Hard Work

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 14 Comments

“And he [the landowner] said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.’ So they went.” – Matthew 20:4

You’ve given me heavy lifting, Jesus.
How shall I understand this tale?

Do you applaud the naked use of power
that’s used by rich and haughty men
(and yes, I do mean men) to stratify
and separate the workers who might,
joined together, change the world?
Oh, that would pain me, Jesus.

Or should I see in this landowner’s
strange caprice the startling love
that cannot be provided less to one,
and more to one, for love unmeasured
cannot be decreased or increased?
This lifts my heart to hope.

Do I perceive a stern rebuke to those,
like me, who act as if they know your will
much better than the ones whose faith
is newly growing, newly shining?
It is a painful arrogance to think that you
have set me on a throne to rule.

Is this a welcome call to nations
who could never comprehend your word,
O Jesus, in that ancient Aramaic?
Those who, like me, are grateful for
the pen of Matthew to record your parable,
and translators to share this text?

Where shall I find my place, O Christ,
in this strange tale? Am I the powerful one?
I, long ago, put off my entry to the Church,
so have I come late in the day, or have
so many days passed now that I have worked
the morning, noon, and afternoon?

I guess I’ll have to let your Spirit move.
These things, and more, are… “obvious.”
And when I struggle with the obvious
your prompting steals on stealthy step
to prod my heart and soul. Impel me, Christ,
to find my place, from first to last, in you.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 20:1-16, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 20 (25).

The image is part of an illustration from the 11th century Codex Aureus Epternacensis, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10315166. One of the things that fascinates me about this image (and two companion paintings of the beginning and end of the Matthew 20 story) is that the faces are so alike. I’m certain that’s an artistic choice, and I’m letting it work within me.

Story: It Starts with Truth

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

September 17, 2023

Romans 14:1-12
Matthew 18:21-35

They were building their first nest together as an ‘apapane couple. An ‘apapane nest is a pretty impressive piece of engineering, taking a week or even a day or two more. That’s a lot of grass and twigs and moss to move.

They weren’t the only ones, of course. In a tree not far away his sister and her husband were also building a nest, their first one, too. They’d got started a little earlier, so their nest was taking shape while the brother’s nest looked pretty ragged. Everyone was having trouble finding the grass and moss and twigs for their nests, and flying farther to find them.

That’s when he got his clever idea.

When his sister and her husband (and his own wife) were away looking for more material, he flew quickly over to his sister’s nest. He pulled out a particularly nice twig that would be perfect for his own nest and flew back. When his wife returned she found him proudly settling that twig into position.

“Well done!” she said.

“There’s more,” he said.

They both flew off, she to search the forest and he to his sister’s nest. Before his wife came back he’d made three trips to it, taking grass and moss as well as another good structural twig.

“Where are you finding this so quickly?” his wife wondered.

“I found an old nest that nobody’s using,” he said.

“Oh, good! Show me and I’ll come, too.”

“I wish I could. This was the last of it,” he told her.

But he went back to his sister’s nest again for more.

He was careful to make sure his sister and her husband were absent. It was clear that they had had a difficult time replacing the things he’d taken. They were still ahead in their nest’s construction, but not so much as before.

He pulled a piece of moss from his sister’s nest and turned around. There, sitting silently on a nearby branch, was his wife.

“Abandoned nest?” she said.

“I’ll stop with this one,” he said.

“That’s not enough,” she told him. “You have to put that piece back, first of all. Then you have to wait for your sister and her husband and tell them what you’ve been doing. Then you have to help them build this nest that you’ve been stealing from.”

“Isn’t it enough that I just stop and let it be?” he asked.

“No, it isn’t. It’s nowhere near enough. You’ve been pulling their nest apart and you need to help them put it back.”

“Couldn’t I just do that? Leave out that I’ve been taking things?”

She gave him a very sharp look indeed. “She’s your sister. Do you think she’d be content with a lie?”

He admitted that she wouldn’t.

“Ask anyone among the ‘apapane,” she said. “We can live together when we make mistakes and make amends for them. We can’t live together with lies. It begins with truth. So tell the truth.”

He told the truth. His sister had some true and truly angry things to say to him about it, but she did accept his help in repairing the damage and, during family gatherings, was sometimes heard to say, “It begins with truth. Thank you, brother, for the truth.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory rather than reading them. As a result, they change.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

If You Do Not

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

“[Jesus said,] ‘So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.'” – Matthew 18:35

I’ve done it, Jesus. I have granted my release
to people who have hurt me. They confessed their fault,
they offered restitution. I said, “I forgive you,”
and I meant it. We reforged our peace.

