Strange Protection

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 8 Comments

“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power; put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil…” – Ephesians 6:10-11

I’m grateful that the struggle is not with
the powers of blood and flesh. Not if
I’m to rely upon these items
for protection of my vital spark.

What happens to the righteous? Why,
they suffer, as do those who speak of peace.
A shield of faith is powerless against
an arrow, or a club, or fist.

Should I entrust my head to its
salvation? The logic doesn’t work for me.
I wish I thought an offense of the Spirit,
of the Word, protected anyone, but… no.

And worst of all, to recommend
I gird my waist with Truth, as if
the truth has ever carried any weight
when cut so easily by lies.

But then I see a brilliant coral
called “The Armor of our God,”
protected by no more than truth,
feebly anchored to its rock.

These corals can be shattered by
a careless underwater step,
the floating residue of sun protection, by
a current that directs its food away.

If coral, brilliant in its indigo,
can live its fragile life beneath the sea,
I might, perhaps, submit my life
to living with this unprotective armor,

Rooted in the truth, acting righteously,
striding ever toward the reign of peace,
with faith displayed before me, head
a-crowned with Christ’s salvific work,

Equipped to bring the Spirit’s Word
to those who might, in turn, take on
this truth, this righteousness, this peace,
this saving faith, this summons from our God.

Author’s note: I have no idea what I was going to write about before I found this photo of an “Armor of God” Zoanthid coral.

A poem/prayer based on Ephesians 6:10-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 16 (21).

Photo of an “Armor of God” variety Zoanthid coral by la.kien – https://www.flickr.com/photos/67619130@N07/6952012176/in/photolist-bAjT1U-ex665Z-ex6q1Z-8mZvs2-fgfi1z-4WFdDR-byjPn1-aoBVqF-4C8EsV-e35MjW-bMetRP-8AxwPo-8hRGc3-8zTVeH-8zTV8i-4KdVqj-4WKv3A-a6JBuH-4CcXgS-a68Ner-a6bDtY-a6bDEo-d8cXaC-8knfqw-8knfrL-adg9dt-eARtXV-eaP1mp-n3vueH-kdub15-e385Wo-6icch6-nxntwv-ne6ED7-69VkyF-eCZ3h3-fQbC2i-nPijbf-fHGFCK, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=37054836.

Story: In Front of Your Beak

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

August 18, 2024

Psalm 34:9-14
Ephesians 5:15-20

The ‘elepaio had a problem. She was hungry.

This is not an uncommon condition for an ‘elepaio, or for that matter for any bird up in the forests of Hawai’i. They tend to be small birds, but the things they eat are also small, so they tend to eat often or, to put it another way, whenever they can. Kind of like a human child in the middle of a growing time.

This ‘elepaio, however, had a somewhat different problem. It wasn’t that there wasn’t food around. There was plenty. It was that, well, she liked to look ahead.

Again, plenty of ‘elepaio look ahead. They’re the curious birds of the forest. They check out the people moving through the woods, and they check out the trees – for food, generally. But they do it up close and personal. If you’re walking through the forest and an ‘elepaio wants to find out more about you, they’ll perch pretty close.

This ‘elepaio, however, had somehow got the idea that the way to learn what was happening was with the big picture only. She’d perch high in a tree, looking out over the slopes for signs of the insects that she ate. And… she’d find them. Sure. Bugs get around, and you’ll find them high in a tree. What you won’t do is see them in a distant tree. They’re small. They don’t move the leaves and branches. In fact, if you look at leaves and branches from a distance, you’ll pretty much see… leaves and branches.

She was so intent one day on looking for bugs in distant trees that she didn’t hear her mother land behind her.

“Child,” said her mother, “what’s the problem?”

“I’m hungry,” said her daughter, “and I’m having trouble finding bugs to eat.”

“Why do you think that is?” asked her mother, as she watched a bug walk along the very branch her daughter was perched on.

“I think it’s just hard to do,” said the young ‘elepaio, who now had two bugs crawling along in front of her.

“Could it be that you’re looking too far ahead?” asked her mother, who knew it was.

“I don’t see how it could be,” said her daughter, who was so still that one of the bugs was near to climbing onto her.

“Look right in front of your beak,” said mother, and her daughter looked. Then she looked again, and then she ate one bug, then the other, and found two more on a nearby leaf.

