Tempted

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” – Matthew 4:3

Temptation I recognize, Jesus
(except when I don’t).
My media diet is full to the brim
of temptation, allure:
“Buy this! Buy that! And life
will be better for sure!”

At times I am sure that
temptation disguises itself as need:
a tool or a book or a thing
enlivening live streams or
enhancing worship or
giving me something to think on anew.

Might temptation be present in
obvious choices, the things that we get
because Mom always got them?
The symbols we use, uniforms donned.
As I bow my head for a Sunday stole,
do I hear a reproach in its wavering fringe?

And then there’s temptation
I simply don’t recognize, and here I must ask:
What’s wrong with transforming the stones
into bread? Your need was as real as
the need of five thousand
or those who lived on the manna of Sinai.

Your retort to the Tempter – what does it mean?
We live by the words of the mouth of God?
Who would know that better than the Incarnate Word?
And yet you consumed the fruit of the land,
the bread from the ground, its flour ground
(as you knew) between stones.

As a test, I can pass this one, Jesus.
I can. There’s no sign the power
of stone-flour bread is mine to command.
But I wonder, Messiah. You spotted this test.
You chose your best course. You passed the exam.
But would anyone else? Could anyone else?

The Tempter was someone you knew to resist.
I don’t always know. Sometimes, but not always.
The action was one that would lead you astray.
The paths that I follow all seem to be straight… to start.
So I beg you to help me to choose the true bread,
for I don’t always recognize the voice of God.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 4:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, First Sunday in Lent.

The image is an illustration in a Psalter ca. 1222 by an unknown artist – Self-scanned Rosa Giorgi: Bildlexikon der Kunst, Bd. 6.: Engel, Dämonen und phantastische Wesen, 384 S., Berlin: Parthas-Verlag 2003, ISBN 3936324042 / ISBN 9783936324044, S. 130, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=114178710.

Story: The River Who Wanted to Be a Mountain

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

February 19, 2023

Exodus 24:12-18
Matthew 17:1-9

The river was a pretty good river. It had some charming waterfalls and some broad pools. It had earth banks solid rock banks and stony banks and down near where it entered the ocean, it had sandy banks. It made chuckling sounds over small rocks, roaring sounds as it fell, and seemed to create its own silence in its wide, slow sections. Anyone would say it was a pretty good river. – anyone, perhaps, except the river itself. You see, the river wanted to be a mountain.

It looked up to the mountain and envied its craggy sides and its lofty peak. It envied the clouds that wreathed its summit sometimes and the snowy crown they left behind. It envied the sheer mass of the mountain, so great that it pressed down the sea floor from which it had grown. It envied its grandeur. It envied its majesty.

The river wanted to be a mountain.

“Oh, I wish I could be a mountain,” it said in the musical rippling of the water over stones.

To the river’s surprise, the mountain heard, and to the river’s greater surprise, the mountain replied. “Why do you want to be a mountain?” it hummed with its deep, rumbling voice.

“I’d like to be as tall as you,” said the river. “I’d like to touch the sky. I’d like to see all the earth around me. I’d like people to look up to me with awe.”

“You’re nearly as tall as me,” pointed out the mountain. “Water that falls on my peak comes down to you – you and other rivers on my sides. Water you carry to the sea rises up to touch the sky. Between the oceans and the clouds, your waters cover all the earth. And you know that people look at your falls and pools with joy.”

“Yes, but I’ve heard stories,” said the river, “about times when God had special things to say, and those things were said up on the mountains. God spoke to Moses on a mountain, and Jesus taught on a mountain.”

“That’s true,” said the mountain. “I’ve heard those stories, too. And I’ve heard another story. Did you forget that one?”

“Which one?” asked the river.

“I’ve heard that before Jesus taught on a mountain, he was baptized. In a river.”

The river was silent, because that was a familiar story, too, and in its envy, it had forgotten it.

“I guess it’s not so bad to be a river,” said the river.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said the mountain. “Can I send the water that falls on me your way?”

“You can,” said the river. “And I’ll send it on to the ocean.”

The mountain stands, and the river runs, and both have their place in the life of the world, and in the stories of the Bible and our faith.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The story in this recording is told from memory of the text above. Sometimes the memory isn’t perfect, and by “sometimes” I mean “always.”

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Half Way Down

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

“As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, ‘Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.'” – Matthew 17:9a

Who would I tell, Jesus? What would I tell them?
“He glowed like a lamp in the sun, but brighter!”
“Moses was talking to him; so was Elijah!”
“A voice told me to listen from a cloud!”

They’d shake their heads to hear the first,
to hear the second, to hear the third.
The last and final sentence, though, they’d hear and smile:
“And when, pray tell, will you start listening?”

That question’s fair enough, I know.
I blurted out those words of invitation
rather than a question, like, “Should we
build booths for you, as you are here?”

