Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. – John 12:3
To the cheers of the crowd, ride along. Turn the tables and scatter the coins. As sweet perfume comforts your feet, Comfort the woman who comforts you.
[Chorus]
Six days, six days in the city. Six days to ready your heart. Six days: does anyone understand That you must play this part?
In the Temple courts, proclaim truth. Turn the arguments back on the skeptics. Raise your sad eyes to the pillars of stone That you know will come down, and come down too soon.
[Chorus]
Send them out to make plans for the meal. Wash their feet, whatever they say. Pray alone as sweat streams from your brow, Knowing thorns will be your crown.
[Revised Chorus]
Six days, six days to the palace. Six days, six days to the cross. Six days, six days to the tomb… Six days for all to be lost.
Six days to wind up the journey. Six days of betrayal and strife. Six days to lay down your power…
Three days… Three days… Three days to take back your life. Three days… Three days… Three days to raise up your life.
I imagine you have some idea of the story of the first Palm Sunday, probably because we just read the story. It’s been a year since the last one, though, so let me remind you of the basics. On Jesus’ last visit to Jerusalem, he sent two of his disciples to borrow a donkey for him to ride. As the donkey walked up into the city with Jesus on its back, people waved tree branches – palms, for the most part, I guess – and put their cloaks on the road to soften the donkey’s feet, and shouted a welcome to Jesus that also begged him to save them. It was a big, noisy, spectacle.
One thing the gospels leave out, however, is what the disciples said to Jesus when he told them to get a donkey, and what they said to each other as they were going to get it.
Here’s what I imagine they said to each other.
“Well, we lost that argument.”
“Have you ever won an argument with Jesus?”
“Well, no. But I was hoping this was the first time.”
“I was rooting for you. I mean, you were absolutely right. We should get Jesus a horse.”
“He said no.”
“I know he said no. But can’t you imagine Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a horse? It would be so cool.”
“Everybody would cheer. And then they’d follow him. He’d look just like a Messiah on a horse.”
“Yeah. And look! There’s a horse!”
Now I imagine the two of them standing there, looking at the horse.
“What a great horse.”
“Very noble.”
“And… Jesus said no.”
“He did. We lost that argument.”
“Here’s the donkey he told us to find.”
The two of them looked at it.
“The horse was better.”
“The horse was a lot more impressive.”
“The horse was royal.”
“He’ll look like just anybody on a donkey.”
“They might cheer anyway.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Why do you suppose he insisted on a donkey?”
“I don’t know. I mean, you’re a king on a horse. On a donkey, you’re just anybody.”
“A humble anybody.”
“Really humble.”
I’m not sure all that many people value humility these days. There weren’t a lot of people who valued it two thousand years ago. I think it’s worth pointing out, though, that one person who chose to be humble was… Jesus.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
When I tell the story, it’s from memory – I can’t quite resist improvising in the telling!
The image is L’ânon de Bethphagé (The Foal of Bethpage) by James Tissot – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.191_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10957484.
“When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?'” – Matthew 21:10
The whispers whip round the jam-packed streets – Whispers? Well, no. The roar of the crowd means a whisper is shouted, and may not be heard by the hearer intended.
“Who is this?” they wonder, and some have their answers: “He’s a healer,” say some, “with remarkable power. So many return from him joyfully home!” The sick cry “Hosanna! O save us!” today.
“Who is this?” they wonder, and some say, “A teacher, a rabbi, a preacher with wonderful tales. He’ll challenge you, certainly, if you are careless. If you take time to listen, he’ll make you wise.”
“Who is this?” they wonder, and some say, “A monarch, Messiah, Anointed One: he’ll free us from Rome.” When they cry, “Hosanna!” it echoes with anger and yearning for freedom from Empire’s yoke.
“Who is this?” they wonder, and some say, “A rebel, a bringer of trouble, a sinner, a punk. Just watch: all these people will raise swords tomorrow, and on Tuesday the Romans will slaughter us all.”
“Who is this?” they wonder, and some have their answers. “Who is this?” they ask and the rider is silent. “Who is this?” they ask, little realizing the word being spoken in silence on a donkey’s foal.
