Saltiness, sweetness, bitterness, and sourness. Those are the four senses of the human tastebuds. I’ve told stories about the first three over the last three weeks. Shall we go for sour?
Let’s go for sour.
He was the fasted akekeke in his generation (the English name is ruddy turnstone, and there is some reddishness in their brown feathers, and they do turn stones when looking for food). Yes, the fastest akekeke in his generation, and everybody knew it.
After hatching and fledging he’d quickly begun winning races among his siblings and cousins and friends in Alaska. They’d made a short journey to the shoreline where they’d munched on crabs and fish and snails before making the long flight to Hawai’i. That had been his first time, so even though he could fly very fast, he stayed with the other birds and they arrived on the island together.
But as spring approached and the return to Alaska, he started to think about winning.
“I’m going to win the race,” he announced to his friends and cousins.
“What race?” they asked.
“The race back to Alaska,” he said. “I’m going to win.”
“There’s a race?” they said, and they looked at one another in confusion.
“And I’m going to win,” he said firmly, and leaped into the air to practice.
“What are you talking about, son?” asked his father later on. “What race are you flying in?”
“The race to Alaska,” said the young bird. “I’m going to win.”
“But there’s no race,” said his father. “We just fly to the same place.”
“What good is that?” said the fastest akekeke in his generation. “There has to be a race. And I’m going to win.”
And that was that. His father, his mother, his sisters and brothers, his tutus, his cousins, his friends: Nobody could convince him that there wasn’t a race, that there wasn’t anything to win.
“I’m going to win the race,” he insisted.
When the day came for the akekeke to begin their flight to Alaska, he was among the first to take to the sky. He pressed on hard, and rapidly drew to the front of the flock, then beyond it. He was the fastest flyer in his generation, after all.
It wasn’t long before he couldn’t make out the other birds behind him. He was alone in the sky. He was confident, though, that he knew where he was going, and he was also right. He did. It was a long tiresome journey, but he made a successful landing on the Alaskan shores and began hunting for food.
He’d won.
But as he satisfied his hunger, he realized that another hunger remained unsatisfied. He’d won, but there was no celebration. There was nobody there. He was the only akekeke on a long empty beach. He was lonely. It was a sour victory.
It took quite some time before the other akekeke began arriving. It took longer for his father to find him. “How was your race?” he asked his son.
“The flight was all right,” he said, “but you’re right. It wasn’t a race.”
“The victory wasn’t what you thought?” said the father.
“It was sour,” said the son.
“How about now?” asked the father, “with everybody else here?”
The son looked around at the busily feeding akekeke, and the sourness subsided. He felt good again.
“Everybody is in the same place,” he told his father. “We’ve all won.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation. On this day, for example, one of the youngsters raced up to the front, which was a little unfortunate given the theme of the story.
“For this reason the promise depends on faith, in order that it may rest on grace, so that it may be guaranteed to all his descendants, not only to the adherents of the law but also to those who share the faith of Abraham (who is the father of all of us, as it is written, ‘I have made you the father of many nations’), in the presence of the God in whom he believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist.” – Romans 4:16-17
An ox-cart won for Gordias the crown of Phrygia, so they say, and Midas tied the cart’s yoke with a knot so intricate removing it would win a continent.
Great Alexander, so they say, could not untie the knot. Perhaps he pulled the pin. Perhaps he sliced it open with his sword. His death released the Asian lands he’d won.
Three centuries and some, along came Paul with no ambition toward war and rule, but faced with as intractable a knot as Midas ever tied to hold a cart.
The knot held some, he thought, in servitude, in hopeless effort to be righteous when “not one is righteous, no, not one… they all have turned aside from kindness, every one.”
The knot barred others from the knowledge of their failure to do good (though honestly they should have known through what Creation tells of God’s eternal justice, wrath, and power).
How to release this knot? How meld these two communities into a house of faith? How reconcile circumcised with those uncircumcised, with mutual distrust?
How else? He tied a knot of elegant and pirouetting thought, a logical connection that would bind the Church in one, close fastened, one and all, to Jesus Christ.
What loving, faithful pains he took to show we travel in one boat, we worship just one God, we are one Church, wherever we began our faith’s life’s journey, Jew or Greek.
I wonder, though, if tying up new knots is all that useful when the animal needs water, and the lead is all too short, when dinner waits beyond the leash’s length.
I wonder if the Messianic fingers had already loosed the knot dividing us, and if, with all this elegance of thought, poor Paul re-tied it hopelessly again.
Some months ago upon a mountain trail I came upon a fence and gate, which served to give endangered plants a chance to grow, not be consumed by wandering ungulants.
The gate was closed by string, and at first glance I thought it held by a close-fastened knot, and reached toward it, fingernails prepared to pull and loosen its constricted coils.