So, Jesus, no, I’ve learned a little bit.
I’ll keep my silence ’till you give the word.
And listen. I will listen, sure as day.
And… maybe… wonder what you mean by “risen from the dead.”

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 17:1-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Transfiguration Sunday.

The image is Transfiguration by Latimore, Kelly, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57114 [retrieved February 14, 2023]. Original source: Kelly Latimore Icons, https://kellylatimoreicons.com/.

Story: Sighing on the Wind

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

February 12, 2023

1 Corinthians 3:1-9
Matthew 5:21-37

“What is love?” the little girl asked her mother at bedtime, but she fell asleep before she heard the answer.

“What is love?” chirped the coqui frog outside her window.  She slept on.

“What is love?” crowed the rooster, who had no idea what time it was and didn’t care whether he crowed at sunrise or the middle of the night.

“What is love?” sighed the dove, and “What is love?” hummed the saffron finch, and “What is love?” purred the cat lying below them.

“What is love?” The question flew about the island, from creature to creature, from voice to voice. ‘Apapane sang about it on the mountain slopes and noio screeched about it above the waves. Pigs grunted it in their shelters and mongoose chittered it in their burrows.

“What is love?” asked the sheep and the pueo and the nene and the dogs. “What is love?” rumbled the mountain and “What is love?” sighed the clouds.

It was the wind who whispered it into the ear of the ‘io. Whispered it, and whispered it again, until the ‘io took wing and cried with a great voice, “Love is what lifts you up! Love is what carries you! Love is what makes you a home!”

The ‘io cried it, and the wind sighed it. The ‘apapane sang it and the pigs grunted it. The nene honked it and the chickens clucked it.

Outside a little girl’s window, a coqui frog chirped, “Love is what lifts you up. Love is what carries you. Love is what makes you a home.”

She woke suddenly, though whether it was the coqui’s voice that waked her I can’t tell you. “Mama!” she called, and both parents hurried to her room.

“I know what love is!” she said, and her mother said, “But of course. I told you when you asked me:”

And the two said together: “Love is what lifts you up. Love is what carries you. Love is what makes you a home.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

In the recording above, the story is told from memory of this text. I had no illusions that I would remember all of the creatures I’d put in the story (or the order), but I remembered more of them than I’d expected!

Milk

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

“I fed you with milk, not solid food, for you were not ready for solid food. Even now you are still not ready…” – 1 Corinthians 3:2

A food of miracles, this milk, that comforts the miraculous.
The squalling ball of helpless and adorable fresh flesh would dwindle soon,
would cease its noise, but better is delivery of milk to toothless gums,
and better far is sleepy, satisfying milky burps.

So I am glad, nay o’er the moon with Paul, to feed
us on the milk of breasts Divine, that my poor soul
has sustenance, vitality, and vigor for
the growth – ah, yes, the growth – that Paul had promised.

So what, I ask, is this more solid food to feed the soul?
What is, I ask, more rich, more suited to the task
than milk? What is, I want to know,
the superfood of the soul?

For challenges arise, I see. If Paul demands
we lay aside the jealousy and quarrels, I
can only echo him. “What use are these?” we say.
“Has not the Savior shown us better ways?”

But rising beyond Paul, the words of Jesus daunt,
which set the bar for my comportment high.
Anger and insulting? Lay aside. Admit my wrongs.
Look not with lust. Say only yes or no and keep my word.

I sigh, aware the challenge beckons, and
I seek nutrition of the spirit that
will carry me along and to
the end.

A poem/prayer based on 1 Corinthians 3:1-9 and Matthew 5:21-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading and Gospel Reading for Year A, the Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is Glass of Milk by NIAID, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=82983911

Story: Deep Dives

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

February 5, 2023

Isaiah 58:1-12
Matthew 5:13-20

I believe that I have mentioned schools before. A couple of my stories have visited nene school, and we’ve heard a little bit about ‘apapane learning to fly and ‘amakihi learning to sing. There are several species of fish, of course, that have made the ultimate commitment to lifelong learning, because…

They are always in schools.

This story is not about birds or fish, though it does take place in the water. This is about a honu school. Green turtles hatch on beaches, of course, and then the little turtles head down into the water. When they’re small they stay in shallow water, but as they grow they venture further out. That’s when it’s time to learn about deeper diving to graze on the seaweeds below or to hide from a hunting shark. That’s when I imagine a honu might go to school.

The teacher of this particular honu class was mostly feeling pretty satisfied. The students were cheerful and respectful. They were kind to one another and to her. They encouraged one another and they kept an eye out for one another. There hadn’t been a single episode where a student had got lost on the reef; someone always called before one wandered out of sight.

That’s a pretty good class.