I’ve done it, Jesus. I have bade farewell
to consequences that I might have asked.
Though truthfully, I’d never have received them
from these ones who never owned their harm.

I’ve done it, Jesus. I have asked for true
confession from the ones who’ve hurt me, though
they’ve offered only their excuse and not
acknowledged any harm.

And I wish that I could do it, Jesus.
I wish that I could set aside the hurt
that aches within, despite the glib assurance
that they hurt me, “for the best.”

What is forgiveness offered when I’m told
my hurt was for my good, my harm
a temporary thing, when it has lingered
on and on and on?

I’ve done it, Jesus. But
I do not think
I can
do this.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 18:21-35, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 19 (24).

The image is The Parable of the King and His Servants by Lawrence W. Ladd (ca. 1880) – http://americanart.si.edu/collections/search/artwork/?id=14161, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=60792927.

Story: Ready

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

September 10, 2023

Exodus 12:1-14
Matthew 18:15-20

We’re back to flight school today. Nene flight school.

The first part of the day had been occupied with eating lessons, because nene believe very strongly in the virtue of a good breakfast. And lunch. And mid-afternoon snack. And don’t get me started on dinner, because a nene is pretty much always ready to start on dinner.

Now, however, the young goslings were ready for some flying time. They were very young, and they hadn’t been going to school very long. In fact, they were still on the first lesson, which is:

Taking off.

That’s kind of an issue for a nene. It’s a good-sized bird, and relative to some similar looking geese, it’s got smaller wings. A nene will fly better than you or I, but there’s a lot to know about getting started.

A nene has to get the hops right, and the wing downbeats right, and the leap and the downbeats timed right, and most important of all: face into the wind.

Face into the wind.

One of the young nene was having a lot of trouble facing into the wind.

Do you have friends who are distracted easily? Any little noise or movement draws their eye? Well, he was distracted by everything. A stray ‘ohelo berry. An unfamiliar noise. A familiar noise. A puff of wind. A stillness of wind. A bug. A waving blade of grass.

So when the teacher lined everyone up, had them face into the wind, led them through a couple of practice hops and a couple of practice wingbeats, she also turned into the wind with them and called out, “Ready?”

There was a chorus of “Ready”s behind her, except for one voice that said, “For what?”

He’d been distracted by a sunbeam on some lava glass.

She got him turned in the right direction, led the practice hops and the wingbeats, and called out, “Ready?”

She got the expected reply. Several nene “Ready”s and one nene “Oops.”

She dismissed the rest of the class back to eating lessons, but asked the ever-distracted-one to stay. “I know you’re easily distracted,” she told him, “but the problem is, you have to get everything ready before you take off.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Can we try it?”

“Yes,” she said, “we can try it.”

They tried it. It was a disaster. When he didn’t focus, he didn’t time his hops and his wingbeats, and he fell forward. When he forgot to hop at all, he stayed firmly on the ground. When he didn’t face into the wind and stay that way, he’d tip himself right over.

“How about we try it with me paying attention?” he asked.

A few minutes later his classmates looked up from their mid morning snack to see their teacher and their friend flying gently through sky above them. They cheered.

He paid a lot of attention when it came time for landing.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories first (it’s what you’ve just read) but tell them from memory. Memory and creative inspiration, that is.

Photo of two nene by Eric Anderson.

First We Eat

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

This is how you shall eat it: your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and you shall eat it hurriedly. It is the passover of the LORD. – Exodus 12:11

They tell us that the night for which we’ve longed
has come. The days of bondage reach their end.
The day is marked in blood and death, for which
I sorrow. Blood besmirches my door frame,
and spots the threshold where the lintel drips.
But first: we eat.

We did not have a massive flock to search.
Our neighbors had no flock at all. We sit
together at the table laid in haste.
A meal of meat is hardly everyday,
but we will eat tonight in deadly haste.
Yes, first: we eat.

Someday I’ll have the time for roasted lamb,
to savor and rejoice in sensory
delight. Tonight the flavor that I seek
is freedom’s sweetness dropping from the chin,
and so my staff rests by my sandaled feet.
But first: we eat.

A poem/prayer based on Exodus 12:1-14, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 18 (23).

The image is “The Feast of the Passover” by Charles Foster – from Charles Foster: The Story of the Bible from Genesis to Revelation Hartford, Conn., 1873., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=59186517

Story: Simple Song

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

September 3, 2023

Exodus 3:1-15
Romans 12:1-8

‘Apapane are known for their singing – the ohi’a and koa forests echo with it during the cooler parts of the day. ‘Apapane are sensible creatures and when it’s hot they save their breath for breathing.