But then I looked again. The knot did not secure the gate. It closed a loop, which I quite easily unwrapped and wrapped again, continuing along the mountain trail.
Dear Paul: Is that what you have tried to do? Is this a loop we can unwrap to make our way along the Way? Is grace beyond accessible to us despite the knot?
A poem/prayer based on Romans 4:1-5, 13-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year A, Second Sunday in Lent.
Having selected my Lenten discipline of giving up judgmentalism (and writing about it), I was promptly challenged to keep that discipline. I hadn’t even finished the first essay about the project when I encountered this story on Religion News Service by a reporter I follow on the BlueSky social network, Jack Jenkins: “400 Christian leaders urge resistance to Trump administration on Ash Wednesday.”
One of the reasons I chose to examine judgment and judgmentalism this Lent is that I’ve been challenged for judgmentalism. I’ve been taken to task for criticizing some behaviors while excusing others. I’ve been told that some of the things I protest in some have been done by others – did I protest them?
The critique has sometimes been fair. I can’t say I was aware of all the examples that I didn’t protest (which makes it harder to protest them), but it’s also true that those wouldn’t have circulated in places where I pay attention. Limit your attention; limit your awareness. That’s something to consider as I continue this Lenten reflection on judgmentalism.
There on the very first day I had to discern and judge, because the statement invited religious leaders to sign on. Whether I signed or not, I would be making a judgment.
I hadn’t expected it to happen so fast. I hadn’t expected to face a significant decision before I’d laid up some intellectual foundations. Ah, well. As Robert Burns wrote to a mouse:
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, For promis’d joy!
When I first considered this question over pork chops and mashed potato, the first thing I thought of as a feature of discernment was time. Before choosing, give it time. Before deciding, give it time. Before acting, give it time. I expect to spend more time on this element (see what I did there?) through the next six weeks, but even as I thought it over I realized that we make a number of decisions in the moment and rightly so. When I finished my meal I drove home. I made decision after decision in those few minutes without reflecting on it for more than an instant. If I hadn’t, I’d have run the front of my car into a car in front of me.
Likewise, I have to admit that I have spent long periods of time considering my actions and ended up deeply regretting what I’d chosen. Time is no panacea.
Nevertheless, I decided I would consider the decision over a day.
(I decided I would decide. See what I did there?)
I read the statement “A Call to Christians in a Crisis of Faith and Democracy” several times. It’s not a subtle piece. “We are facing a cruel and oppressive government,” it claims. “This political crisis is driven by people who have fallen for the temptation of absolute power,” it asserts. “Governance is being hollowed out and replaced with corruption, loyalty tests, intimidation, and the normalization of lawlessness,” it states. Strong words. Strong judgments. The authors of the statement have looked at the acts of the administration and made conclusions about the character of those acts: cruel, oppressive, corrupt, and lawless. Further, they have asserted that the temptation of absolute power is a driving factor for those who direct those acts.
I face the question: Do I concur with those judgments? Do I agree with their characterization of these acts? Do I accept the diagnosis of the motives?
Further, I read the list of signatories. Although I’ve been in ministry a long time, I didn’t recognize all the names. I saw many that were familiar, including quite a few whose words and work I’ve greatly admired. I also saw a number of people from organizations I’ve never heard of. I saw that representatives of the “mainline” Protestant churches clearly predominated, with a lot of leaders from ecumenical settings. A number of the people who signed come from my own denomination, the United Church of Christ, including our General Minister and President. Some of the signers are colleagues I deeply respect. Some are dear friends.
I face the question: Are these people whose discernment I trust? While I still have to do my own work, can I trust the work they have done?
The statement is not simply a diagnosis of our condition. It is also a call to action. Those who signed made eight commitments. The authors expanded more on them than I have here:
Protect and stand with vulnerable people,
Love our neighbors,
Speak truth to power,
Seek peace,
Do justice,
Strengthen democracy,
Practice hope, and
Ground our discipleship in prayer and inward journey.
I face the question: Are these commitments I can make? Are they consistent with my understanding of Christianity? Are they things I have the power to do? Are they things I have the will to do?
I slept on it. I read the statement again (and again). I reviewed the names. I found more names I knew. I considered the commitments.
Here’s the thing: I knew I was inclined to add my name to the list when I read Jack Jenkins’ headline. That was my first judgment, my off-the-cuff discernment. But was it judgmental? Particularly given the strong language about the political and spiritual condition of the nation?
Also, was I (am I) merely reinforcing my own pre-established conclusions? On the Sunday after the election, I said, “The United States has re-elected as President a devourer of widows’ houses. Plain and simple. Already his followers have sent messages to African American children telling them to report for sale as slaves. Already his followers have sent messages to women: ‘Your body. My choice.’”
