“The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” – John 1:9
The true light may now be at hand, but the light is lit by flickering flame and smoky wick. I watch that light with anxious eye, for fear it spread its burning oil on the straw below.
The light unsteady served to hide the dark green sticky contents of that first cloth barrier, wrapped inexpertly by unaccustomed fingers round the infant’s flailing hips,
But did not muffle his fierce cries of outrage testifying that the light has lungs! Re-swaddled, he subsides, and sleeps re-laid into the feeding trough, while grateful stable denizens rest, too.
The midwife gone, the man and I trade naps, and watch, and wait for his next cry. Will he be hungry? Dirty? Lonely? Or just angry that the borrowed cloth moves roughly on his skin?
“The light shines in the darkness,” they will write, and I suppose it does. It murmurs sleepily, then coos a moment, then subsides. The crude light wavers at the breeze, and shadows waver on incarnate light asleep.
I am too weary to compose a poem; I ache in every muscle, every bone. I cannot help but think that this poor babe, in manger laid, could shine so bright this stable would be taken for a star.
For now, the light is dimmed, and in its dimness I, at least, can see that lovelight shines most clearly here, in common human form, and in the dark.
A poem/prayer based on John 1:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday after Christmas Day.
The image is The Nativity, a section of the 13th century altar frontal of St. Mary of Avia Church in Bergueda, Catalonia, Spain, by an unknown artist. The frontal itself is in the National Art Museum of Catalonia in Barcelona. Photo by Enfo – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21384531.
After three years of living a very different existence, in the midst of and in the decline of a global pandemic, I found much of it rather exhausting. 2024 felt like playing “catch up” on projects and plans that had been deferred while managing COVID-19. Frankly, that wasn’t easy.
Church of the Holy Cross was able to give energy and focus to things we hadn’t. We resumed welcoming people into membership, and we launched an Open and Affirming committee. We continued to live stream worship via YouTube, since it serves both people who live at a distance and people who cannot attend worship. Video did not replace people in a sanctuary, and it won’t. It’s a different experience, and still worthwhile.
I completed my service as Chair of the Hawai’i Conference Council in June, presiding over an in-person ‘Aha Pae’aina for the first time. The meeting included a lengthy debate over an issue that continues to trouble the Conference: what financial support the Conference should give toward a position in one of the Associations. During my four years, the delegates chose both to fund it and not to fund it by narrow margins. I’m pretty sure that it will take more time and discussion before people consider it resolved.
To my sorrow, I found myself returning to the Chair of the Hawai’i Island Association Committee on Ministry, from which I’d stepped down when elected as Conference Council Chair. I returned to the Committee in May in great part because of the shortage of ordained ministers on Hawai’i Island. During the summer our Chair, the Rev. Larry Walter, died. The Association asked me to fill in, and then elected me to continue the work in the fall. The Committee was further marked by tragedy when one of the lay members, David Williams, died unexpectedly in October.
I continued to make a lot of music. I wrote eight songs in 2024, and all eight are available at 2024: The Songs. The instrument count remained the same (this year’s major expense category was cameras). I sang the spring and fall seasons of the Big Island Singers, which was both great fun and a huge amount of work. The fall concert included my solo performance of “Creature of this World,” which is now two years old. I continued the weekly “Song from Church of the Holy Cross” and the monthly Community Sings. I decided to reduce my solo Community Concerts, however, to four times a year. As the year closed, the musical community of east Hawai’i made its way to Church of the Holy Cross the sing Handel’s Messiah together.
I continued to write weekly LectionPrayers here on my blog, and also contributed to The Living Psalms project of the UCC. Preparing for worship I wrote liturgical materials, sermons, and stories. In the fall, I was welcomed onto the Board of the UCC Media Justice Ministry, my first appointment to a national ministry of the denomination.
I didn’t have a lot of visitors this year – and after welcoming my brother by getting a stomach bug and my cousin by having my water heater break I don’t blame them. Ben and Dee Anderson (no relation) came to Hawai’i in February and Ben did a dialogue sermon with me in church that Sunday.