They are also known for the complexity of their singing. They sing high and they sing low, they squeal and whistle, they making clicking sounds, and my goodness can they trill. An ‘apapane concert is often a trilling experience.

Sorry about that.

There was one ‘apapane, however, who didn’t seem to have received the word that he could sing high, low, middle, whistle, trill, click, and squeal. Instead, he sang one very simple song. It was pretty, to be sure, a low note that rose and then flourished into this marvelous little trill. Other ‘apapane really enjoyed his song, and so did ‘akepa and ‘amakihi so on. It was so lovely that it would soothe a grumpy ‘i’iwi, and when an ‘i’wi is grumpy, they usually stay grumpy.

His parents and brother and sister and miscellaneous aunties and uncles and cousins and tutus all waited for his second song. They were expecting something else to thrill the ears – I’m sorry, that should have been “trill the ears.”

But it didn’t come.

When he found ohi’a in blossom, he sang a low note that rose and flourished into a marvelous little trill. When he had just filled up on insects, he sang a low note that rose and flourished into a marvelous little trill. When the sun was bright and warm on his feathers he sang a low note that rose and flourished into a marvelous little trill. When he was just feeling content with life he sang a low note that rose and flourished into a marvelous little trill.

Nobody actually became bored with his song, but they did become concerned.

Parents, grandparents, friends, aunties, uncles, and so forth began to ask him about his one single song. He’d just smile in an ‘apapane way (they don’t have lips to curve up, so I think it’s got something to do with the way they move their head, but to be honest I don’t know), and he didn’t say anything about it. They’d ask about his next song, and he’d smile. They’d ask if he was all right with only one song, and he’d smile. They’d ask what it meant for him to have only one song, and he’d smile.

It was his sister who figured it out. She didn’t peck him with questions (or with her beak, which brothers and sisters sometimes do and they shouldn’t). She just hung out with him, flying from tree to tree, talking with him about nothing in particular, and enjoying his company. He enjoyed hers as well.

She watched as he sang his one song when the sun rose, and when the sky was clear, and when the hot sun went behind a cloud, and when there was lots of nectar, and… that’s when she realized it.

“You sing a song about being happy,” she said. He smiled.

“Nobody else has figured that out,” he said, and smiled again.

“They’re all waiting for you to sing about something else,” she said.

He smiled. “I like to sing about being happy,” he told her.

She smiled back. “That’s a song about everything,” she said.

“And nothing,” he said.

“Everything and nothing,” she said, “is a good thing to sing about.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, and then tell them without notes. Sometimes that means that the pre-planned puns don’t make it in, as was the case today. You can decide whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Photo of two ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

What Shall I Say to Them?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

“God said to Moses, ‘I AM WHO I AM.'” – Exodus 3:14

I don’t usually indulge in the histories
of the shepherds who keep us.
What matter to me or to ewe
as long as they lead us to grass?
As long as they guard us from wolves?
As long as they don’t get us lost?

But Moses, for all of his protests to God,
did not keep his silence from us.
How often we heard how he lived dual lives,
one family held by the other as slaves?
How often we heard he had ruled as a prince
and fled as a criminal here to our hills?

Though I’ve not known a sheep with two hearts,
poor Moses had two in his breast.
One beat to the rhythms of royalty.
One pulsed with the sorrow of slaves.
He wept when he called out his orders.
He knelt when he tended our hurts.

I’m not one to linger by fire – it burns –
but when Moses turned aside to the flaming bush,
I followed, and listened, and chewed on the grass.
The voice challenged Moses to merge his two hearts,
to step up and lead, not as prince, but as prophet,
to commit his one heart to deliver his people.

He sidestepped and soft-shoed, did Moses.
“Who am I?” he demanded, “to set people free?”
No sheep ever asked, “Who am I?” but of course,
no sheep ever lived with two hearts in its chest.
“You are the one I have chosen,” said God.
Just one, said God. One man with one heart.

“Well, then, who are you?” asked the twin hearts of Moses.
“Who shall I say has given this command?”
A soul who couldn’t be sure of himself
asked another for certainty. An echoing
silence greeted the question awaiting an answer.
“What is your name?”

“I AM WHO I AM.” the voice softly declared.
“I am who I am” is all I could say
if asked to account for my being, my name.
“I am who I am” reveals my one heart,
my undivided soul, my unified self.
“I am” is enough for a human, for God, for sheep.

Are you listening, Moses? Do you understand?
“I AM WHO I AM,” is the living Divine,
but is also the nature of all living things.
Let your hearts be united now, Moses,
and see. You are who you are.
You are made in the image of God.

