“[Thomas said,] ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.'” – John 20:25
So now I, too, demand, O Christ, to see your wounded hands and side, your living skin, as Thomas asked, and I, too, will agree that second-hand report tends toward chagrin. As much as I appreciate the word that blessed are they – am I – those who believe without the gift of sight, the centuries have blurred what they reported. Some try to deceive us, with their testimonies falsified. They do not claim you dead, but kill your way of all-surpassing love. That they deride, your new commandment now they disobey. For centuries we have embraced this strife Instead of taking hold of your new life.
A poem/prayer based on John 20:19-31, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Second Sunday of Easter.
As an undergrad, I studied stage lighting. Caravaggio’s use of light and shadow taught me a great deal. In this painting, the shadows on Thomas’ bright forehead reveal his stunned astonishment.
As in (some) years past, I wrote a new song for Easter to play and perform for the post-Easter Sunday episode of What I’m Thinking, my weekly video program at holycrosshilo.com. It’s a song that refers both to the events of the first Easter and of the Sunday that followed.
Am I thinking this week after Easter Sunday? Well, no, not yet. But I am singing “Tell Me to Turn Around.”
Here’s a transcript:
In the week after Easter Sunday I’m afraid I find it difficult to think about much of anything. That’s sad, because the Gospel lesson for this coming Sunday is the story of Thomas and his doubts (John 20:19-31). Poor Thomas gets less of my thinking than he deserves.
As a result, What I’m Thinking this week is What I’m Singing. This is something I have done a few times at Easter over the years, and so I’m pleased to bring you this song: “Tell Me to Turn Around.”
Where have you brought him? How can I see him? I want to know why these ugly things happen. But for now, just tell me. Tell me to turn around.
[Chorus]
Turn around, look behind, where I haven’t looked before. Turn around, clear my eyes. The life is glowing, and I am crowing That the world has changed since I turned around.
[Verses]
You told me already we’ve lost him completely. I want to know why these ugly things happen. Mary, what more can you tell me today? Tell me to turn around.
You told me, and told me, but what good are your stories? I want to know why these ugly things happen. Why are you lying about his wounds, brothers? And you tell me to turn around.
In the gospel stories about Easter, there’s a common theme. It’s unbelief. People heard – from angels, initially – that Jesus had risen from the dead, and… they didn’t believe them. Later people heard from other people that Jesus had risen from the dead, and they didn’t believe the people. I guess that makes sense. If you don’t believe angels, how likely are you to believe people?
Once there was an ‘apapane who didn’t believe in love.
If that seems hard to believe, well, it was hard to believe. He had been raised with two sisters by attentive parents who fed them well, kept them warm in the rain, and taught them all to sing. They flew with him, they brought him to good trees to find bugs and nectar, and they kept him company when the nights got long and lonely.
But he didn’t believe in love.
You might be thinking that his sisters teased him all the time and that’s why he didn’t believe in love. It’s true. They teased him. But not much, really. More to the point, the teasing didn’t bother him. He teased them back and they all would laugh at the silly things they’d say.
Still, he didn’t believe in love.
“You’re just taking care of me because it keeps the family going,” he told his parents, who really didn’t know what to say about that.
“You’re just good to me because you expect I’ll be good to you,” he told his sisters, and he was good to them, but as he said, it was because he expected them to be good to him.
I suppose it might have been because nearly the entire time since he’d cracked the shell that the skies had been gray, the winds had been cold, and the rain had plummeted down.
I sometimes find it hard to believe in love after too many days of cold, grey, windy rain.
He and his sisters had put in a hard day of nectar- and bug-seeking. There might have been ohi’a flowers in blossom, but they were hard to see in the grey light. The bugs were hiding from the rain, not even troubling to go find nectar to eat. The three siblings huddled for the night on a branch, cold, wet, and hungry.
He was grateful for their warmth but he still didn’t believe in love.
When morning came, he blinked his eyes to an unfamiliar light. The clouds had cleared overnight, and the wind gently rustled the leaves. He and his sisters, all three, stared at the golden light of the sun rising over the trees. As it got higher, the ohi’a blossoms opened in scarlet and gold glory. As it got higher, its warmth dried their feathers.
“Wow,” said the sisters. “What a difference that makes.”
“More than you know,” said their brother. “It’s like a completely different world.”