“Who is this?” they wonder, as the beast ambles on. The Anointed One, yes, but the Humble One as well, who would rule as a healer, and guide as a teacher, but will save as One utterly faithful to God.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 21:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Sixth Sunday in Lent, Liturgy of the Palms.
A dry season had come to the ohi’a forest, and one ‘apapane was worried about it.
She still considered herself young, but she’d long since left the nest, and for most of her life things had been rather predictable in her forest. That is, there would be rain, and there would be sun, and there would be clouds, and there would be rain again. It was often hard to tell when any of those things would happen, but she knew that they would happen, and if it seemed to rain for a long time, the sun would come again.
That season, however, had been very sunny, and the nights had had mostly clear skies. Clouds had spread across the sky sometimes, but they’d been high up and they hadn’t been the sources of rain. She’d been accustomed to sipping water from the tops of leaves from time to time, but she hadn’t been able to do that for several days. That was all right; she could satisfy her thirst with nectar, but she could tell that the trees were beginning to suffer from the dryness themselves.
Trees that went into blossom produced fewer flowers. Other trees simply didn’t go into blossom, or seemed to be putting it off. She was doing all right for now, but she wondered – she worried – about what would happen if this went on. Would there come a day with no flowers at all?
She sang a sad little song as she settled into a branch to sleep overnight. It was a song about sadness and fear and just a hint of hunger and thirst. The ohi’a heard the song, and when it was done, the tree sang its reply in the breeze rustling its leaves.
The ‘apapane didn’t really hear the tree’s song, she was asleep. Instead, the song became something of a dream, and in the dream she saw the sun leaping from the horizon, speeding across the sky, and diving below the opposite horizon – and then it all happened again, faster and faster. She realized, in wonder, that she was seeing days race by in seconds. Those days included sunshine and clouds and rain, but each one took just a brief time before the sun was flying across the sky with the next day again.
Then, in her dream, came a series of days in which the sky stayed blue and the rain didn’t fall. Day after day, and in her dream she saw the flowers fade and wither on the ohi’a. She wondered if this was a sign that the end was near… but then, in her dream, the sun rose one morning behind clouds, and as the sun raced invisibly across the sky, the clouds streamed rain upon the waiting trees below.
As the dream went on, she saw long dry periods and long wet periods, but they both came to an end, turning to rain if they’d been dry and to sun if they’d been rainy.
“Do not fear, little one,” she heard the tree sing as the dream drew to a close. “Do not fear.”
She woke to see the sun rising again, now at its normal pace, and the tree now silent in the still air of the morning. She shook herself awake, and saw that overnight the tree had produced a new set of blossoms – not many, but plenty for breakfast.
“Thank you, tree,” she said, though she wasn’t entirely sure she’d heard the tree singing or not. Still, it’s good to give thanks for breakfast.
“Thank you,” she said again. “I won’t fear.”
Good things and bad things come to us in life. The bad news is that the good things will come to end from time to time. The good news is that the bad things will come to an end, too. Do not fear, because the best news of all is that God’s love is the good thing that never ends.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories first, and then tell them from memory – well, memory and invention – which explains the differences between the text I prepared and the story I told.
“So I prophesied as I had been commanded; and as I prophesied, suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone.” – Ezekiel 37:7
No vision, this… I smelled the chalky dust that rose from dried and crackling bones. I felt the beating sun as hot upon my frame as it had been to strip the blood and sinew from the moldering skeletons and leave no sign of moisture there, just calcium to rise and linger, pause and settle, paste the taste of chalk upon my tongue.
“Can these bones live?” you asked. In this… experience… how can I know what bones can do? “Speak to the bones,” you urged, “and promise breath and flesh and sinew. So they will know God.” I spoke, and as I spoke, I heard the clattering rattle of the desiccated bones, the scraping as they found their place. I smelled the tang of blood and sinew, then the salt as sweat appeared upon the new-formed skin.
“Speak to the breath,” you urged, “to all four winds, and let the breath come to these slain, and live.” I spoke again, and with a sigh the breezes swept across the flesh-strewn valley. Now a moan arose as lungs took air once more, and then a sigh as breath emerged again between the moistened lips. “These bones,” you said, “they live to be a sign of hope for Israel.”
