The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. – John 1:35-37
How peculiar.
It’s not so startling for a shepherd to be following a lamb in all its wandering immaturity. But for adults now seeking spirit, for a growth developing within: How is “Lamb of God” attracting? How is “Lamb of God” inviting? How is “Lamb of God” revealing?
Still, John the Baptist recognizing Jesus (majesty concealing), summoning disciples from his gathering to Jesus’ circle only just beginning, made the “Lamb of God,” inspiring, the “Lamb of God,” empowering. So “Lamb of God”: now following.
How peculiar, and how right.
A poem/prayer based on John 1:29-42, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, the Second Sunday after the Epiphany.
“More light,” grumbled the camel. “I want more light.”
Camels are not naturally night animals. If I lived in the desert I would be a night animal, but camels can tolerate the desert sun in ways that I can’t. They like the day, and their favorite way to spend the day is with eating.
After all the Christmas celebrating we’ve done, that might feel a little familiar.
This camel was grumpy because, first of all, he was a burdened beast. On his arched back he carried a saddle sometimes, and a load of goods on others. There was one set of bags he really dreaded. It was heavy and sometimes it clinked in a really annoying way. He preferred carrying one of these stargazers to that one.
“It’s as heavy as lead,” he’d say.
“I think it’s gold,” said another camel.
“It’s as heavy as lead,” he’d repeat, which is basically true, after all.
He didn’t complain quite as much about the other two loads, which were both lighter and smelled nice.
Second of all, the camel was grumpy because it had become a very long trip. Long trips aren’t unusual in the life of a camel, but that doesn’t mean they like them. This one didn’t like them.
“Will it never end?” he said.
“I think we’re almost there,” soothed another camel.
“Will it never end?” he’d repeat.
Third of all, the camel was grumpy because they were travelling at night. Camels aren’t night animals. This camel wasn’t a night animal. This camel was increasingly cross.
“More light,” he grumbled. “I want more light.”
“I think they’re following that star,” said another camel.
“Stupid stargazers,” said the camel. “I want more light.”
I think you can probably guess who those star-followers were, and where they went, and who they saw, and what gifts they gave that family. Here’s a hint: it wasn’t lead. It was gold.
When they left, the camel was in a much better mood. For one thing, it looked like they were taking a different, hopefully shorter route back. For another, the three loads were gone, so there wasn’t as much to carry. For another, they were finally back to sensible travel by day.
And finally, something had happened when that camel had, drawn by some unlikely curiosity, stuck his nose through a window and seen a baby receiving those things he’d carried across the miles. The gold and frankincense and myrrh didn’t seem like great playthings for an infant, but they seemed really important for a family that was obviously poor and seemed to be worried about trouble. And the child himself, well: the camel felt, just for an instant, like he had made a world of difference, and that he could do so again.
“More light,” he said as he took each step on the way home. “I think I’ve seen more light.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
In the recording, I’m telling the story from memory of the prepared text above. Between memory and improvisation, there’s a lot differences between them.
Side by side they march across my media screens: the images of travellers who, bearing gifts, will praise an infant in all ignorance of how his royalty will manifest, and
The images of violence incited by repeated lies, of broken windows, hangman’s noose, Christian symbols raised in blasphemous approval of both praise and blame that went too far.
On this Epiphany I pray for an epiphany, for light to penetrate the hearts lost in the shadows, for wisdom to once more display itself in giving, for a jealous would-be ruler to, for once, step down.
While power battles power still (if with less flash grenades and tear gas clouds), I’ll turn in prayer to One who manifested perfect power in its weakness: a radiant love that flickered like a star.
Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice, because the abundance of the sea shall be brought to you, the wealth of the nations shall come to you. – Isaiah 60:5
Teach me to recognize radiance, O God. Teach me to revel in brightness of spirit. Teach me to raise up my voice in rejoicing for radiance seen with the soul, not the eyes.
Teach me to recognize radiance, O God. Teach me to gain it in greatness of heart. Teach me to glorify generous spirit, the radiance seen with the soul, not the eyes.
Teach me to recognize radiance, O God. Teach me to mirror a magus of old. Teach me to make free of marrow and mind, and the radiance seen with the soul, not the eyes.
A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 60:1-6, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Epiphany.
As mentioned in my summary of 2022, I had a Lenten success this past year, writing six songs during the six weeks of that season. It took longer to compose the other six songs I wrote during the 2022. Some were based on Biblical stories, some inspired by the writing of friends, and others by things going on in the world. You’ll find performances of all of them below, many from the weekly Song from Church of the Holy Cross series.
