Story: Growing

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

November 6, 2022

Job 19:23-27a
Luke 20:27-38

This story took place a few years ago here on Hawai’i Island. I suppose it could have happened at various times here on Hawai’i Island – I would guess something similar has happened a good number of times here on Hawai’i Island.

A kolea flew back to Hawai’i after spending the summer in Alaska. This wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Like most kolea, he had a destination in mind. For four seasons he’d come to the same beachfront in Puna. For four seasons he’d had a good spot to hunt for crabs in tide pools and then for bugs and worms just inshore. There were people who came and went, but you may have noticed that people come and go in a lot of places and he came to ignore them. So when he spotted the mountains of this island he made his way toward Puna.

Toward Pohoiki.

When he reached it, he hardly recognized it. As I said, this was a few years ago, and in the time that he’d been in Alaska the 2018 eruption had sent lava flowing across lower Puna from Leilani to Kapoho. The edge of the flow stopped at Pohoiki. Mounds of a’a had turned his favorite section of the beach from a gentle slope to a seven or eight foot high wall at the water’s edge. It was still cooling underneath; he could feel the heat when he came near to try landing.

The lava flow had left some things just the same. There were still human parking lots and structures, there were trees. There were broad stretches of flat ground that he knew he could still find food in. But there was also a brand new stretch of beach made of black sand and rocks that clattered and hissed when the waves drew back to the sea.

He landed and watched the water for a while, where it crashed against the new rock and where it piled up more sand gradually on the beach.

“What happened?” he said to himself.

He may not have meant anyone else to hear, but a saffron finch replied. “Lava came,” she said.

“It’s not the same,” he said.

“No, not much,” she agreed. “It’s even changing each day. That black beach keeps getting bigger.”

“Everything’s dead and gone,” he moaned, “buried under that warm rock or getting covered with that black sand.”

The saffron finch looked at him, puzzled. “What are you talking about? There’s still grass. There’s still trees. There’s still bugs and worms to eat. Life goes on.”

“How can it, when it’s so different?”

The saffron finch thought. “Do you remember hatching?” she asked.

“Not really,” he said.

“Well, are you the same as you were then?”

“Definitely not,” he said. “I had to grow a lot and get these feathers before I could ever fly here.”

“So you grew,” said the saffron finch, “and in some ways you still grow.”

“Of course,” said the kolea.

“This island also grows,” said the saffron finch. “I don’t suppose it’s quite alive the way you and I are alive, but it grows. Where it grows, it creates space for plants to grow, and bugs to grow, and eventually for you and I to grow.”

“But it’s different and I liked the old way better,” said the kolea.

“You and I grow and others may not like it,” said the saffron finch, “but we grow in our own way. You might as well let this island grow in its own way, too.

“Because it will grow in its own way no matter what you say.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The recorded story above was told live during worship from memory of this text. Between memory and improvisation, they are not identical.

Photo of lava rock and black beach sand at Pohoiki (2018) by Eric Anderson.

Shifting Prayer

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

Be like the sun, O Holy One,
that warms the morn with glowing light,
excites the air to jump and dance,
and grants us comfort from the chill of night.

Be like the rain, O Holy One,
that cools the overheated day,
bathing our perspiring brows
and moistening our clay.

Be like the stars, O Holy One,
that wash the darkened Earth with light,
that raise our gazes heavenward
and glorify the night.

Be like the clouds, O Holy One,
which we cannot control,
that may bring rain, or part for sun.
In either, bring us respite for the soul.

Today I am grateful for physical rain – and spiritual rain – to soothe an overheated time.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Tell Us Another Story

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

[The Sadducees asked,] “Now there were seven brothers; the first married, and died childless; then the second and the third married her, and so in the same way all seven died childless. Finally the woman also died. In the resurrection, therefore, whose wife will the woman be? For the seven had married her.” – Luke 20:29-33

Tell us another story, Jesus.

Tell us a story in which a woman is valued
for what she brings and makes, and not
because she bears a child to be the heir
to one whom death has claimed.

Tell us a story in which a woman is treasured
and housed and clothed and nourished
because she is a child of God, and not
because she is a womb for children.

Tell us a story in which a woman determines
her home, her work, her speech, her course,
and does not submit her careful conclusions
to the random will of a man.

Tell us a story in which those thrust
to the margins in casual cruelty
rise strong in themselves, and claim their due place
as wealth and privilege wane.