And so the… vision? faded. But its hope endures. I know no valley filled with dusty bones has gone from silence to a rattling sound, nor of a sudden taken on the scent of sweat, or speech emerged from lips new-formed upon a skull. The slain are slain; the dead are dead. But we who live may see a better day, and by the power of God, the dead may rise to life.
A poem/prayer based on Ezekiel 37:1-14, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Fifth Sunday in Lent.
The two i’iwi – I don’t know whether they were husband and wife or brother and sister or cousins or friends, but there was he and there was she – were very excited. Setting out early in the morning, they had found an ohi’a tree that had gone into full blossom overnight. From its lowest branches to the tip of its crown, it glowed bright red in the dawn. The scent of nectar – which I can’t smell, can you? But they could – wafted out among the other trees, some of which had a few blossoms, but nothing compared to this marvel.
They settled in to feed.
“Let’s keep this for ourselves,” said he to she.
“We’ll keep this for ourselves,” said she to he.
Shortly after they arrived, along came an ‘amakihi eager for breakfast. The two i’iwi promptly drove him away, determined to keep all the nectar for themselves. Another i’iwi appeared and they chased him off, too. As the sun slowly rose into the sky, the two birds kept others away as they appeared, sipping nectar in between to keep their strength up.
About mid-morning an ‘apapane sniffed out the nectar and the blossoms and the tree and flew straight into the walloping wingbeats of the i’iwi. “Go away and never come back!” shrieked the “he” i’iwi. “And don’t tell anyone else about this tree!” screamed the “she” i’iwi.
“Uh, oh,” said he to she.
“What?” said she to he, though she knew.
“That’s an ‘apapane. They’ll tell anybody,” said he to she.
“They’ll tell everybody,” said she to he.
Sure enough, the birds began to arrive in larger numbers. Before it had been just one at a time. Now they came in pairs, in double pairs, in sixes and sevens and eights. The two i’iwi zoomed around the tree, using their bright red feathering and bright red voices to startle other birds away. As she chased some ‘amakihi away, he noticed an ‘apapane – it as the same one who’d spread the word earlier – swoop in, settle on a cluster of blossoms, and get a good sip of nectar before he took off again, with the he i’iwi in pursuit.
“That was your fault!” said he to she.
“That was your side of the tree!” said she to he.
The birds kept coming – i’iwi, ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, mejiro, and I do know who all. They kept coming and no two birds in the entire world could have kept them all away. Still, the forest rang with the angry shouts of the two i’iwi.
“That was your fault!” said he to she.
“That was your fault!” said she to he.
In fact, they’d lighted on an ohi’a branch to better carry on the argument rather than chase other birds away from the tree. They didn’t even eat, despite the deep red blossoms glistening with nectar next to them.
“Ahem,” said a voice. They stopped their shrieks and turned to see that first ‘apapane, the one who’d spread the word, perched nearby.
“Thank you,” he said. “It’s been a delicious breakfast.”
With one motion, the two i’iwi pointed their beaks at the ‘apapane and screamed, “This is your fault!”
“It might be, I suppose,” he mused, “but whose fault it is doesn’t get you any breakfast.” And off he flew.
The two i’iwi, hungry, throat-sore, and tired from all the morning’s chases, looked at one another, looked at the flowers, and had breakfast.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I tell my stories from my memory of the text I’ve prepared. Inevitably, it is different from what I’ve prepared.
“But they kept asking him, ‘Then how were your eyes opened?'” – John 9:10
From a Jerusalem street to the Pools of Siloam, spittle-moist dust awash in the waters, a new sense a-born to beguile his return to the place where the Healer no longer is found.
“How’s this?” they asked. “How can your eyes be opened? You’ve never known sight since the day you arrived.” “The man Jesus made mud and he told me to wash; when I did, my vision was born.”
Hard hurrying queries and skeptical silences, speech disbelieved or discounted or scoffed. Speaking a simple story of fresh mud washed free, but the hearts, not the eyes, were fast closed.
Is it part of our nature, God, something inherent that makes human beings choose their answers ahead? We question and search but will not find a truth when we’ve chosen the word we’ll accept.
Praise God for your vision, O once sightless man, but praise God the more for your wide-open heart, to hear and to trust the man Jesus who said, “Go the pool now and wash.”
A poem/prayer based on John 9:1-41, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday in Lent.