When he put on his sandals, returned to the flock,
I followed, and knew I would see him no more.
His separate hearts were not healed, no not yet.
They were healing, however. “I AM” had begun.
He called us together this time without tears.
He led us on home. He led us to home.

A poem/prayer based on Exodus 3:1-15, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 17 (22).

The image is Moses before the Burning Bush by Domenico Fetti (ca. 1615-1617) – Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien, Bilddatenbank., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5224456.


Story: Following the Heroines

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

August 27, 2023

Exodus 1:8-2:10
Romans 12:1-8

This story is not about a Hawaiian bird, although this bird does have relatives in Hawai’i. She was a black-crowned night heron. Black-crowned night herons live all over the world – they’ve been seen on all seven continents. They live here in Hawai’i, where you can find them in the shallow waters hunting for fish. The Hawaiian name is ‘auku’u.

I’m not sure what this bird called herself, partially because she lived a long time ago and languages change, partially because she lived in Egypt and I don’t know the Egyptian name for an ‘auku’u, and partially because I strongly suspect that birds don’t call themselves by the names people use for them anyway. She lived up to the name “night heron,” though, because she slept through most of the day and hunted the shallows of the Nile River at night. Hawaiian ‘auku’u, by the way, sleep and night and fish during the day.

This ‘auku’u, however, had had her sleep interrupted by the sounds of soldiers marching by. Although she hunted fish, she had no trouble concluding that they were hunting something. They went into little homes with their swords and spears ready, frightening the poor people within, most of whom worked hard all day with other people standing nearby with whips. Sometimes the ‘auku’u had seen the whips used on those poor people and she’d felt very sorry for them.

The soldiers didn’t seem to find what they were looking for, so they gathered together and marched away. A few minutes later, the heron heard voices from one of the little huts. A young girl rushed out, dashing from house to house and asking those within for things. When she returned, she had jars of sticky oil and pine pitch.

The ‘auku’u settled back to sleep again, but then the door to the hut opened again and the girl returned, this time accompanied by her mother. The mother carried a shallow bowl that glistened with newly applied oil and pitch. The two walked down to the riverbank, where the ‘auku’u watched unnoticed in the reeds.

The bowl wasn’t a bowl after all, but a woven basket, and the ‘auku’u was surprised to see that the oily pitchy coating worked to keep it afloat as they laid it in the water. The ‘auku’u was even more surprised to see that the improvised boat held a baby, a human baby. The mother and daughter cried as they pushed it out to where it could be caught in the current. It began to float slowly away.

The girl followed along on shore, moving slowly among the reeds to hide as best she could. The ‘auku’u was too curious to go back to sleep. She followed the girl and the girl followed the basket, rocking gently on the water.

They all three – baby, girl, and bird – heard the splashing ahead. Another group of women were swimming in the river. One saw the basket get caught in the reeds. Another went to fetch it. They gathered around the child, who was awake and yawning.

The ‘auku’u watched as one of the women adopted the baby as her own. She watched as the girl emerged from hiding, offering her mother’s services to care for the child. She watched as they all left the riverbank together.

The ‘auku’u didn’t understand all of what was going on, of course, but she recognized this: those soldiers had been a danger to this infant, one which would only get worse. The mother and sister had done their best to get him to place of safety, and they had succeeded. This new woman in the baby’s life had given him a home in which to grow.

The ‘auku’u didn’t know it, and frankly neither did any of the women, but the baby whose life they’d saved that day would grow up to deliver those enslaved people and lead them to a new home. We know him as Moses. He lived because of what those women had done.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories first, then tell them from what I remember of what I wrote. That process includes both a certain amount of, well, misremembering, and somewhat more improvisation.

Photo of an ‘auku’u in Hilo Bay by Eric Anderson.

Learn, Baby, Learn

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

But the midwives feared God; they did not do as the king of Egypt commanded them, but they let the boys live. – Exodus 1:17

Learn, baby, learn.

All you know of the harshness of living on Earth
are the infant’s discomforts, the hunger, the wetness,
the missing embrace, the blanket unwrapped.
There are forces unknown which will end your discomforts.
They would open your veins. They would have you breathe the Nile.

Learn, baby, learn.

There are some who bear swords and will use them on you.
There are some who will tell them to slaughter and kill.
There are some who will rotate their heads in their shame.
There are some who will watch and will nod in approval.
There are some who will believe that their silence is speech.

Learn, baby, learn.

Learn of the men who build power through fear.
Learn of the women they threaten with terror.
Learn of the ones who will not tread the path
of violent obedience, life-stealing loyalty.
Learn of the midwives and of your own kin.