Tell us a story of resurrection,
of life beyond these oppressing tears,
of dancing angels, of children of God,
of all who live and love in God’s sight.

Tell us another story, Jesus.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 20:27-38, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 27 (32).

The image is Booz (Boaz) and Ruth Collecting Barley Ears by Kazimierz Alchimowicz – 1. AskArt2. AgraArt, Warsaw, 22.03.2009, lot 12529, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19724130.

I highly recommend reading Maren Tirabassi’s poem on this text, “A few thoughts on Luke 20:27-38 for Día de los Muertos.” It redirected my thinking.

Story: Beyond the Horizon

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

October 30, 2022

2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12
Luke 19:1-10

I don’t know how they became friends, or even how they met one another. When kolea make their journey to Hawai’i Island, they tend to find some space for themselves fairly close to the coastline. They like to look for worms and bugs and such in the grassy lawns that human beings maintain. They’re ground birds, rarely found on roofs or trees.

In contrast, the ‘apapane likes to be in trees, and in trees that grow further up the mountain. As I say, I’m not sure how a kolea and an ‘apapane ever met, let alone how they became friends. But year after year this kolea would make his way back to the Kohala peninsula and, after a good rest and a meal, take a shorter flight up the slopes of Kohala looking for a flash of red in the forest. Then the two of them would talk story until they’d caught up with the last several months.

This year the kolea found the ‘apapane looking… dreamy. After sharing the stories about nests and eggs and chicks, the ‘apapane sat and looked out over the mountain slope down to the sea and beyond. “I envy you,” she said. “You know what’s beyond the horizon.”

The kolea had told that story many times, so he just nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “Out in that direction is a very big ocean, and then there’s Alaska.”

“Do you ever wonder what’s beyond the horizon in other directions?” asked the ‘apapane.

“Not much,” said the kolea. “Except for those two big flights each year, I don’t stray far from the places I’ll find grubs to eat.”

“Well,” said the ‘apapane, turning to the northwest, “what do you suppose is over there?”

The two of them looked at a pile of clouds with a bit of bluish black in the middle. “I don’t know,” he said.

“I wonder,” sighed the ‘apapane.

“Shall I find out?” said the kolea. “I can take a flight to see what’s in the clouds.”

The ‘apapane accepted the offer, and the kolea headed off to the northwest, and was quickly lost to sight. It took nearly four hours before he was back again. He grabbed a snack at the base of the ‘apapane’s tree before joining her on the branch again.

“So what’s over there?” asked the ‘apapane.

“Maui,” said the kolea.

“What’s Maui?” asked the ‘apapane.

“It’s another island, smaller than this one, with a wide valley and a great big mountain on it. That’s the bluish black outline you can see. It’s not nearly as far as Alaska.”

The two birds were quiet for a while, and then the ‘apapane said, “It must be nice to always know what’s over the horizon.”

“But I don’t always know what’s over the horizon,” said the kolea. “I also don’t know what the next day will bring. I hope it will have a tasty worm or two, just the way you hope it will have ohi’a blossoms.”

“We both move into something mysterious, then,” said the ‘apapane, “which we hope will be a little familiar.”

“We both fly into tomorrow,” said the kolea, “with hope.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The story was told from memory of this manuscript in the video recording above. And, well, embellished.

Photo of an ‘apapane in flight by Eric Anderson.

A Boast

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

“Therefore we ourselves boast of you among the churches of God for your steadfastness and faith during all your persecutions and the afflictions that you are enduring.” – 2 Thessalonians 1:4

Let me boast of the teacher
whose time in the classroom
was short, but whose time
to inspire was longer and glorious
and still… all too short.

Let me boast of the caretaker,
rarely at worship because of her charge,
but shining with spirit in every
encounter, aglow with affection
so clear in my memory.

Let me boast of the less-known,
forgotten, ignored,
whose passage of Earth left its light,
instead of the powerful, wretched indeed,
to leave us so broken in sorrow.

Let me boast of the saints.

A poem/prayer based on 2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Proper 26 (31).

The image is The Forerunners of Christ with Saints and Martyrs by Fra Angelico (1420s) – Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3000363.

Story: Dive or Skim

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

October 23, 2022

Psalm 84:1-7
Luke 18:9-14

It’s a funny thing. The koa’e kea – the white-tailed tropicbird – and the noio – the black noddy – eat basically the same foods. They like small fish, they like squid. But they catch their food in very different ways. One koa’e kea had noticed this.

“That,” he said to another koa’e kea, “is disgusting.”