“Better?” asked her mother.

“Better,” admitted her daughter, “but shouldn’t we be looking ahead for things?”

“It’s useful to look to the distance,” said her mother, “because there are important things there, which might be bugs, or storms, or a hunting ‘io. But there are also important things right in front of you, like breakfast, and water, and the materials for a nest.”

“And someone to teach me to look there,” said her daughter.

“And someone to be with you and care for you,” said her mother.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, in full, but I tell them from a combination of memory and new creation. Therefore the recording does not match the text above.

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

Living Wise

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

“Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery, but be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs to one another, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts.” – Ephesians 5:18-19

I know the psalm: “The fear of the LORD
is the beginning of wisdom.” How did you
not know that, Paul?

(Especially since you gave advice
to Timothy to drink not only water, but a little wine
to soothe the stomach.)

It cannot be denied, of course, that alcohol
debauches so much of our bodies, brain and
liver and good sense.

Yet I would think that you would have
more puritanical advice than this, to be
filled with the Spirit.

I guess old Martin Luther got it right
when he set his great lyric to the tune
of an old drinking song,

And told his critics that the Devil should
not get all the good tunes. Fill up, you say,
with Spirit, and rejoice.

Not fear, but celebration; not in gloom,
but in rejoicing; not in silent prayer,
but in the flood of song:

This is wisdom. This is living faithfully.
This is making deep connections
with God’s grace.

The fount of wisdom springs from reverence,
but gains its height from joy and thanks.
May we be wise.

A poem/prayer based on Ephesians 5:15-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 15 (20).

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: The ‘Apapane Bully

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

July 28, 2024

2 Samuel 11:1-15
John 6:1-21

Last week I told you a story about an ‘apapane who, when he was selected to lead a mixed flock of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, and ‘alawi, learned a lesson about proper leadership. He may not have liked learning it, but he learned it, and in just two or three days.

This week, I’m sorry to say, the story is about an ‘apapane who didn’t learn that lesson in their week as leader, and… Well, maybe I should just tell the story.

He was big for an ‘apapane (not so big for an ‘io). That made him bigger than pretty much all of the birds, especially the smaller ‘akepa and ‘alawi. Other ‘apapane tended to hop or turn out of his way when he came to their branch or crossed his flight path. Even i’iwi, who tend to be the more aggressive of the forest birds, learned to recognize this ‘apapane and stayed out of his way.

It seemed natural that such a big, strong, confident bird should be selected as leader. Right? Leadership is what big, strong, confident people – er, birds – are for. Right?

It didn’t go well.

First of all, he didn’t really pay attention to the other birds. He’d just give orders. “Go find a better tree!” he ordered one bird, who was nearly caught by an ‘io that the leader hadn’t troubled to look for. “Let’s go!” he shouted when they headed to a new tree, but he didn’t bother to make sure that all the birds heard it. Half of them stayed behind. When he discovered that, he flew back to the old tree, screamed and shouted, and even beat at one or two of them with his wings.

Worst of all, he picked on the smaller birds. He’d find ‘akepa sipping nectar and he’d push them out of the way. He pecked at ‘alawi with his beak if they got close. And if they weren’t close, he’d hop over and peck them.

In short, he’d crossed the line from “leader” to “bully.”

Flock elders talked to him, and the next day went the same. His parents talked to him, and the next day went the same. Flock elders came in a group with his grandparents – always listen to tutu, right? – and it went exactly the same the next day.

The flock had had enough.

The last morning of his leadership, five flock elders perched before him. “Just so you know,” they said, “you will not be elected leader again.”

“How can that be?” he screeched. “I’m biggest and strongest. I’m made to lead!”

“We require leadership,” they told him. “We will not tolerate bullying.”

“You’ll do what I tell you!” he shouted.

“No,” they said. “Never again.”

Every single bird in the flock turned away from him. Not one turned in his direction. Not one followed his screeched orders. When he flew over to peck at an ‘akepa, ten other birds flew over and formed a living shield to protect her.

“You’ll be sorry!” he shrieked and flew away.

But as far as I know, that flock has never been sorry that they know the difference between leadership and bullying, and that they insist on leadership, and send bullying away.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I writes these stories in advance, then tell them from memory on Sunday morning. It’s a different medium, and the results differ, too!