Kilauea summit, April 1, 2024.
My primary outlet this year (and the most expensive) has been photography. I returned to many of my favorite subjects in 2024, including flowers, sunrises, the occasional sunset, landscapes, and natural shapes. A couple of my favorite images this year were black-and-white. I gave a lot of my attention, however, to birds. I can no longer claim I am not a birder.
I not only pointed my camera at birds, I made plans to go photograph them. Rather foolishly, I promised a friend I’d take a picture of a bird I hadn’t seen in eight years (the i’iwi, a distinctive Hawaiian honeycreeper with a distinctive long curved orange beak). I got a photo, and I even liked it. I even saw (and got a bad photo of) a bird I hadn’t even heard of, the ‘akiapola’au, thanks to two birders who were seeking it by the trail.
Next year, I plan to spend some time on other islands, and yes, I’ll bring my camera.
I didn’t do a lot of traveling in 2024. I made three trips to O’ahu as part of my Conference work, and flew to the northeast in July/August to visit my more-scattered family in Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, and New York. I could have added Maine to that list, but I spent too much time in the rental car as it was. With driving being my primary activity, my photos tended to be of people I love, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I will say that the day Paul Bryant-Smith and I kayaked down a river in New York State was great fun and amazing birding – I saw great blue herons and bald eagles veery closely – but fortunately for my camera, I didn’t bring it along to share my dips in the creek.
2025 will bring something I’ve been waiting for this year: the second sabbatical of my career. Expect to see less new writing, as I’ve got a project for the time, but also expect to see some more photographs.
My Kala six string ukulele, Guild twelve string guitar, Martin six string guitar, and Kala four string ukulele (photo from October 2023).
I wrote eight songs in 2024, one more than the previous year but still less than the dozen songs I wrote each of the pandemic years 2021 and 2022. I sang six of them in live streams, one for the 2024 Easter recording, and one was… well. I was asked to write a song about performing with the Big Island Singers, and so I sang it at the party following the closing concert in November. Someone took some video, but it didn’t include the entire song. At the request of one of the “Dougs” (the director and accompanist both are named Doug), I recorded it to be included here.
Shine, Star, Obscuring Light
First performed January 10, 2024.
This is an Epiphany song, arising from the curious way that a star heralded the birth of Jesus when public proclamation of a Messiah’s birth was deeply dangerous. Herods, both ancient and modern, are vicious. People have found that putting lights on an object can, in fact, hide it from view.
First Denial
First performed on February, 28, 2024.
This song is based on “Simon Peters’s First Denial,” a poem I wrote as part of my “lectionprayer” series (prayers I write based on one of the texts for the coming Sunday in the Revised Common Lectionary). As you’ll hear in the introduction above, a friend commented on the poem asking if it was set to music. A week later, it was.
In the Silence
First performed on March 27, 2024.
Written for Holy Week, the song goes to the hard place of waiting for something bad to happen. We all know its strain, and of course so did Jesus as he prayed in the garden, knowing that the soldiers approached.
Tell Me to Turn Around
First performed for What I’m Thinking the week after Easter, April 2, 2024.
Inspired by the meeting of Mary Magdalene with the risen Jesus in John 20, the song begins just before Mary turns around to see him.
Twelve Years and a Moment
First performed on June 30, 2024.
I wrote this based on the healings of the woman with a hemorrhage and the raising of Jairus’ daughter in Mark 5:21-43. I think it also shows some melodic and harmonic ideas that have dominated my songwriting much of the year. Translation: I think it sounds familiar.
I’ve Got a Jar of Flour
Performance from October 23, 2024.
I like to write a song for Vacation Bible School. It doesn’t always happen, and sometimes when it does, they’re pretty lighthearted. That isn’t true of this one, based on the story of Elijah and the widow of Zarephath in 1 Kings 17.