“Is this a world where you can believe in love?” asked one sister.
He thought about it for a while.
“You know, I think it might be,” he said.
They helped one another get their drying feathers into shape – that’s kind of an ‘apapane hug – and flew off into the sunrise over the glorious bloom of ohi’a.
As they flew, they sang together. You know what they sang?
“I think I believe in love.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them from memory – memory plus whatever I feel like saying in the moment.
You and I are familiar with mynas. They’re all over the place, for one thing. And they have a habit of shrieking at us for no particular reason. Here at Church of the Holy Cross, we’re also used to picking up after them because they try to build nests under the eaves and they’re remarkably bad at doing it.
You and I aren’t so familiar with the Manu-o-Ku, known in other parts of the world as the white tern. They tend to be a little bigger than a myna with longer wings. The myna has brown feathers with black feathers on the head and that distinctive yellow mask around the eyes leading to the bright yellow beak. The Manu-o-Ku is all white except for black eyes and a straight black beak. They don’t live here on Hawai’i Island, but you’ll find them – and mynas – living on O’ahu.
Two mynas were watching a manu-o-ku family prepare for laying an egg, and they were pretty critical about it. I may think mynas build messy nests, but the mynas were surprised that the manu-o-ku didn’t build a nest at all. “Where is the egg going to go?” asked one. “They haven’t done anything about a place to keep it from rolling away,” said the other.
The manu-o-ku ignored all this – they heard it, of course, because mynas aren’t usually quiet. They just flew from branch to branch, checking things out, and didn’t fetch a single piece of grass to build a nest.
Finally they settled onto a spot where a branch forked. It made a little spot with a hollow, like the bowl of a spoon – a very shallow spoon. I don’t think I’d have noticed it, but the manu-o-ku did. Somewhat later, the mynas returned to find that a single egg rested in that little depression, and that the father and mother manu-o-ku were taking turns keeping it warm.
“I’m shocked,” said one of the mynas. “I am, too,” said the other. “That egg is going to fall off.” “And if the egg doesn’t,” said the first, “the chick will.”
The manu-o-ku heard this and said nothing.
About a month later, the egg hatched, and the newborn chick’s feet were able to easily hold onto the forked branch of its nest. The parents brought fish and squid from the ocean to feed it. “That will never work,” said the mynas to one another. “That chick is doomed for sure.”
But it wasn’t. It took its first flight. It stayed nearby and the parents continued to bring it meals. It learned to catch its own food. It took to the skies.
“That shouldn’t have worked,” said the first myna. “It was an awful risk,” said the second.
“It’s a good thing that it worked, then, isn’t it?” called one of the manu-o-ku, and flew away in a flurry of white feathers.
You know, Jesus took a risk when he taught people to love one another, because some people don’t want to do that and they got angry about it. He took a risk when he loved people enough that he didn’t act violently when they came to be violent to him. He took a risk by going to the cross, and that risk took him to the grave. If you want to make things better, those actions shouldn’t work.
Jesus rose from the dead, and suddenly all those actions did work, all those risks of love and of peace and of death itself. It was more precarious than a manu-o-ku egg on a branch, but on that Easter Day love won, and it will always win.
By the way, we have taken a risk this morning. We’ve placed Easter eggs around the church and in a moment we’re going to ask you to find them. The risk is that if you don’t find all the real eggs, in a couple of days of sunshine they’ll get really warm and smelly. So help us out here. Make something good happen for yourself and for all of us. Find those eggs. It will be an Easter risk that worked.
by Eric Anderson
There is no video of this story, which I told before the young people headed out for their Easter Egg hunt. For the record, all the colored boiled eggs were retrieved.
The word may come on the phone or in print, or over the ether. The news I’ve been fearing too long, and a loss beyond my bearing. Come sit… with me… Until… the word comes… And wait with me in the silence.
I’ve been longing to know the answer: Maybe yes. Maybe no. My heart is beating so swiftly, and my veins are leaping and pounding. Come sit… with me… Until… the word comes… And wait with me in the silence.
This is the night of shadows and I know what will be. Until then I will weep my prayer for deliverance I won’t receive. Come sit… with me… Until… the soldiers come… Just wait with me in the silence.
Come sit… with me… Until… the dawn comes… Wait with me in the silence.