There were two students, however, who were giving the honu teacher something of a headache, and for completely different reasons. One student insisted on trying things before he was ready for them. She’d set the class to dive to a particular depth, and he’d say, “I can dive deeper than that!” and promptly set out to do that. The problem was that sometimes he could dive deeper, and sometimes he couldn’t. He was still learning how much breath to take in; he was still learning how to feel the water movement in the deeper sections. He’d come back to the surface scared and panting, and ten minutes later he’d shout, “I can dive deeper than that!”

That was one headache.

The other student was entirely the opposite. “Let’s dive to this depth,” she’d say, and he’d shake his head. “I can’t do that,” he’d moan, even when he’d done that same dive the day before. “Let’s go just a little bit deeper,” she’d say, and he’d come right back to the surface.

That was two headaches.

Imagine now that she’s encouraging the one who’s not confident about his dives while the one who’s overconfident about his dives is diving and she had to go rescue him.

That’s three headaches.

When class was over one day she took them over to the beach for a rest and some one-on-two instruction. “I need for the two of you to work at a steady pace,” she said.

“But I know I can dive deeper!” said the first. “But I don’t think I can dive deeper!” said the second.

“Both of you can dive deeper,” she told them, “but this is something you learn to do by degrees. You make a little progress, and a little progress, and a little progress. If you don’t go a little farther, you don’t make progress. And if you go too far, you also don’t make progress. It’s like eating a big piece of seaweed. You take little bites until you’re not hungry any more.”

“You mean I really can dive deeper?” asked the second one. “Yes,” she said.

“You mean a little bit farther means I can dive farther tomorrow?” asked the first one. “Yes,” she said.

I wish I could say that both of them followed her advice in each class from then on. They didn’t. But they did better, and they did better with each passing day. Both of them learned to take those deep dives of the honu, and both of them were grateful they’d take it just a little bit at a time.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

Photo of a honu (in shallow water) by Eric Anderson.

Like the Noonday

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“If you remove the yoke from among you,
    the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,
if you offer your food to the hungry
    and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,
then your light shall rise in the darkness
    and your gloom be like the noonday.”
– Isaiah 58:9b-10

“[Jesus said,] ‘You are the light of the world.'” – Matthew 5:14a

I’m trying, Jesus, I am surely trying
(and don’t think I can’t see and hear and feel
your smile twisting as you think
“Oh, yes. You’re definitely trying… all my patience!”).

I’m trying to remove the yokes. I pray
that you are seeing more success with that than I.
I’m trying to refrain from speaking evil, even if
it means I must lock down by tongue to silence.

And I’m trying, surely trying, Jesus,
to direct my pointing finger solely to myself,
to take the blame when it is mine,
and not add strife with blame to others.

But.

I’ve got to say that my hard-won restraint
has not been echoed widely, has it?
You and I both know that finger-pointing is
activity in which a multitude delights.

While I am struggling with my guttering light,
a horde of people praise the shadows, and
to my astonishment, they call the shadows light.
No hungry fed, no naked clothed, evil celebrated.

My finger itches, Jesus, with the urge to point
and then shout out (as once Isaiah was directed)
with trumpet calls: “For shame, you hypocrites!
You do not shine, you hide the light of God!”

And then I breathe in deep, down to the belly, as
I contemplate your failures, Jesus, in the world.
You called them out, the hypocrites who taunted you
as your light shone upon the torturer’s cross.

I’ll do my best to shine, I will. I’ll try.
I’ll feed that guttering wick and shield it from
the howling winds as best I can. But man…
My finger itches, Jesus. Yes, it surely does.

A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 58:1-12 and Matthew 5:13-20, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading and Gospel Reading for Year A, the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

On Pigeon’s Wings

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“…and they offered a sacrifice according to what is stated in the law of the Lord, ‘a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons.'” – Luke 2:24

“…for my eyes have seen your salvation…” – Luke 2:30

Bearing their eight-day-old sons, two-week-old daughters,
the parents bring their sacrifices to the priests.
Each brings a pigeon or a dove, but some a lamb.
Those leading lambs wear finer clothes
than those who bear two turtledoves.
The gift is what they can afford.

One couple, bearing pigeons and a son,
are told that they have been anticipated.
An elder man accosts them in the Temple court
to celebrate their child’s role in Israel’s salvation.
“A light for revelation!” now he cries,
but also, mother, know your heart will ache.

The couple might have edged away,
but from another side a woman comes,
another elder, face well lined with years.
She comes and praises God for this small child.
He will, she promises, redeem Jerusalem.
She praises what she knows she will not see.

The parents fade once more into the crowd,
and those about are well content to let them go.
Their clothes were nothing fine; their feet
were travel-stained, and their sacrifice would be
no more than pigeons, what a family offered
when they lacked both power and wealth.

A pity that a pious, virtuous crowd
was blinded by
a pair of pigeon’s wings.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 2:22-40 the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, the Presentation of the Lord.