Of the three areas of discernment I’ve named here, I had no problems with the commitments. I’ve held those as virtues consistent with Christianity for many years (which raises the problem of reinforcing my conclusions again). There were more than enough people whose judgment I trust in the list to make their willingness to sign compelling. The sticking point was: Do I agree enough with the diagnosis section to sign on to it? Do I need to learn more that either confirms or refutes that characterization of the administration’s acts?
This morning I sat with it again, considered it again. And I came to the same conclusion with which I’d started: I believe I know enough. I agree with the characterization. I need to make the commitment.
Last week it was saltiness. This week it’s sweetness. We’re making our way around the taste buds, I guess. I don’t actually have plans to visit sourness or bitterness, but who knows?
An i’iwi was having a hard time. They’re used to sipping nectar from ohi’a flowers and koa flowers and mamane flowers and lots of other flowers, and nectar is basically flower sugar. It’s pretty sweet. It does change, though, a little like the way that some oranges are sweeter than others. It’s got to do with the rainfall or lack of it, and the soil nourishment, and lots of other things that I don’t know about and the i’iwi doesn’t know about and the tree might know about but trees don’t talk about that sort of thing very much.
In any case, the i’iwi wasn’t finding much in the way of sweet nectar. Nectar, yes. Enough to keep her from getting hungry, yes. Sweetness that satisfied: not so much.
So she went looking for sweetness.
It’s not uncommon for the nectar-feeding birds of the mountains to fly about looking for nectar. She had a somewhat different agenda, though: sweeter nectar, and not just nectar. For whatever reasons, though, the nectars she sampled tasted much the same: a little dry, a little bland. She could eat it, but she really wanted something better. It was the difference between your grandmother’s chocolate chip cookie, and the cookie you ate the reminds you how much better grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies are.
She didn’t find it.
She was sitting grumpily on a branch complaining about this to her mother. I’iwi can be pretty good at being grumpy birds, and she was putting in the practice to get really good at it. Her mother, I must say, wasn’t a particularly grumpy bird and didn’t want to be.
“So you want to find sweetness?” she asked her daughter. “Where have you looked?”
Her daughter described her flights up the mountain, and down the mountain, and along the slopes of the mountain, and how the nectar just wasn’t what she wanted or hoped for.
“Those are the only places you checked?” said mother.
“Where else?” said the daughter. “I could fly farther but will that work out any better?”
“I don’t know,” said her mother, “especially because I think you can find sweetness much closer to home.”
“Where?” demanded her daughter. “Where is there sweetness here?”
“There’s the warmth of the sun on your feathers,” said her mother, “and the sound of the rain on the leaves. There’s the scent of mamane on the wind, the great blue of the clear sky, and the dramatic greys of the cloudy sky.”
“Those are ordinary things!” her daughter protested.
“Well, there’s also the way your father loves you, and your grandparents love you, and the way I love you,” mother said. “Is that ordinary?”
“It is,” said the daughter, “but it’s special, too.”
“Best of all,” said mother, “is the sweetness that’s inside you. It goes with you wherever you fly. You never have to worry that it will run out. Even when no one is around, even in the coldest, darkest night, even when none of the trees are in blossom, there is sweetness in your heart.”
“You helped put it there,” said her daughter.
“Sip that sweetness when you need to, daughter,” said her mother. “Sip it and be refreshed.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as you have read it is not identical to the way I told it.
“Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became bright as light.” – Matthew 17:1-2
Bright with light, walking with the prophets, hailed by holy voice that stunned the clouds and silenced even Simon Peter: Jesus the Beloved Son of God.
Transfigured on the mountaintop.
At mountain’s foot, however, trouble lay, because a demon would not be rebuked by any of the nine disciples there. “Where can I find the mustard seed of faith?” they asked.
I grant you they had missed the mountaintop.
But Peter, James, and John, who’d seen the sight, had heard the voice, been silenced clean: how had they been transfigured? Were they changed? Did they bring nourishment to their own mustard seeds?
For they had known the mountaintop.
Yet Peter asked if there were limits on forgiveness. He wondered what he’d gain from following his Lord. While James and John coopted their own mother to secure a place of power.
Though they had been upon the mountaintop.
When Jesus brought the three apart again, this time into a corner of Gethsemane, their bodies ruled their spirits, and they slept, while Jesus wept the bitter tears of grief and fear.
Had they forgotten about the mountaintop?
Approaching soldiers woke them. Weariness no longer slowed them. As blood streamed from a stricken servant’s ear, the three who’d seen and heard the most took to their heels and fled.
Had they been changed upon the mountaintop?
One found his courage and his way back to the courtyard of the trial, but did not bring his name. Three times they asked, three times he cried, “I do not know the man!”
He’d known him on the mountaintop.