Wisdom Feed Us
First performed at the Community Concert of March 11, 2022
The simple truth is that I am deeply concerned about the lack of wisdom displayed by human beings. As far as I can tell, folly rules the world.
Dream of Peace
First performed at the Community Concert of March 25, 2022.
Russia invaded Ukraine on February 24, 2022. I went looking in my repertoire for a song I’d written about peace, and didn’t find one. I’ve sung “Dream of Peace” several times and it became my contribution to the Interfaith Communities in Action Thanksgiving Celebration video for 2022.
Come On, Guitar
First performed on March 23, 2022.
Although “Come On, Guitar” was performed earlier, it was written a few days after “Dream of Peace.” It is a tribute (or an invocation) to my new Martin D-10E. I had decided that I would write a song on and for the instrument when it arrived, and this song is the result.
Creature of this World
First performed on April 6, 2022.
“Creature of this World” was inspired by “Offering,” a poem by Rachel Hackenberg. It’s become one of my favorites, and is one of the songs providing background music for my video 2022: A Year.
As We Bring Him Down
First performed during Scripture & Poetry for Good Friday, released April 15, 2022.
Written for Good Friday, this song is set in the “Deposition of Christ,” when the body of Jesus was removed from the cross and brought to its tomb. It is, shall we say, somber.
Walk, Mary, Walk
First performed for What I’m Thinking #259, April 18, 2022.
I’ve written a song for Easter for a few years now, and frequently play them during the first episode of What I’m Thinking after Easter Sunday. When I listen to this, I hear echoes of “As We Bring Him Down.” I wrote them seven days apart. This piece completed the Lenten song cycle.
One in a Million of Grief
First performed on May 18, 2022.
In mid May, the one millionth American died of COVID-19. Despite robust public health systems in the United States, the disease infected a greater proportion of the population, and killed a greater proportion of them, than was true in other developed nations. The US has, in fact, suffered more deaths per 100,000 population than any other nation in the world except Peru. This song also marked the first public performance on my Kala 6-string ukulele.
Some Days are Just Too Much
First performed on June 29, 2022.
I had a number of friends in mind when I wrote this song – and myself as well.
Hey, Moses
First performed on July 13, 2022.
I wrote this for Church of the Holy Cross’ Vacation Bible School – and then fell ill that day and didn’t sing it for them. It’s about Moses – and God – at the burning bush. I should probably sing this in a higher key…
To the Banks of the River Jordan
First performed on July 27, 2022.
I wrote this song for my friend Drew, who died just a few hours after this performance. Some may recognize the echoes of Ecclesiastes’ wisdom about time and seasons.
Take the Labyrinth Road
I wasn’t on the planning team for the Pastoral Leaders’ Retreat of the Hawai’i Conference, but I was asked to bring a song. Of course I couldn’t think of one, so this is what I wrote. This is the other song in the music track for 2022: A Year.
Morning Has Come
First performed during worship on Christmas Day, December 25, 2022.
I suspect there are other songs with the title “Morning Has Come.” This one is a Christmas morning song, set in the bright light of morning.
And there they are: twelve new songs in 2022. I wonder how many there will be in 2023?
At the end of 2021, I commented on the lost promise of that year. Despite the warnings of epidemiologists and other medical professionals, I like others hoped that the advent of vaccines would end the pandemic, or at least reduce its risks. As 2022 began, however, we were in the midst of the highest level of COVID-19 transmission we’d seen. Church of the Holy Cross UCC continued to worship online-only until the Sunday after Easter – a disappointment for certain.
Still, we did welcome a congregation into the sanctuary in April and were able to observe Pentecost, All Saints, and Christmas with gathered worshipers. We maintained precautions even then. The congregation did not sing hymns until December, so that the first songs they sang were Christmas carols. Our choir director, Doug Albertson, assembled a thirty-five plus voice choir plus string orchestra for a magnificent performance of Ralph Vaughan Williams’ Fantasia of Christmas Carols. It was great fun to take part in that ensemble.
A glance at my photos will make someone wonder why I didn’t seem to get around as much as in previous years. There are a lot of flowers but not a lot of varied scenery. COVID remained a factor – I wanted to minimize my exposure so that it would minimize the risk I presented to others – but so was my transportation. Though the Chrysler 300 I’d bought on moving to Hilo continued to run just fine, some of its parts were definitely showing its sixteen years, and I began to avoid long drives. In November I replaced it with a new Kia, leading to the inevitable joke that this pastor finally has a Soul.