I had set a goal to write a new song for this Holy Week. I was pleased to have this song to play today.
The ‘amakihi aren’t the most social birds in the world. They often forage by themselves, with their mate, or with a few family members. When the hatchlings have left the nest they sometimes join loose flocks of other ‘amakihi, ‘apapane, ‘akepa, and so on. But not always.
One young ‘amakihi took this a little further than most. He announced to his family and friends that he didn’t need anybody.
If you looked at things a certain way, that seemed true. An ‘amakihi doesn’t need a lot of help to find food in the forest. They eat pretty much anything. They’ll eat nectar. They’ll eat fruit. They’ll eat bugs. In fact, mostly bugs. If it’s edible on the mountain, the chances are that an ‘amakihi is eating it.
Although they will fly above the trees, the ‘amakihi are very nimble fliers. They can stop dead in the air, which is quite a trick. They don’t worry too much about the ‘io or the pueo. If they’re above the trees when they spot one, they can dip back into the trees pretty quickly and the ‘io doesn’t have the turning ability to keep up through the branches and trunks. It’s a careless ‘amakihi that becomes somebody else’s meal.
So the other ‘amakihi weren’t entirely surprised when the young one announced, “I don’t need anybody!”
“No help to find bugs?” asked one.
“No need!” he said.
“No help to find water?” asked another.
“No need!” he replied.
“No company?” asked his mother.
“No need!” he announced, but maybe a little too quickly and a little too loudly.
“All right,” said his grandmother, and the little group of his family and friends flew away and left him there alone.
It was fine for a day. He ate well. He kept an eye out for ‘io. He had good places to rest.
It was fine for a second day. He found an ohi’a grove nodding with blossoms.
It was starting to feel not so good on the third day. He hadn’t made his way through all the ohi’a yet, but he felt heavy and kind of sad. The sweetest bugs didn’t cheer him up.
On the fourth day he realized he was lonely.
He sat and sang a sad little song, one you don’t often hear from an ‘amakihi.
The branch he was sitting on bounced down and up, and he turned to see his mother perched there. She listened to him finish his sad little song. Then she waited.
“I think I need somebody sometimes,” he said.
“I’m not surprised,” she replied.
“Really?” he said.
“Everybody does. We don’t live by bugs and nectar alone.”
The two of them flew back to find the rest of the family and a less lonely future.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance (it’s what you just read) but when I tell them it’s a time of re-creation, not recall.
“[Jesus] said to them, ‘Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it, you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, “Why are you doing this?” just say this, “The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.”‘” – Mark 11:2
I was just minding my business, which is: Kicking at cobblestones. It’s what I do. Others may carry the great and exalted or strain to haul carts, but not me. Oh, no.
I kick at the cobblestones. It’s what I do.
Along come these dudes. I’d never seen them or smelled them or known them, so what did they do? They untied the rope that ran from my halter along to the post. I didn’t panic. Or move.
I kicked at the cobblestones. It’s what I do.
Give me a chance, though, idiot dudes, and I’ll kick your cobbles. You know that I will. They fussed at the rope and they petted my nose. I sniffed them for sugar, but they weren’t that smart.
I kicked at the cobblestones. It’s what I do.
A couple of neighbors – I’d seen them before – spoke to the dudes. I paid no attention. I had my afternoon plans good and set. Neither neighbors nor dudes would bollix those up.
I kick at the cobblestones. It’s what I do.
There’s a tug at my halter. Both neighbors and dudes are nodding, and telling me, “Come along now. The Lord needs your services. Step down the road.” I’d have reared or planted my feet, but I went along.
I kicked at the cobblestones. It’s what I do.
Next thing I know there’s cloth piled on me. I thought about kicking it off. It was hot. But then there’s another dude sitting upon me. I braced then to toss him off, placing my feet,
Kicking the cobblestones. It’s what I do.
“A moment,” the dude said, and breathed in my ear, “I need you today,” and his hand brushed my neck. Are you kidding? There are others who’ll carry and haul. They’re not me. I’m my own. I won’t carry at all.
I’ll kick at the cobblestones. It’s what I do.
But my hooves took their steps down the Bethany slope, into the valley, along to the gates. There were people about and they shouted, “Hosanna!” They laid clothing and branches ahead of our way.
They covered the cobblestones – but it’s what I do.