“What is?” she asked. The two were flying out to their fishing grounds from the ledges of Kilauea.

“Them,” said the first, “those noio. Watch them crowd together. Why can’t they hunt alone? There’s a horde of them fishing there. Then the noise. Every last one of them is screeching and calling. They’re flying low, and any bird should know that you can’t spot fish if you’re not high over the water. And most of all“ – he shuddered even as he was flying – “they don’t even know how to do a proper dive.”

“Really?” asked his friend. “What do they do?”

“Watch,” said the first, and they watched as noio after noio skimmed low over the water. The surface of the ocean rippled with the movement of the small fish beneath it. The noio dipped their beaks into the water, seized a fish without landing, and flew on as they swallowed.

“They don’t even pause on the surface to properly appreciate their meal,” he moaned.

“Aren’t there big fish down there, too?” asked his friend, who had noticed larger forms deeper in the water.

“Ahu,” said the koa’e kea, “skipjack tuna. They’re chasing the same fish as the noio. I don’t know why they’re not all crashing into one another, and why none of those noio have become lunch for an ahu.”

They watched the chaotic scene for a while, and then the second koa’e kea said, “You know, it seems to work.”

“What?” he said.

“With those ahu around, the small fish are closer to the surface,” she said, “and with so many birds in the air you wouldn’t want to pause on the surface. From all I can tell from here, none of them look like they’ll go hungry.”

“Do you want to fish like a noio?” he demanded.

“No, I’d rather dive from a good height,” she said, “and I’d rather not have a lot of other birds about because I’d crash into one when I’m diving. I’m not eager to run into an ahu under water, and one of my dives might get down to where they are. I can’t call the noio disgusting, though,” she continued. “They’re living, and thriving, and happy, and fed. That’s a pretty good life for a seabird, don’t you think?”

I don’t know for certain whether she’d convinced him, because he didn’t say anything more as they flew out to their own fishing grounds farther from shore. I’ll call her wise, though, to recognize that there’s more than one way to live a good life as a seabird, and to appreciate a seabird who does things differently.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The story is told from memory of this manuscript. That is enough to cause some differences. Today, there was another presentation before the story, and, well, you’ll just have to see it to believe it.

Photo of a noio in flight (though not actually skimming the surface) by Eric Anderson.

Contemptible

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

[Jesus] also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt… – Luke 18:9

Truly you see that he is contemptible.
Imagine a collaborator, a Quisling, a snake
who slithers his way to take chicks from the nest.
Such is this man, who is rich from his friends –
if he has any, now, since he fronts for the Romans
and seizes their substance for them and himself.

I thank you, Creator, that I have not fallen
to such mean temptation or villainous deed.
You’ll find that my substance is shared with my household.
You’ll find that my giving to you is correct.
You’ll find I am faithful in all of my doings.
To you I give praise for your law and design.

Now listen, O Great One, as he struggles to pray.
My studies have given me words fit for angels,
to proclaim your glory as if my voice echoed
the song of the heavens and heaven’s chorale.
And he prays for mercy? Sure, mercy he covets,
but we know his plea is yet more of his greed.

Truly you see that he is contemptible,
in life and profession, in false piety.
Let not his petition leave grit in your ears,
but hear my thanksgiving and praise to your name.
You, and you only, can judge your Creation.
You, and you only, can say what contemptible is.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 18:9-14, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 25 (30).

The image is a woodcut for Die Bibel in Bildern, 1860, by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld – Die Bibel in Bildern, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5490865.

Song: Take the Labyrinth Road

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
This is the premiere streamed performance of “Take the Labyrinth Road,” sung live at 11 AM HST on October 19, 2022. It was written for the Pastoral Leaders Retreat of the Hawai’i Conference, United Church of Christ, and first played during that event on October 12, 2022.

by Eric Anderson
October 7, 2022

C Dm F Em / C Dm C G / C F Dm G / C G F G / C – – –

Twisting, turning paths
from without to within
Over gravel, soil and roots.
Let the time begin
For a journey of the soul
from brokenness to whole…
ness in the Spirit,
Come take the labyrinth road.

The journey curves about
in the world, in the heart,
And the ground below is rough
or is smoothed by art.
Moving body, moving soul
from brokenness to whole…
ness in the Spirit,
Come take the labyrinth road.

No promises on the way
for insight or inspiration
Just a time to step away
for peaceful contemplation,
For a journey of the soul
from brokenness to whole…
ness in the Spirit,
Come take the labyrinth road.