We are the Big Island Singers
I sang both the spring and fall seasons of the Big Island Singers, a great group led by Doug Albertson and accompanied by Doug Howell. Another member of the asked me to write a song about the experience, and this is the result. I’m afraid it’s full of inside jokes, but choral singers, directors, and accompanists may recognize some of the challenges and the joys of this kind of music.
I made this recording in December, 2024.
Christmas Filled with Christ
First performed on December 20, 2024.
Over the last few years I’ve taken on some songwriting goals, usually around major holidays of the Church year. 2024 included one for Epiphany (as noted above; I also sang “Shine, Star, Obscuring Light” during this December 20 concert), one for Holy Week, one for Easter, and yes, one for Christmas. I’d seen enough inspirational messages about keeping Christ in Christmas by doing the things Christ asked us to do that I decided to include it in a song.
They summoned me, and so I rushed into the night, my bag a-swinging from my hand. The city full of census-driven travelers was mostly quiet, save a corner of the stable of an inn, which groaned.
I knew these groans.
I swept the useless man aside, sent him for cloths as if I hadn’t brought some with me, but what need for men when birth is near? A glance alone told me this girl had never birthed. “Be easy, child,” I sighed.
I knew this fear.
The man brought cloths, they fluttered down upon the straw. “Stand there,” I ordered him, “and keep them out.” The sounds had drawn the usual assortment of the curious and well-meant helpers without skill.
I knew this crowd.
The hours wore away as the body of the woman did its work, made straight a highway for the child from womb to world, one built with heavy labor. The gasps turned to deep growls as we neared the end.
I knew these growls.
The woman shrieked; the man choked on a sob. The mothers in the crowd of curious made sounds of sympathy, then held their breath to hear the new-made mother’s gasping breaths and child’s cry.
I know those sounds, and I rejoice.
I lingered as the onlookers dispersed, to see the squalling son find comfort in his mother’s arms. Before I laid him there, his eyes looked into mine, and shocked, I gasped, for they had pierced my soul.
I had not known that look.
I made my way on home, my lightened bag a-swinging from my hand, and my heart was lighter, too. “And is it you, Emmanuel?” I asked. “Has God come down to Earth to us?”
I had not known such things before, but now: I know.
I wrote this skit to meet a very particular need. Our Sunday School coordinator had surveyed the young people, and nobody (really nobody) wanted to play Joseph. Could I write a pageant that didn’t include Joseph? The result is what’s below.
We didn’t have any children who wanted to play the magi, either, so the original script didn’t include them. As rehearsals began, more of them wanted to participate, and so the size of the shepherd’s flock increased, a second shepherd got lines, and so did more of the magi.
By Eric Anderson
CHARACTERS
Mary: A young woman Gabriel: An angelic messenger Angels: A musical chorus Star: A bright object in the sky Shepherd: A tender of sheep Sheep: A wooly creature Magi 1: A scholar dressed a lot like a king Magi 2: Another scholar dressed a lot like a king (non-speaking) Magi 3: One more scholar dressed a lot like a king (non-speaking)
SCENE 1: [MARY enters and sits at center stage, twiddling her thumbs]
Mary: I’m bored.
[GABRIEL enters]
Gabriel: Hail, O favored one!
Mary: (to audience) Well, this might be more interesting.
(to Gabriel) Who are you, and what kind of “Hello” is that?
Gabriel: What would you prefer?
Mary: “Hello” would be nice.
Gabriel: In that case, hello. My name is Gabriel. I’m an angel. Do not be afraid!
Mary: Was I supposed to be afraid?
Gabriel: It’s not required. I’m supposed to say that, though.
Mary: Are other people afraid?
Gabriel: People tend to get nervous talking to an angel, yes.
Mary: Oh, right. You’re an angel. You said. Well, I’m glad to talk to anybody. I’m bored.
Gabriel: Why are you bored?
Mary: I’m supposed to be getting married soon, but my family is doing all the wedding plans. Every time I try to suggest something, my father or my mother will say, “Oh, no, it’s better this way.” Actually, they both say it. Then they disagree about what the best way is, and send me out of the room. So I don’t have a lot to do.