The image is The Blind Man Washes in the Pool of Siloam (Le aveugle-né se lave à la piscine de Siloë) by James Tissot (between 1886 and 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.173_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10957455.
A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” – John 4:7
Not even a “please?” Oh my, how rude to ask – demand – a drink of water here. This well is deep, and every drop I raise for you, you stranger, is a drop I need to raise again, and carry to my home. You should have brought a bucket, sir.
Not even a “please?” Oh my, how rude to ask – demand – my time and labor here. I’ve things to do now, Jesus, as you know (and as you knew that woman did as well), some obligations of which you’d approve. What could I raise to satisfy your thirst?
Not even a “please?” Oh my, how rude to hint – imply – that your refreshment does much more than mine. Your invitation comes with obligation, we both know, and yet… And yet… I thirst, O Jesus, how I thirst. May I be satisfied in you.
A poem/prayer based on John 4:5-42, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday in Lent.
The ‘amakihi was concerned. He was about 15 months old, feeling something like an adult – I know that’s young for a human being but he was an ‘amakihi, and they grow faster. Come to think of it, they haven’t got quite as much growing to do. He could fly. He could find food. He could sing. All in all, he had a pretty good ‘amakihi life.
He didn’t want it to change.
His feathering was still that of a younger ‘amakihi, which is basically a medium green with some hints of yellow. Some birds might think it dull – the bright red i’iwi might say so – but he rather liked it. It matched the leaves of an ohi’a tree rather nicely. Sometimes he thought of that as safety from circling i’os. Sometimes he thought of it as a fashion statement. Anyway, he liked his feathers, their color, and their shapes.
He didn’t want it to change.
But… it was starting to change and he knew it.
Already he’d had a couple of his big wing feathers fall out and grow back, and more were coming. He’d been through feather molting before, and he knew what was coming. The wing feathers would go and grow, and then the smaller feathers on his head and chest. Even with the first wing feathers he could see the change in color. They were less green, more yellow, and he knew that when the new feathers came on his chest they’d be bright yellow in the sun.
And he didn’t want it to change.
He couldn’t think of a single thing to do about it, so he went to his grandmother. “Tutu,” he said, “what do I do? My color is changing and I don’t want it to!”
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.
“Nothing, but I like how I am now. I don’t want to change.”
“You don’t want to change?” she asked, and when he said no, she took to her wings and called, “Follow me!”
The first thing they saw was a butterfly flitting through the air. When they landed, there was a caterpillar on the branch. “One of these,” said Tutu, “made a big change to become one of those,” and she pointed her beak at the butterfly. “Do you think it was worth it?”
“To fly? Yes, I do,” said her grandson, and flew off after Tutu again.
They took a look at an ‘amakihi nest, where two young birds had hatched, grown, and taken their first flights over the previous several weeks. They were about ready to leave for a life of their own. “Did you want to stay in the nest?” asked Tutu.
“Of course not,” he said.
“But that was a change.”
“I suppose it was,” he said.
“Life is filled with change,” said Tutu. “Some are big, like the caterpillar that becomes a butterfly, or the ‘amakihi that leaves the nest. Some are smaller, like the bright yellow feathers that are coming to you. Perhaps you’ll become a parent, and that’s a big change, and perhaps there will be a lava flow in our forest, and that’s a big change.”
“So what do I do?” he asked.
“Make the best new you as you grow and change,” said Tutu gently. “Find delight in new things where you can, and make delight when the new things come hard. You’ll always be a new you. Be a loving and caring new you.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I tell my Sunday morning stories from memory of what I’ve written. Memory and what’s written… rarely match.
Photo of an ‘amakihi in mature feathering 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.
“Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?'” – John 3:4
You knew, Nicodemus, and Jesus knew you knew that humans do not live a static life. They grow, adapt. They shift and change. Sometimes they even make a brand new start.
Sometimes they start as fresh as wandering wind, as pure as water droplets glistening. Where do they go? Who knows? The wind goes where it will, just like the Holy Spirit.
Though none can set or stay the Spirit’s way, one thing remains more firm than stone, more sure than night or day. Yes, God so loved the world not to condemn, but raise in radiant life.
A poem/prayer based on John 3:1-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Second Sunday in Lent.