© 2022 by Eric Anderson

Story: The Pueo that Caught a Pig

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

October 16, 2022

Genesis 32:22-31
Luke 18:1-8

As you know, there are birds and animals that don’t eat meat, and there are birds and animals that eat entirely meat, and there are birds and animals that eat either one, depending on what they find. Most of the meat-eating animals have a similar strategy about what they eat. They tend to look for something to eat that is smaller than they are. If that sounds a little bit like bullying, well, I think that’s where bullying comes from. I wish we could think of other people as people, and not as “this is someone I can bully.”

There are a few creatures that do hunt for animals larger than they are. The pueo is not one of them. The pueo flies about over the grasslands and looks for smaller things: mice, small birds, more mice, more small birds… basically, lunch.

This is the story of the pueo that caught a pig.

He didn’t mean to. He was distracted in his flying that day. Everything was nice and clear and there wasn’t a lot of wind. He wasn’t hunting with his full attention; he was mostly daydreaming in the air. Still, when he saw some grass move out of the corner of his eye, he was on it in a flash. Movement in the grass meant a mouse or a small bird. Movement in the grass meant lunch.

In this case, however, what it meant was a napping pig whose ear had just flicked at a fly and moved the grass. The pueo only discovered his mistake when he’d grabbed the pig by the top of her head. All the dreaminess of soaring about the sky vanished in a flash, as the pig woke up, felt the pueo on her head, and dashed off in a panic.

The pueo didn’t know what to do, so he hung on.

The pig tossed her head and tried to use her front feet to knock the pueo off her head, but her legs were too short. She threw her head from side to side as she ran so that one moment the pueo was pulled left and the next pulled right.

The pueo hung on. Dust was flying from beneath the pig’s feet but so were feathers from the pueo’s body. The sensible thing to do might have been to fly away, but there were so many feathers in the air that he wasn’t sure he could control his flight, and if he once fell underneath the pig’s feet that wouldn’t be good at all. As for the pig, if she’d thought about it, she could have rolled over and forced the pueo to let go, but she was startled and frightened and panicked, so she didn’t think of it.

This went on for some time until the pig ran out of energy and stopped, trembling. The pueo’s feet were tense and cramped and he still didn’t dare let go.

“Who are you?” said the pig, “Why did you do this?”

“I thought you were a mouse,” said the pueo, knowing that this sounded silly as he said it.

“What do you want?” said the pig.

“I want to go home,” said the pueo. “And I’d like to go home without your footprints in my feathers.”

“I’d like to go home without your claw marks on my head,” said the pig, “but I’m not getting what I want.”

“I’m going home without a lot of feathers,” said the pueo. “I’m not even sure I can fly.”

“What if,” said the pig, “we both get what we want? I want you off my head, and you want to be off my head, don’t you?”

“That would be best,” agreed the pueo.

The pig walked over to a larger rock, one that rose above her head. The pueo, with some difficulty, unclenched his feet and stepped cautiously onto the rock, then hurried up to its top. The pig looked up at him. He was too high for her to reach.

“Thanks for bringing me to a safer place,” he said.

“Thanks for getting off my head,” she said. “Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” he said. “I’ll make every effort to avoid it.”

She went home with some scratches. He went home without a few feathers, ones that would have to grow back before his flying was at its best. They went home having given one another the thing they wanted most: an opportunity for peace.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The story was told from memory of this prepared text. And so… it’s not the same.

Photo of a pueo in flight by Forest & Kim Starr, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6167276.

Subdued

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

“The sun rose upon [Jacob/Israel] as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip.” – Genesis 32:31

I had you, God.
You know it. I know it.
You saw you weren’t prevailing.
You know it. I know it.
And then you pulled a dirty trick!
You know it. I know it.
You pulled my hip right out of joint.
You know it. I know it.
It didn’t matter; I held on to you and held.
You know it. I know it.
You did not want the daylight to reveal you.
You know it. I know it.
And so you called for me to let you go before the dawn.
You know it. I know it.
“Oh, no,” I said. “You have to bless me first.”
You know it. I know it.
You did; you gave me a new name.
You know it. I know it.
A name about the struggle.
You know it. I know it.
And now I limp.
You know it. I know it.
But I won.

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 32:22-31, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year C, Proper 24 (29).

The image is Jacob Wrestling the Angel by Anonymous (Meister 1) ca. 1350-1375 – Hochschul- und Landesbibliothek Fulda, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=23797771.