Gabriel: Couldn’t you talk to your fiancé? What’s his name?
Mary: Joseph. And no. Now that we’re engaged, we don’t spend a lot of time together. He’s working. And I’m… not.
Gabriel: I think I can promise that your life is about to get more interesting.
Mary: Well, that’s good. What’s happening?
Gabriel: Mary, you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.
Mary: What did you just say?
Gabriel: Mary, you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb…
Mary: (interrupting) Did you just say I’m going to have a baby?
Gabriel: Yes. Yes, I did.
Mary: How is that going to happen?
Gabriel: Nothing is impossible with God.
Mary: And this is God’s plan? It seems a little… unexpected.
Gabriel: I grant you that God hasn’t done this before.
Mary: And I’m having this baby… why?
Gabriel: He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David…
Mary: (interrupting) Did you just say I’m going to be the mother of the Messiah?
Gabriel: Yes. Yes, I did.
Mary: Wow.
Gabriel: You did say you were bored.
Mary: Yes. Yes, I did.
Gabriel: Are you less bored?
Mary: Now I’m terrified.
Gabriel: That’s not bored.
Mary: I think I need to go talk to Joseph. He’ll want to know.
Gabriel: I’m sure that’s true. Where is Joseph, anyway?
Mary: This way.
[MARY and GABRIEL exit]
Narrator: Nine months later…
Scene 2:
[SHEPHERD and SHEEP enter]
Shepherd: Well, another boring night.
Sheep: Baa!
Shepherd: Why don’t you ever seem to sleep, sheep?
Sheep: Baa!
Shepherd: Have you ever thought of counting sheep, sheep?
Sheep: Baa!
[pause]
Shepherd: Well, I agree. Counting to one isn’t all that helpful.
[ANGELS enter]
Angels: Hallelujah!
Shepherd: What?
Angels: Hallelujah!
Shepherd: Are you hearing what I’m hearing, sheep?
Sheep: Baa!
[GABRIEL enters]
Gabriel: Do not be afraid!
Shepherd: OK.
Sheep: Baa!
Gabriel: I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.
Shepherd: Could you repeat that?
Sheep: Baa!
Gabriel: I am bringing you good news…
Shepherd: Did you just say that the Messiah has been born down in Bethlehem?
Gabriel: That’s exactly what I said.
Shepherd: And we can go see him?
Gabriel: You can do exactly that.
Shepherd: And greet the father and the mother?
Gabriel: The mother for sure. The father, well, that’s a little tricky.
Shepherd: Are you going to explain that?
Gabriel: No.
Sheep: Baa!
Gabriel: Are you going to go visit the child?
Sheep: Baa!
Shepherd: You heard him.
Angels and Gabriel: Hallelujah!
Scene Three:
[ANGELS, GABRIEL, SHEPHERD, and SHEEP exit]
[MARY enters with BABY]
[GABRIEL enters]
Gabriel: Where’s Joseph?
Mary: He went looking around the town for baby things. We hadn’t brought anything. All we’ve got are these bands of cloth and a manger.
Gabriel: That’s going to be tricky this late at night.
Mary: Everything has been tricky. Explaining my pregnancy to my family, my friends, and to Joseph was tricky. Then getting summoned down to Bethlehem for the census was tricky. Then finding a place to stay the night was tricky. Having a baby in a stable was tricky. All in all, it’s all been tricky.
Gabriel: Well, I’ve got good news.
Mary: I’m not sure I’m ready for more of your good news. That’s what’s got me here in a stable with a newborn.
Gabriel: You’ll like this one. I’ve brought some people to give thanks for the birth of the Messiah!
[ANGELS, SHEPHERD, and SHEEP enter]
Angels: Hallelujah!
Mary: More angels?
Sheep: Baa!
Mary: And sheep.
Shepherd: Hi! Are you the mother of the Messiah?
Mary: And a shepherd. Where’s Joseph? When’s he coming back?