I did travel during the year. I attended my first in-person off-island conference since 2020 in May. I went to O’ahu for a disaster response event and spoke about the interfaith response to the Kilauea eruption of 2018. At the end of August I flew east to visit family and friends. I even managed to attend the Wyman family reunion (my paternal grandmother was a Wyman) and The Blandford Fair on Labor Day weekend. I enjoyed seeing everyone, and entirely forgot to get selfies with a good many of them. The trip home afforded the opportunity to get photos of a sunset over the Pacific.
For the most part the family is doing well. My kids continued to share an apartment this past year, but both are looking to moves in 2023. I have hopes that Rebekah’s ordination will come this next year, and Brendan is working toward beginning a Ph.D. program in English literature. Bekah has been working for The Julian Way, an organization focused on education and empowerment with, for, and by, persons of diverse embodiments. They work with congregations and other faith institutions to foster fully inclusive environments.
In October I attended the Pastoral Leaders’ Retreat on O’ahu, the first time we’ve had a full gathering for that event since 2019. Though I wasn’t on the leadership team, I was asked to find a musical selection for the occasion – and as is typical of me, I couldn’t think of one. The result was the song that leads the 2022: A Year video above: “Take the Labyrinth Road.”
It was a busy year musically. During Lent, I set a goal of writing one song for each of the six weeks of Lent. I did it (see: A Lenten Success). By year’s end, I’d written twelve new songs, equaling those produced in 2021. I sang one of my original songs each Wednesday and presented hour-long concerts via live stream twice a month. You can see them all (oh, my) on my YouTube channel in the Music playlist.
Music gave me a couple ways to deal with the stress of the year – and 2022 was certainly stressful. It was a creative outlet, of course, both in composition and in performance, though it could also be exhausting. It also became one of my chosen methods of “retail therapy” this year. During the pandemic I found that I would feel calmer while I waited for a package to arrive. In 2022, three of those packages contained new instruments: a Martin D-10E guitar in sapele wood in March, a Kala KA-ATP6-CTG 6-string ukulele in May, and a Kala KA-EBY-TE in striped ebony in July.
2022 brought some terribly painful times. I officiated at a series of funerals in the spring for people I had known and treasured, and there were more as the year went on. In June my friend and former colleague Drew Page stepped down from his work with the Southern New England Conference UCC. He had been suffering from cancer for two years and the disease had reached a stage where he wanted to give his time to family and friends. In July we talked via video chat. I wrote “To the Banks of the River Jordan,” and about four hours after I sang it live, he died.
I told a few other friends not to make me write such a song for them any time soon.
As the year ended, one of my cousins from my father’s generation, Don Pease, died. Once more my heart wept.
2022 has not been an easy year for grief. In May the United States suffered its one millionth death from COVID-19. At year’s end, many whose lies had contributed to the death toll via social media had recovered access to some of the platforms they’d abused. If I’d doubted that COVID was still around, I’d have been disabused of the notion by catching it in November. It laid me out exhausted for days. I did not fully recover my stamina until late December, just in time for the Christmas services (whew).
I was reelected Chair of the Hawai’i Conference Council in June and will serve until June 2024. My term as President of Interfaith Communities in Action will end in February of 2023, though I expect to continue working with the Steering Committee and Working Group on Family Homelessness. I was asked to rejoin the Hawai’i Island Association’s Committee on Ministry as we have a shortage of ordained ministers on the island who can serve. I have also continued on the Board of Directors of the Ku’ikahi Mediation Center.
So… Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
Once upon a time there was a woman named Mary, and she was expecting a baby. It was a special baby, which you’d think would mean that she’d be as comfortable as she could be when the baby was born – a nice room, plenty of helpers, that sort of thing – but instead she found herself far from home, amidst strangers except for Joseph, and putting her newborn baby in an animal’s feeding trough to sleep because there wasn’t any room in the inn.
You’ve heard this one before, haven’t you? I can tell.
Don’t stop me, though.
There were animals around when she wrapped the baby up and set him down to sleep. I mean, he was lying in their eating spot. I’m sure they were curious. A couple might have been a bit annoyed because where were they going to eat? If it had been you, would you be OK if somebody put a newborn lamb on your plate at your place at the dinner table?
A couple of those animals might have felt that way, too.
There’s some old stories – not as old as the story of the baby, but old – that say that the animals in that stable gained the ability to speak that night. It faded away in a short time, but that story says that they regain that power of speech each Christmas Eve – last night – but people never hear them because we’re all asleep.