I kicked at the cloth and I kicked at the greens. The dude on my back, well, he chuckled at that. “Kick away, little friend,” came that intimate whisper. “It won’t be too long ’till you’re back home at last.
“And kicking the cobblestones.” It’s what I do.
With anyone else on my back I’d have bolted. The noise and the heat, the dust made me sneeze, the leaves made for treacherous footing beneath, so that kicking made balance a tenuous thing.
When kicking the cobblestones is what I do.
The dude left my back with a softly said, “Thank you.” Two of the dudes stripped the cloaks from my spine. They turned me around to the gates and the valley, and back up the Bethany hill to my home
Where I kicked at the cobblestones. It’s what I do.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 11:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Sixth Sunday in Lent, Liturgy of the Palms.
The borrowing of a “colt that has never been ridden” is an odd element in the odd story of Jesus’ serio-comic “triumphant entry” into Jerusalem. Mark gave it twice as much time as he gave to describing the procession itself. The entire project of borrowing an unridden colt begs for disaster: arrest for theft, an animal that refuses to move, Jesus careering through the streets on a bucking colt. I don’t claim to have captured the colt’s perspective in any real way here. Hopefully I’ve given some idea how odd it all was.
The image of a child and a donkey is by a Byzantine mosaicist of the 5th century – The Yorck Project (2002) 10,000 masterpieces of painting (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. ISBN: 3936122202., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=148600.
But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the LORD: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. – Jeremiah 31:33
Of all the promises you’ve made, O God, through human speech of ancient poets, this I wait for most expectantly. Oh when, I ask, will human hearts be oriented to your will?
From Jeremiah’s day to this, I do not see a sudden change in human righteousness. Not even Jesus’ resurrection prompted us to set aside our greedy lust for power,
Our tolerance for prejudice, enshrining it in law that breaks the Law I yearn to feel a-written on my heart. How bright would be the dawn of such a day!
But God, I fear that knowledge of your law within the heart would do no better than to write it on papyrus, paper, wood, or stone. We learn it, and we know it, and we break it.
So did you, have you, written on our hearts, and did we find a way to curtain it away, as centuries of Christians have ignored the Savior’s last command to love?
I tremble that this promise is fulfilled.
A poem/prayer based on Jeremiah 31:31-34, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year B, Fifth Sunday in Lent.
“Not like us at all,” said the i’iwi, who usually doesn’t take part in this kind of conversation but was close enough to overhear.
“They’re not so bad,” said the elepaio, but nobody was listening to him.
“They don’t eat nectar,” said the i’iwi.
“Not everybody does,” said the elepaio, who didn’t.
“They’re not brightly colored,” said the bright orange ‘akepa.
“I’m not either,” said the elepaio, who wasn’t.
“They sit still all the time,” said the ‘amakihi.
“Not everybody needs to hop around to find food,” said the elepaio.
“They don’t sing out the way they could,” said the ‘apapane.
“Would you sing out when there’s an ‘io overhead?” asked the elepaio.
The other birds finally noticed that the elepaio was there.
“What are you going on about?” they asked.
“I don’t see that there’s anything that strange about the ‘Oma’o,” said the elepaio. “In fact, most of the things you’re criticizing are things you could say about me.”
The other birds were silently embarrassed for a while. Some of them had, in fact, said similar things about the elepaio when they thought they wouldn’t be heard.
“Don’t you think they’re different?” asked the i’iwi, who most of the others thought was kind of different himself.
“Certainly they’re different,” said the elepaio. “Different doesn’t mean strange, or bad, or wrong, though.”
The birds were silent.
“If it helps any,” said an ‘oma’o who was sitting there quietly and completely unnoticed in some koa, “I can’t help think that you’re all rather different, too. But you know,” she said thoughtfully, “it seems to work for you.”
The birds looked at one another: red feathers, green feathers, tan feathers, black feathers, yellow feathers, long beaks, short beaks, different shapes to their wings.
“You’re right,” said the ‘apapane thoughtfully. “It does seem to work for us in our different ways.”
“Not so weird.”
“Not so bizarre.”
“Different from us, but it works.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
We had a technical failure and lost the audio from the beginning of the story this week. Our apologies!
I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them from what I remember of what I wrote. Since I don’t remember things perfectly, and since I invent new things in the telling, the story I tell may not match the story I wrote.
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