The image is a mosaic of The Presentation in the Monastery of Hosios Loukas, Distomo, Greece. Photo by Hans A. Rosbach – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8943645.

Story: Simple Song

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

January 29, 2023

Micah 6:1-8
Matthew 5:1-12

Male ‘amakihi sing a very simple song. They also have a more complex song, and the female ‘amakihi sing that one, too, but when a male ‘amakihi is looking for a female ‘amakihi hoping that they’ll build a nest and a family together, he sings the simple song.

It’s basically a series of tweets strung together.

Not what you’d call complicated.

Ages ago, though, I can imagine that it might have been… more complicated. In those days the ‘amakihi would have sung songs that rose and fell, that stopped and started, that got louder and softer. Those are things that the ‘apapane do to this day. In those days, I imagine the ohi’a forest ringing with songs, echoing from the trunks and the branches, sometimes in harmony, sometimes in cacophony, and rarely quiet. Can you imagine that?

The thing is, it would also have been confusing. With ‘amakihi singing complicated songs, and ‘apapane singing complicated songs, and who knows what other birds contributing their own complicated songs, I can imagine ‘amakihi finding ‘apapane and ‘apapane finding ‘amakihi. It’s not a big issue, briefly embarrassing for both of them, but I can imagine that there was one young male ‘amakihi who decided he was tired of being mistaken for an ‘apapane.

“What about if I come up with something different from the ‘apapane?” he asked his elders.

“No one would come to you,” said the elders.

“Nobody is finding me now,” he told the elders. “I won’t be losing anything by trying something else.”

Some of the elders got huffy, which happens sometimes when they’ve been caught not thinking clearly.

“I’m going to try it,” he said,” and some of them huffed at him. With a complicated song, of course, and an ‘apapane turned up to see if there was somebody looking for her.

The young ‘amakihi found a good branch and began to sing his simple song: just a note repeated several times. It was loud. It was bold. It was impossible to miss even with all the complicated ‘apapane and ‘amakihi songs about. A couple of female ‘apapane turned up, intrigued. But best of all, along flew a young ‘amakihi hoping to find a husband and build a family.

“Nice song,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I’m glad you kept it simple,” she said.

“So am I,” he said.

I don’t know whether anything like this ever happened among the ‘amakihi and the ‘apapane of Hawai’i Island. To be honest, probably not. Still, the simple song of the ‘amakihi has worked for them for a long time, and there are simple things that people can do that would work pretty well for us as well: Honesty. Caring. Fairness. Respect. Faith. It’s amazing how often we make it all complicated, and find that things fall apart, when Jesus’ words to “Love one another” are simple, clear, and would do so much to make a better world.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The story was told from memory of this text. Predictably, memory makes… differences.

Photo of an ‘amakihi by Bettina Arrigoni – Hawaii Amakihi (male) | Palilia Discovery Trail | Mauna Kea | Big Island | HI|2017-02-09|12-21-50.jpg, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=74674240.

Distracted

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

“With what shall I come before the Lord
    and bow myself before God on high?
Shall I come before him with burnt offerings,
    with calves a year old?
Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams,
    with ten thousands of rivers of oil?
Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression,
    the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?”
He has told you, O mortal, what is good,
    and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice and to love kindness
    and to walk humbly with your God?

– Micah 6:6-8

Look, God, I’m happier when you are vague,
when there’s some wiggle, some uncertainty,
when I can find a space to justify
the things I want, I’d rather, do.

Or, better, when the clarity shines on
the things that hide the errors of the days behind,
that shield me from their consequence,
excuse me without need to change my course.

Look, God, I’m wise enough to leave the lambs
and rams behind. I’ll make my sacrifices with
my time (and maybe with my treasure; we will see).
I don’t intend to buy your favor, no.

Intend to, no. Attempt to… that’s a yes.

You have told me, God, what things are good,
and I have heard, and taken them to heart,
and held them close, and meditated on them, and…
sometimes I’ve done them. Sometimes I have not.

‘Cause damn it, God, your justice is beyond me,
beyond us, so it seems. Your love of mercy breaks
my heart with all its blinding brightness. How
can I do other than come humbly to you on our walk?

So that is why I pour my time into the almost just,
the near-to-mercy, all the things that don’t quite work.
With all this busyness, how could you notice, God,
that am running round, not walking by your side?

It’s easier, you see, to place my energy
upon the altar as a sacrifice of praise
than to do justice well, to love with steadfast mercy, and
walk humbly with the God of my salvation.

A poem/prayer based on Micah 6:1-8, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, the Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is “High priest offering incense on the altar, as in Leviticus 16:12,” by Illustrator of Henry Davenport Northrop’s Treasures of the Bible, 1894 – http://www.lavistachurchofchrist.org/Pictures/Treasures%20of%20the%20Bible%20(Moses)/target20a.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6611903.