though, when a very large bird with long white wings and long legs settled near the top of the tree. Nobody else seemed to move, however, so she folded the wings she’d planned to fly away with. Her flight school lessons hadn’t moved on to birds yet.

“Startled, little one?” said a voice from above and behind her.

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve seen a bird that large before.”

“Don’t worry,” said the voice. “That’s a cattle egret. They don’t hunt mynas.”

“Are there birds that hunt mynas?” she asked.

“Certainly,” said the voice. “Not a lot, but they do enjoy a tasty bit of myna when they can get it.”

“What birds are those?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know.

“There’s the pueo,” said the voice. “They have very flat faces and big eyes, and they fly really quietly. You want to fly away from those.”

“Anything else?” asked the myna.

“Definitely,” said the voice. “Watch out for the ‘io. It’s got a sharp curved beak, large pointed talons, and big broad wings. It can spot you from high up in the sky.”

“At least it doesn’t roost in trees,” sighed the myna.

“Who says it doesn’t?” said the voice. The myna turned her head, and saw a larger bird with cream and brown feathers, bright eyes, a curved beak and sharp talons on its great feet. The finches leapt from the tree with a screech of “’Io!” followed by all the other birds – except the ‘io, who didn’t happen to be hungry.

She didn’t find flight school boring after that. She wanted to know everything about identifying the creatures around her – the ones to fly away from and the ones who wouldn’t harm her. She lived her life grateful for an ‘io who would tell her the truth.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell these stories during worship from my memory of the story as written (that’s the text you’ve just read). My memory is… not photographic.

I did take the photo of the ‘io at the top of the page.

Story: Unconvinced

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

April 16, 2023

Acts 2:14a, 22-32
John 20:19-31

The saffron finch was unconvinced.

He’d had a long conversation with the kolea as they both searched for food in the grass. They were mostly looking for the same things: seeds, bugs, and so on. Fortunately there was plenty to be found, so the saffron finch’s dissatisfaction had nothing to do with how much or how little he was getting to eat. No.

It was that the kolea was preparing for the journey to Alaska, and the saffron finch thought this sounded like a bad idea. I mean, a Bad Idea with Capital Letters.

“Have you ever been in Hawai’i over the summer?” he demanded of the kolea between mouthfuls.

“No,” said the kolea. “Have you ever been in Alaska during the summer?”

The saffron finch had no reply to this. “It couldn’t be better than Hawai’i during the summer,” he insisted.

“It might not be,” agreed the kolea. “But it’s where I’ll be.”

“It’s such a long way!” moaned the saffron finch, “and your wings might be bigger than mine, but they’re nothing like a nene’s, and they don’t fly to Alaska.”

“I know how far it is,” said the kolea, who knew it much better than the saffron finch could, since he’d flown it and the finch hadn’t. “And I know it can be done.”

“What will you eat there?” demanded the saffron finch, who had just plucked some very tasty seeds out of the grasses.”

“Much the same as here,” answered the kolea, though it was a little hard to hear because his mouth was full.

“I say you should stay here,” announced the saffron finch. “Hawai’i is the place to be.”

“It’s a great place to be,” said the kolea, “but…”

“But nothing!” interrupted the saffron finch.

“But… said the kolea, “it’s where I was hatched, and where my parents were hatched, and where my grandparents were hatched. Other birds, even other kolea, lay their eggs in other places. I know it can be done. But this is how we do it, and we know it works for us.”

“It’s really strange, you know,” said the saffron finch.

“It’s not so strange,” replied the kolea. “There are other birds here that make much the same journey – the akekeke, for one – and I’ve met birds in Alaska that make long journeys to spend the winters in very different places than Hawai’i.”

“I’m not convinced,” said the saffron finch.

“You don’t have to be,” said the kolea. “It’s still something I have to do, even if you don’t like it or understand it.”

The saffron finch was quiet for a while and finally said, “I’ll miss you.”

The kolea gave a kolea smile – birds don’t have lips, after all – and said, “I’ll miss you, too, and I’ll be back in the fall to pluck seeds from in front of you again.” And he pulled a seed out right in front of the saffron finch’s beak.

“You’ll be welcome,” said the saffron finch, and he plucked a seed from in front of the kolea.

He remained unconvinced, but he remained satisfied, too, that his friend would come back once more.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The story in the recording was told from memory of this text – imperfect memory coupled with affection for improvisation…

Photos of a kolea (left) and a saffron finch by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Earth at Easter

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

April 9, 2023

Acts 10:34-43
Matthew 28:1-10

How did the world feel that first Easter morning?

I don’t mean the people of the world – most of them didn’t have any idea what was going on. The people of the Pacific islands wouldn’t hear for over 1700 years. They didn’t get the word in Japan or in China. Some people in India would hear about Jesus and his crucifixion much sooner, but they didn’t know on that first Easter morning.

They didn’t know in Africa, even as close to Jerusalem as Egypt. They didn’t know in Britain or the wide plains of Russia or in the palaces of Rome. They didn’t know in Athens. A few might just have heard the word of Jesus’ crucifixion in his home town of Nazareth – someone on a fast horse might have traveled overnight to reach there – but they wouldn’t have word of what happened Easter morning.

No, the only people who knew that Easter morning, at least as Matthew told it, were two women named Mary – it was apparently a common name in Jesus’ day – and, of course, Jesus.

But that wasn’t my question. How did the world feel that first Easter morning? This globe of ours, this Earth that God had created working with the Word of God, the Word that had taken human shape in Jesus. How did the world feel when Jesus died on Friday? How did the world feel when Jesus rose to life once more on Easter morning?

Well. That’s the story.

According to Matthew’s Gospel, the world shuddered when Jesus died, shuddered with an earthquake that shook people’s bodies and spirits, shuddered with grief and loss. And on Easter morning, the Earth felt that quickening of new life. The Earth perceived an angel descending to the rock-cut tomb where Jesus’ body lay. The Earth asked, “What is this?” as a spark of hope flared deep in its center.

The Earth shook itself again, but this time it shook to cast off the sadness and despair of the last two nights. This time it shook itself to cleanse its depths of sorrow and doubt. This time it shook to make a path for joy. This time it shook to awaken the people on its surface to something new and wondrous and holy and blessed.

Did the Earth shake all across the globe? I don’t know, to be honest. I can imagine, though, that where lava was flowing, it flowed just a little brighter, just a little faster. I can imagine that some of the mountains breathed in and became just a little taller, stretched a little bit further toward the sky. I can imagine that the ocean waves ruffled along the shores as the Earth laughed with joy.

When the angel rolled the stone away, I imagine the Earth settled beneath it just a little bit, so that the stone rolled away down a little slope that hadn’t been there before. When the women began running back to the city to tell their friends, perhaps the Earth smoothed the road so they would not trip and fall.

When Jesus met them on the road and they knelt at his feet, perhaps the Earth softened beneath them. When they ran on, after he greeted them and told them, as the angel had, to bring the good news to their friends, they didn’t trip or fall.

Beneath them, the Earth carried on with turning, with following its orbit around the sun, with moving the continents about, with cradling the oceans and raising the mountains, with turning seamounts into islands in the middle of the sea. Beneath those running women, God’s messengers and apostles that morning, the Earth smiled and laughed for joy, for its Creator and Redeemer lived, and so the Earth would be a home for life as long as time endures.

In its own way, the Earth said, “Christ is risen! Alleluia!”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

In worship, I tell the story from memory. Memory sometimes give way, as today, when I substituted a completely new ending for the one I’d written.

Photo by Eric Anderson.