Photo of an ‘apapane (who is not, as far as I know, a bully) by Eric Anderson.

Pluck it Out

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

“It happened, late one afternoon when David rose from his couch and was walking about on the roof of the king’s house, that he saw from the roof a woman bathing; the woman was very beautiful.” – 2 Samuel 11:2.

It happened? Oh, yes, and Oh, no.
It happened that you noticed.
It happened that you looked closely.
It happened that you inquired.
It happened that you sent.
It happened that you raped.
It happened that you sent the victim home.
It happened that she conceived by you.
It happened that you tried to cover it up.
It happened that her husband had more integrity than you.
It happened that you sent him to the army.
It happened that you ordered his death.

It happened, David, every step,
because you chose, decided, acted,
harmed, and hurt, and murdered.

A pity that you couldn’t have heard Jesus’ words,
which were, it’s true, a thousand years away:
“If your eye causes you to sin, tear it out.”
We’d read about a mystery of how you lost your eye,
not how you raped and killed with scarce a thought.

I hope Bathsheba’s presence smote your heart
with guilt on each remaining day you lived.

A poem/prayer based on 2 Samuel 11:1-15, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternative First Reading for Year B, Proper 12 (17).

The image is David Sees Bathsheba Bathing by James Tissot – https://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/d/images/3/3a/King_David_Bathsheba_Bathing.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31379015.

Story: ‘Apapane Leadership

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

July 21, 2024

Jeremiah 23:1-6
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

After the eggs have hatched and the chicks have learned to fly, many of the birds of the ohi’a and koa forest will come together in mixed flocks of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, and ‘alawi. They stay together to find ohi’a and mamane trees in blossom, which would also have attracted some tasty bugs.

It was the custom of one flock on the slopes of Mauna Loa to select a leader each week to keep the flock together and organize a watch for dangerous or suspicious creatures like cats, ‘io, pueo, and, well, people. The leader would look around for trees bright with flowers and guide the hungry birds toward them, while making sure nobody got left behind. It wasn’t the easiest thing for a bird to do, but most of them handled it pretty well.

One ‘apapane had been eagerly awaiting his turn to be flock leader. He was no longer that young, having seen a few summers and winters. He was something of a silent critic of the weekly leaders, silently scoring them on his own checklist. That one didn’t spot the mamane tree in blossom as fast as he had. This other one had been slow to get the birds moving. And this other one hadn’t properly spotted the watcher birds for ‘io. They’d spotted the hawk in plenty of time anyway, but it hadn’t been right.

At last came the week when the birds in the flock chose him as their leader for the next week. He was proud. He was excited. He was also… going to do something fairly complicated for the first time, and he was absolutely convinced that he knew exactly what should happen.

The result, the next morning, was a lot of birds screeching at one another, with their purported leader screaming the most and the loudest. He screeched at the ones who were supposed to be watching when they perched on a branch other than the one he’d selected. He screeched when they were ready to head to a new set of trees, and screeched when one or two birds headed off in the wrong direction. He screeched when a bird remained behind, and nearly pecked his tail as he flew right behind him to get him to the rest of the flock. He screeched when it was time to nap. He screeched when it was time to settle down to sleep.

When he turned about, one of the older birds, an ‘apapane kupuna, was perched behind him. He opened his beak to screech at her, but shut it quickly. He knew better than to screech at her.

“What have you been doing?” she said, “and don’t screech at me.”

“I’ve been leading,” he said, “like I’m supposed to.”

“You haven’t been leading like you’re supposed to,” she said rather severely. “You’ve been driving like you’re not supposed to. You’ve had birds who know perfectly well what to do confused and upset. Some of them went hungry today. While you were chasing that one bird there were two others that set off in the wrong direction and I had to go get them.”

“They should have listened to me!” he said.

“How could they,” she asked, “when you didn’t give them a clear direction?”

He was silent for a moment.

“You’ll try it again tomorrow,” said the kupuna ‘apapane, “and tomorrow you’ll plan, and you’ll chirp softly, and you’ll listen to the birds who know what they’re doing, and you’ll keep an eye on things and let other birds know when there’s a problem that they can help you with.”

“Be wise,” she said, “and attentive, and assuring. That will keep the flock with you, and fed, and comforted, and safe.”