Gabriel: I know this isn’t what you expected, Mary. This is no palace. It’s not even your own home. Or a house, in fact. But you know what a miracle this is. You know, better than anyone, that God has been at work. These are people…
Sheep: (interrupting) Baa!
Gabriel: …and creatures who have come to understand God’s miracle as well.
Angels: Hallelujah!
Mary: That is pretty wonderful, now that you put it like that.
[THREE MAGI ENTER]
Gabriel: And look! More visitors!
Mary: Couldn’t they have waited until Joseph got back?
Magi 1: Look, it’s been a long trip. And we got lost. So we stopped for directions in Jerusalem.
Mary: Jerusalem? Where the king is?
Magi 1: That’s the place. That’s where a new monarch should be born, right?
Mary: Gabriel, this sounds like trouble. The king is not going to be happy to hear about the birth of a Messiah. Would you go fetch Joseph, please?
Gabriel: Ah. You’re right. This is trouble. We’ll take care of it. No problem. You guys, magi, king-like people: Don’t go home via Jerusalem. OK?
Magi 1: Really? The king seemed to want to meet this child. A lot.
Mary: Seriously, where’s Joseph?
Gabriel: Go home another way.
Magi 1: Well, OK. You’re the angel. In the meantime, we’ve got some gifts for the child. Here they are: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
[EVERYBODY stares at the gifts]
Mary: Wow. Joseph needs to see this.
Gabriel: He will. And you won’t need to worry about your safety. Shepherds, creatures, wise people from far away have come to rejoice in this child. The heavens themselves are celebrating. Take a look:
[STAR enters]
Mary: Oh, wow.
Star: Welcome, newborn Messiah!
Mary: Where’s Joseph? He should see this.
Star: He’s three streets away on his way back. I’ll light the way for him.
Mary: Thank you. Thank you all. Thank you for welcoming my baby into the world.
Gabriel: We’re glad to do it. Happy Birthday, little Jesus!
The ‘io is not famous for singing. It makes a loud cry, for sure, which is majestic and dramatic, but nobody would call it musical. Except, perhaps, for once long ago, so long ago that there were no people living here on Hawai’i Island, and it belonged to the birds.
You see, there was an ‘io who wanted to sing. She’d heard the ‘apapane and the rest. She’d even admired the more subtle honks of the nene. When, she wondered, could she sing like that?
One morning, as the sun rose over the sea, the ‘io felt the world change. One moment everything was as it had always been, the next she knew that something different, something extraordinary, something wonderful, had taken place. Somehow she knew, deep in her heart, that the Creator had become part of the Creation in a deeply special way. Somehow she knew, though she never knew the name and didn’t even know what a human baby looked like, that Jesus, the Christ, was born.
When you know something that’s that wonderful, you just can’t keep still. She leapt into the air and soared through the sky. But that wasn’t enough. She danced on the breeze, pirouetted through the sky. And that wasn’t enough. Even though she knew she couldn’t do it, even though she knew it would be the same cry she’d always made, she opened her beak to sing.
Then: she sang.
There’s an old story that on the night Jesus was born, the animals across the world gained the ability to speak in human language. Who knows if that was true on Hawai’i Island, where there were no people whose language they could speak? What there was, was singing. And on that Christmas morning, an ‘io sang.
She sang so loud and so well that the ‘apapane began to sing along, and even to make new harmonies. Then the ‘amakihi chimed in, and the ‘akepa. The koa’e kea soared above the Kilauea caldera, and both noio and pueo flew up from the seacoast and the grasslands. Every one of them, with a voice they’d never known before, sang.
The ‘io led them all in the song, making new melodies, new variations, new rhythms. As she did, she circled and rolled, dove and climbed, dancing on the air, as the smaller birds wheeled around her.
It didn’t last long. Songs, even songs of joy, have an end. The small birds went back to the nectar in the trees. The pueo returned to the grasslands, the noio to the sea.
The ‘io let her tired wings carry her back to a tall tree, where she settled and breathed in, breathed out, because it’s a lot of work singing and flying and dancing at the same time.