And so the honu surfaces on the star-lit ocean and whispers to the ‘ulili on the shore, “Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world. Peace on earth, good will to all!”
The ‘ulili trots on its stilt legs until it finds a dozing saffron finch. “Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world. Peace on earth, good will to all!”
The saffron finch spreads its small wings and finds the sleeping nene. “Wake up! Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world. Peace on earth, good will to all!”
The nene takes to the sky and honks out to all who can hear, “Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world! Peace on earth, good will to all!”
On the mountain slopes, the ‘apapane awakes, and though I’m afraid that he’s cross, he flutters about and sings, “Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world! Peace on earth, good will to all!”
High above, the ‘io leaves off hunting for a moment, and soars over the bay, calling once more, “Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world! Peace on earth, good will to all!”
Now, you and I, we slept through all that. And with midnight gone, the creatures of Hawai’i have gone back to their regular voices, their everyday songs. So we have to take up the message, don’t we?
Spread the word. God’s savior is in the world. Let us bring peace on earth, and share our good will with all.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I told this story from memory of the text above – which means that between memory and improvisation, there are differences.
This poem closed the Christmas Eve meditation at Church of the Holy Cross UCC in Hilo, Hawai’i, on Christmas Eve 2022.
May the infant born two thousand years ago, emerge again into our restless lives, to overturn the pretense of our egos, to comfort where we feel the stings of strife.
Awake the wonder of the Christ child, sleeping in that manger of our memory, as angels’ songs were echoed by the shepherds, to summon us from our complacency.
May hope rekindle in our weary hearts and faith revive within our flagging souls for Christ is born, and God’s salvation comes to make the world and all its people whole.
But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. – Luke 2:19
Treasuries, they say, are filled with gold. The mansions of the powerful protect the rooms whose contents build the edifices which enclose them.
A treasury, they tell me, is the due of you, dear child, a message from the heavens (though it strangely smells of sheep), and so I lay your well-wrapped form in straw.
An angel spoke to me, he did, and told me not to fear. I thought his greeting odd, but much odder was his word, to tell me that I would become the mother of a King.
A mother I’ve become, but what royal babe is so conceived to summon those suspicious eyes? They’ve followed me for months, though not to Bethlehem.
A mother I’ve become, as witnessed by my groans and pains, by midwife, by my worried Joseph, by the ox whose manger I’ve now stolen for my infant’s bed.
The bloodied rags have vanished, whisked away by midwife’s hands. I tell you, it is hard to hold to memories of angels as a child crowns.
They came, then, those poor wanderers of the fields, abandoning their flocks by night to see a child in a manger. A child. A Savior. A Messiah King.
They spoke of angels singing in the skies, they spoke of glory shining all around them, and they spoke of peace, God’s peace, for all.
In honesty, I’d like to know the reason that the angels sang to shepherds, not to me, this night, since Gabriel’s words have faded in this place.
I’d like to hear the angel once again assure me that the treasury of royalty will be my son’s someday, that he will grow and thrive and save and rule.
For now I must content myself with angels’ echoes in the voices of the poor. For now I must content myself with pondering their words within my heart.
An inn without a room. A stable and a manger. Angels’ voices echoed. Son, your treasury tonight contains no gold. Instead, it is your mother’s heart.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 20:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, the Nativity of the Lord (Proper I).
“Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.” – Matthew 1:18
What should I, could I say? His mind had closed. His ears had stopped. No words I’d say would sway him. What could I, should I say?
I tried; you know I tried. I knew the difficulty of belief, e’en with the confirmation of by body – What could I, should I say?
He stomped away. I knew that, unbelieved, I’d be abandoned – quietly but sure. What could I, should I say?
The very morrow he returned much chastened by a dream. It’s nice to be believed, I said. What could I, should I say?
But Joseph, damn your faith in dreams of angels, but refusal to believe the one who loves you. What could I, should I say?
And Matthew, you whose pen could not record a single word of mine, I wish you’d learned from Luke. What could I, should I say?
So silenced, I rely upon the child I bore to speak the words I spoke to him, and which he magnified. What could I, should I say?
He spoke of liberation and he spoke of resurrection and he spoke of God’s triumphant day. So can I, must I say.
Author’s note: Matthew did not quote Joseph in his Gospel, either – but Joseph takes all the initiative and makes all the decisions which carry the Holy Family from Bethlehem to Egypt to Nazareth.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 1:18-25, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday of Advent.
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