Oh, it took some work, I tell you. But she was nearby the next day whenever he opened his beak to screech, and only one or two screeches got out. The day after he didn’t screech at all. By the time his week as leader was over, they followed him gratefully and gladly. Because he learned from his mistakes, and he learned how to lead.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full and in advance, but I tell them from memory and from improvisation. What you hear in the recording is not what you read above it.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Teach Us, Jesus

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 6 Comments

“As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd, and he began to teach them many things.” – Mark 6:34

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
for our shepherds howl like wolves.
They lay the rod of law with harshness
on the poor and spare the ones in power.

Teach us, Jesus.

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
for our shepherds carelessly use words
that others hear, and hearing ponder.
Pondering, they set themselves to violence.

Teach us, Jesus.

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
for the shepherds cannot find the way
that leads between our Scyllas and Charybdises,
and lost, we founder in moral morass.

Teach us, Jesus.

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
and teach us many things,
like how the shepherd cares first for the sheep,
whereas the predator consumes them.

Teach us, Jesus.

We are sheep without a shepherd.
Teach us many things.
And may we, by God’s grace,
learn.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 6:30-34, 53-56, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 11 (16).

The image is Christ Preaching Amongst a Crowd of People, pen and ink. Artist unknown. Found at WellcomeImages. https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/obf_images/a0/a1/69c69bd8f2f91424aa360aeb47d6.jpg
Gallery: https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/image/V0049499.html
Wellcome Collection gallery (2018-03-28): https://wellcomecollection.org/works/ycntxjvs
CC-BY-4.0, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36668704.

Story: God’s Creatures Dance

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

July 14, 2024

2 Samuel 6:1-5, 12-19
Psalm 24

You wouldn’t think it, if most of your experience of honu is when they’re napping on the shore, but they were the ones who got it started. They started the dance.

Which one it was nobody remembers, because it was a long time ago, and sometimes the beginnings of things get forgotten, like the way children really want to forget who broke the peanut butter jar. The story simply says that a honu looked up at the stars, and saw the clouds lit by the moon above, and felt the water splashing gently on his shell, and he said, “Gotta dance.”

Now, a napping honu looks like a clumsy thing, but a honu in water can dance circles around a human swimmer. He glided, and he shook, and he made tight circles, and he whirled in place. When his head broke water an ‘ulili on the shore called out, “What are you doing?”

“I’m dancing!” replied the honu. Then, after glancing about, “Lots of us are dancing!”

Sure enough, the water teemed with the shells of honu breaking the surface, and their flippers waving as they dove back down to soar below the waves.

“Why are you dancing?” asked the ‘ulili.

“With the world as glorious as it is, what else should I do?” called the honu, and then he glided beneath the water again.

“What else indeed?” said the ‘ulili, who took her next steps with even more bounce in her long legs than usual. It didn’t take long before she and the other shorebirds were highstepping and bouncing and gliding along the rocks.

“Are you dancing?” asked a myna, perched in a low tree.

“Of course we’re dancing!” said the ‘ulili. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose I would,” said the myna, and he took off to do his own dance in the air. He was soon joined by other myna, and by mejiro and saffron finches. And because what one myna knows soon other mynas will know, because they’ve got loud voices and they use them, the word spread along the beaches and up the mountain slopes. ‘Apapane danced to the music of their songs. Noio made their dives for fish with flair and grace. Even the pigs in the forest hopped back and forth to their own private rhythm.

They all danced like the only ones watching were the ones dancing with them. They all danced with a deep sense of being the one and only star of their dance, and a deep sense of dancing in the biggest dance group ever. They danced, and I’m sorry to say that the only ones who didn’t recognize it, and didn’t join the dance, were the people. I grant you that most of us were asleep at the time.

As dawn approached, the creatures from the summits of the mountains to below the waters ceased their rhythmic movements. They stretched their wings or flippers and they took at look at tender feet. Without a sound, they settled into the activities of the day.

I’m afraid they heard no applause, but there was One who applauded, and that was God. God had made them to rejoice in who and what they were, from the ‘io to the ‘apapane, from the noio to the honu. God applauded, and if they didn’t hear as they sorted themselves into a good nap, they settled into rest with glad hearts.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them from memory. As a result, the stories I tell aren’t precisely the ones I prepare.