An i’iwi poked its beak out of the next tree and chirped, “Thank you for the good news and the good song.”
The ‘io nodded back and said, “You’re welcome. Thank you for singing with me.”
And that is how the ‘io sang a Christmas song.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory (and improvisation), so the story as I tell it in the recording won’t precisely match what I originally wrote.
“When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit…” – Luke 1:41
I never thought to feel a kick inside. I’d come to terms with it, at least to see. Inside I wept the tears which come with loss of plans and dreams, things yet and not to be.
Then Zechariah came home mute, a shock that stifled my instinctive laugh. What partner would not celebrate a bit to know they’ll now get the last word?
But when he came into the house, his soul was like a vessel cracked upon the beach. All I could do was hold his weeping head and wipe the tears that fell upon my belly.
Six months have passed. His tears have long since dried, but my belly has grown out to hold this energetic child, who kicks and cuffs within as if he cannot wait for birth.
And now, as cousin Mary nears, another kick, for is there anything to still this child’s leaps? He strikes again, a pirouette within my womb, as if to say, “Look there, and wonder, and believe!”
The words gush out with flowing tears to dampen Mary’s shoulder in our fierce embrace. He’s kicked again, a blow I know she feels, and does the one within her womb perceive?
We’re kicked, the pair of us, by God, and by these lives we’ll nurture long beyond the days they’re born. We’re kicked into these roles of mother-prophets, angel-listeners. But now,
In this brief moment of embrace, of mutual tears, we share the strength and wonder of our miracles, the shock of being kicked, and finding we are stronger, wiser, and more loving than
We ever knew.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 1:39-55, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Fourth Sunday of Advent.
The nene (a Hawaiian goose) was going to change the world.
He wanted to change a lot of things. Some of them, he thought, might be more difficult than he could actually do. He wanted ‘ohelo to grow more evenly through year, for example. Without learning how to plant and cultivate, which is hard to do when you have wings rather than hands, he didn’t think he’d get that accomplished anytime soon. Still. It’s nice to have a goal.
Mostly, though, he had ambitions to change the way that creatures interacted with one another on Hawai’i Island.
Most creatures in the forest don’t bother one another very much. Yes, the i’iwi gets possessive about flowering ohi’a trees sometimes. Yes, the ‘apapane get touchy around their nests. And there are mongoose that eat eggs. The nene thought that could change, too, but like the ‘ohelo idea, he thought it would take some time to persuade the mongoose to turn vegetarian.
What he most wanted to change, however, was the careless actions of human beings.
Other creatures don’t bother nene much, but human beings do. They come walking up where nene are feeding, they pick food the nene need to eat, and worst of all, they drive fast through places where nene walk and rest. I’m afraid that the biggest danger to a nene these days is getting hit by a car.
So our ambitious nene developed a plan to stand by the side of a road and talk to the people driving by. Or, well, honk at the people driving by. Yell at the people driving by.
I’m afraid it didn’t go well. The cars went by at the same high speeds they had before. A few of them stopped instead. One person even got out and went over to try to pet the nene, who decided that flying away was the best thing to do.
He watched for some time as the cars raced by at the same high speed with no change at all.
It made him sad.
Another set of wings fluttered next to him. It was a curious ‘elepaio. “What were you doing?” she asked.
The nene told her he was trying to get people to drive more carefully.
“That takes a lot of doing,” the ‘elepaio observed. “There are a lot of people to persuade. How is it going so far?”
The nene admitted that it wasn’t working so far.
“There’s an easier place to start,” mused the ‘elepaio. “What if you started with yourself?”
“What do you mean?” asked the nene.
“It’s right to be concerned about what others do,” said the ‘elepaio, “and to get them to change it. But the first step and the easiest step is to do what you can about yourself. Step back from the road. Walk further away. Do what you did a few minutes ago, and fly away from foolish people.