Learn, baby, learn.

Your mother has given your life to the Nile –
a desperate step, a foolhardy plan –
the river’s rough reeds, woven in pitch,
are all to preserve you from Pharaoh’s desire,
to stop up your breath with the waves and the flood.

Learn, baby, learn.

A woman retrieves you from your fragile ark.
Though raised up in power, it’s pity that rules her.
Compassion and courage have saved you, small one:
Bithiah’s mercy, Miriam’s courage,
Jochebed’s thoroughness, Puah’s fear of God.

Learn, baby, learn.

Learn the mercy, the courage, the constant attention.
Learn the creative ways to harbor the innocents.
Learn the eyes that perceive the power of pity.
Learn the power of pitch against the waters that drown.
Learn, budding prophet, to be faithful to God.

Learn, baby, learn.

A poem/prayer based on Exodus 1:8-2:10, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 16 (21).

The image is The Finding of Moses by Salvator Rosa (1660) – https://www.dia.org/art/collection/object/finding-moses-59779, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=79699569.

The two midwives are identified as Shiphrah and Puah in Exodus 1:15. Moses’ sister Miriam is first named in Exodus 15:20, where she is described as “the prophet Miriam.” Mother Jochebed’s name is revealed in Exodus 6:10. The “daughter of Pharaoh” is not named in Exodus. 1 Chronicles 4:17 calls her “Bit-yah,” or “daughter of the LORD,” and is the source of the name I’ve used here.

Story: Stranger

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

August 20, 2023

Isaiah 56:1, 6-8
Matthew 15:10-28

When the young myna was a fledgling, he didn’t pay much attention to other birds around. As he grew he took more of an interest in the little flock and those around.

Mynas don’t typically pay a lot of attention to other birds – they save most of their squawks and shrieks for other mynas – but this young myna was a little more territorial. He thought the grasses and seeds and bugs and worms on his turf should be for the mynas, and pretty much only for the mynas. Other birds weren’t worthy. They could go wait in a corner until the mynas were done.

He would fly and shriek at the cardinals and finches and waxbills that settled on his flock’s patch of grass until they flew off to find a quieter place for lunch. The other mynas mostly ignored this; some birds go through this stage, they told one another. He’ll grow out of it.

To their surprise, there was one bird he was particularly mean to. He didn’t actually peck at this bird, but he’d get closer and scream louder and flap his wings harder at the kolea than any spotted dove. It might be because the kolea was actually slightly bigger than he was, so he put more effort into his, well, I guess we’ve got to call it bullying, don’t we? than he needed to for a little yellow-beaked cardinal. And I’m afraid the other reason was that the kolea was always alone. The saffron finches usually fed in pairs, but the kolea was always alone.

To this bully of a myna, that just made him vulnerable.

He’d scream and flap and chase and generally make himself obnoxious. The kolea never said a word, just hopped or flew aside until the myna was satisfied. And he always came back.

Until one day when the kolea wasn’t there, and the myna thought he’d won.

“I drove that one off for good!” he exclaimed, but there was a big myna argument going on so nobody heard him to correct him.

Months passed, and one morning he landed on his flock’s favorite grassy area to find the same kolea, resting peacefully and feeding on grasses and bugs and worms. The myna was furious.

“How dare you come back?” he shrieked. “You’ve no business here, you coward. I drove you off once, I’ll drive you off again!”

“Hold on a minute,” said an older, somewhat wiser myna. “What are you talking about?”

“I drove this pest away months ago. He hasn’t dared to show his beak since.”

“You didn’t drive him off,” said the older myna. “He spends the summers in Alaska.”

“Where?” said the bully myna, who’d never heard of Alaska, and of course the older myna had never been to Alaska, so it took some time to explain that the kolea had flown 3,000 miles over the ocean to get there, and another 3,000 miles to get back.

“That kolea’s no coward,” said the older myna in conclusion. “Nor are the saffron finches or the northern cardinals or the spotted doves. They just don’t like all the noise while they eat.”

The bully myna was silent. He couldn’t fly 3,000 miles and back, and he knew it.

“The kolea’s more worthy of eating here than I am,” he said.

“Everyone’s worthy of eating here, youngster,” said the older myna. “’Worth’ has nothing to do with being hungry and needing food.”

After that the young myna still had to be reminded to let other birds alone from time to time, but that was OK, because it usually meant that he got to screech at other mynas instead, and that, as we know, is just what mynas love to do.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell these stories live without notes – so they will always be different from the text I’ve prepared.

Photo of a myna by Eric Anderson