Photo of an ‘ulili (a Wandering Tattler) by Eric Anderson.

Dance, David, Dance

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

David danced before the LORD with all his might… – 2 Samuel 6:14

Kick your heels up, David,
send the linen skirted ephod swinging.
Wheel and circle, drum your feet
in time with tambourines and cymbals.

Some will scorn you in your very house,
and some will watch in silent disapproval.
Some will wonder how you dance when death
struck down a helping hand last time.

What else to do but dance? you cry.
The presence of the LORD has blessed
the places where the mercy seat has paused.
So what to do but dance with joy as it comes home?

Whirling skirts and pounding feet.
Flying fringe and soaring hair.
Kick your heels up, David. Dance!
And bring us blessing in our heart and home.

The image is Transfer of the Ark of the Covenant by David by Paul Troger (1733), a fresco in the Altenburg Abbey Church, Altenburg, Austria. Photo by Wolfgang Sauber (2018) – File:Altenburg_Stiftskirche_-_Fresko_David_und_die_Bundeslade.jpg, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=77865740.

Fighting the Storm

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

July 7, 2024

2 Corinthians 12:2-10
Mark 6:1-13

I like honu (green sea turtles). How about you? It’s just so comforting to me watching those sea turtles raise their flippers to the surface to breathe and look around, and then taking them down to snack on the seaweed, then turning themselves about like the most agile of dancers, then hauling themselves out on the shore to get a good solid nap in the sun.

I like honu.

It’s hard to believe that one could be a bully, but I’m afraid this story is about a honu who did become a bully. He’d shove smaller turtles out of his way as he grazed on seaweed. He knocked shells with honu who were in the spot he wanted to sunbathe in. Actually, he’d knock shells with a honu just to get it to move, then he’d nap somewhere else. He slapped other turtles with his flippers, he nipped them with his mouth, he’d slide over them when they surfaced to breathe, he… well.

He was a bully.

I’m sorry to say that, mostly, it worked for him. He didn’t have a lot of friends, and I guess part of the reason he was mean was that he didn’t have a lot of friends. But he ate a lot, and he got comfortable spots on the beach, and other honu didn’t pick on him, no they didn’t. So, as I say, it mostly worked for him.

Until, one day, he decided to bully the ocean.

The winds were strong and the surf was high that day. Rain lashed down from overhead so that even a honu found it difficult to tell where the sea top ended and the air began. Spray flew in sheets. Wavetops tossed careless fish into the air.

And this honu decided to go nap on the beach. I don’t think he expected to find sunshine there, but when somebody expects to get things his way all the time, who knows?

The problem was that the waves at the surface tossed him about, and when he dove down, the currents underwater dragged him back to sea. He was trying to get to one specific part of the beach, but the wind carried him along past where he wanted to go, and when he tried to swim back against it, he couldn’t – at least not from where he was. He lashed his flippers at the water both at the surface and deeper down, and in neither place could he make much headway.

Eventually he let the underwater current carry him back out to sea, where he surfaced and howled in rage – which is very rare for a honu – at the winds and the surf.

An older honu drifted by and said, “What’s the matter, youngling?”

He wasn’t that young, but she was a lot older (and bigger), so he didn’t quite yell back when he said, “The stupid wind and waves won’t get me where I want to go!”

“Watch the youngling there,” said the older honu, and he did. A younger, smaller turtle, one that he’d bullied any number of times, had positioned himself in a place where the combination of wind, waves, and current would carry him toward the beach. He made just the smallest of adjustments with his flippers as the water bore him along. Just at the beach, he dipped down to slow himself in the current going back and to avoid being thrown onto the shore from the top of a wave. Then he slid onto the shore, and slowly moved up on his now-active flippers.

“You can’t bully the sea, youngling,” said the older honu. “You shouldn’t bully anything, but especially not the ocean, which won’t notice you at all.”

It took him a long time to learn that lesson deeply, I’m afraid, and he spent a number of storms tossing about in the surf. Eventually, though, he learned that sometimes you don’t fight, you follow. And when he did, he fought less with other honu, and a bully learned to do better.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

Due to a technical error, the story was not recorded this week.

Photo of a honu (who showed no signs of being a bully) by Eric Anderson.