“You’ve got to start somewhere,” said the ‘elepaio. “Start with you.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them on Sunday mornings from memory and improvisation. What you have just read is not exactly what you’ll see in the video.
John said to the crowds coming out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?” – Luke 3:7
Who warned us, John? You did. We heard your words through others, much as those you called “a brood of vipers” heard your words through rapid rumor’s run.
We heard your warning through the memories and tongues and pens of those you had impressed with word, with deed, with baptism, with righteousness.
We heard because they passed along your warning that to wash with water would not cleanse the soul, but full repentance, all enacted, would receive the nod of God.
They came to hear themselves. They came to learn how they might change. They came to leave upon a road that might look like the one on which they had arrived, but was a road made new.
They came. They heard. They washed. They went away and told the tale. More came. More heard. More washed. More told. Soon one would come to wash though you would tell him, “No.”
You warned us, John, across the years. But tell me, we who follow him whom you baptized, have we been heedful of your warning? Do we bear the fruits of righteousness?
I fear, old harsh-voiced friend, that you would find us heedless of your words despite our claim to follow Christ. I fear you’d rail once more at broods of serpents writhing in the dust.
I fear it would not only be the ones I judge as frauds, or casual extortionists, or simply selfish souls withholding all their wealth,
But also me, secure in my self-righteousness, and satisfied with my reputed rectitude. What sins do I ignore, refuse to cleanse?
Shout on, old Baptist friend. Across the years, through others’ words I hear your call. Shout on, and by the grace of God may I repent, and wash, and bear good fruit.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 3:7-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of Advent.
The image is John Preaching in the Desert, a mosaic in the series of the Life of John the Baptist in the Florence Baptistery, Florence, Italy (ca. 1225-1330). Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=41892069.
The cattle egret is a relatively quiet bird. Most of the time it goes about its business of hunting insects and such without talking about it. When a cattle egret has something to say, it will say it. But if it doesn’t have something to say, it doesn’t say anything.
Unlike a lot of people you’ve met, I’m sure.
There was another bird who really wanted a cattle egret to say something. I don’t know why a saffron finch decided that he wanted wisdom from a cattle egret, but he did. Maybe it was their relative sizes (rather small to quite impressively tall). Not that size reliably indicates wisdom. Maybe it was the bright white feathers, but color doesn’t tell you much about wisdom, either. Maybe it was the silence.
Not saying anything until you have something to say could be a good sign of wisdom.
At any rate, it’s wiser than saying something when you don’t have anything to say.
The saffron finch landed on the ground near a cattle egret and the two of them fed side-by-side without speaking for a while. The cattle egret ate bugs. The saffron finch ate one or two spiders and a good amount of seeds. Neither of them chose to speak with their mouths full.
When he was feeling pretty satisfied, the saffron finch asked, “What’s the most important thing?”
The cattle egret looked around to see if there were any other birds the finch might have been talking to. She didn’t see any, but she also didn’t think that this was a question a complete stranger was likely to ask her, so she didn’t say anything.
“No, really,” said the saffron finch. “What the most important thing?”
The cattle egret looked carefully at the saffron finch. He was clearly asking her, though she didn’t know why. She took a couple more mouthfuls of insects to give her time to consider the question. Then she cleared her throat and said:
“Love.”
She looked around and didn’t see any more bugs, so she nodded to the saffron finch and took off to find another spot with more bugs. When she got there, she was surprised to find the saffron finch landing beside her.
“Could you say that again?” he asked.
“Love,” she said, and went on eating.
“Really?” he asked.
“Love,” she repeated for the third time.
“I’m not sure I know how to love,” he said sadly.
The cattle egret paused her hunting for a moment and looked carefully at the saffron finch.
“Ask,” she said.
“Really?” he said.
“Ask,” she said.
I’m still not sure I’d go first to a cattle egret for wisdom – which is mostly my problem for not understanding what a cattle egret might say – but I have to agree with this cattle egret. What’s the most important thing? Love.
And if you’re not sure how to love: Ask.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation, so it won’t sound exactly like you’ve just read.
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