So Jesus, here I stand, at best an image in a mirror darkly of those first disciples. I am not the person I would like to be, say nothing of the follower whom you expect.
And I was never on that mountaintop.
Yet truly, you have summoned me by less dramatic means than brilliant clouds and stunning voices on the wind, to be your follower, your servant, and your friend.
But have I been transfigured by the mountaintop?
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 17:1-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Transfiguration Sunday.
Salt is a funny thing. Your body, my body, pretty much every body of every person and every creature needs some salt. Without salt, we get sick. On the other hand, if we have too much salt, we also get sick. Not too much, not too little. That’s the way to do it.
Most of the birds, including yellow-billed cardinals, manage to get the right amount of salt just by what they eat. Seeds have a little salt. So do berries. But every once in a while things don’t go the same way, and one yellow-billed cardinal found himself feeling hungry in a very odd way.
He was hungry for salt.
Personally, I’m rarely hungry for salt itself. I’m not likely to go find a salt shaker and sprinkle some on my tongue. I mean, yuck. Put salt on fried potatoes, though, or popcorn, or…
Well. Let’s just say I’ll eat those up.
Nobody was going to make popcorn or French fries for a yellow-billed cardinal, especially one who couldn’t cook. He hopped around the shore looking for salt, and although there was plenty of it in the ocean, he wasn’t about to drink salt water. He already knew from painful experience that he’d get sick from that.
To his amazement, as he looked, he saw white crystals glistening on the rocks, and even on some of the leaves of the bushes. He thought at first it might be salt left by ocean spray, but it was too far from the breaking waves. Regardless, he pecked a couple of those crystals, and felt much better, even if he did feel pretty thirsty from it.
He didn’t know where it came from, but from time to time when he got hungry for salt again, it was there.
In the meantime, overhead flew the koa’e ‘ula, who spend much of their time far out to sea where there’s too much salt in the water and, for that matter, in the fish that they eat. One of them, in fact, had just had a good long drink of sea water with more salt in it than was good for her.
Unlike the yellow-billed cardinal on the shore below, she could take in more salt because her body could get rid of the excess. Something like tears, salt crystals formed along her beak and sprinkled down on the ground below, where a salt-hungry bird might pick them up.
Neither the koa’e ‘ula nor the yellow-billed cardinal knew anything about the other. Neither of them thought much about it, in fact, but one of them was doing something really important for the other, and didn’t know it.
The same is true of us. Jesus called us the salt of the earth, and he meant that we help other people live and thrive. Sometimes we know we’re doing it, but sometimes we don’t. Just like the koa’e ‘ula, we do ordinary things in our ordinary lives, and someone else lives better because of it.
May we always be the salt of the earth.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation. As a result, the story as I wrote it does not match the story as I told it.
Photos of a yellow-billed cardinal and a koa’e ‘ula by Eric Anderson.
“And he began to speak and taught them, saying: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'” – Matthew 5:2-3
By God, you’ve got it so wrong, Jesus. Do you really not know? That’s not how it works.
The poor in spirit won’t receive the kingdom of heaven. The poor in spirit are poor by their own negligence. They could be rich, you know, if they made the right choice, invested in the things that bring them gain, ignored the claims of other obligations, engaged in fraud, then they’d be rich…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
The ones who mourn, will they be comforted? There’s a whole industry to comfort them. They’ll pay for it, of course, because who wants to write insurance for a mental health distress? If they were rich, they’d comfort themselves…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
The meek? Don’t make me laugh. The earth belongs to those who take and seize and hold it firm. The meek are those who follow orders barked by armed and masked anonymous authorities. The meek are not entitled to the earth…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
Now how can you assert that anyone is hungering for righteousness? We have the law (that serves me well) and isn’t that enough? And if we bend it some to punish those we’ve in advance condemned, we will not satisfy this thirst of sentimental saps…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
I see the people who cry, “Mercy!” stand between the human vultures and their prey, and hear them ask the victims if they are OK, and tell the wolves, “That’s fine, dude. I’m not mad at you,” and they receive the mercy I expect…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
As for the pure in heart, they can be pure as pure they wish to be. But if they live where I don’t want them to, and if they live on land I want, well. They’ll just have to move. If they resist, they will see God for sure…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
Now if I claim to be a peacemaker and threaten nations with invasion after blowing boats to kingdom come and killing their survivors, you’ll give to me the prize of Child of God? That’s right…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
Once more I tell you, Jesus, not one soul is persecuted for their righteousness. They suffer for their crimes, the crimes that I decide, the story that I tell, and I alone. Not heaven theirs, but hell, and hell on earth…
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
And tell me, Jesus, who you think has been oppressed or injured for their loyalty to you? We pepper spray the ministers who resist us, not for their faith in you. Do you maintain that they are marching in the streets on your behalf?
In spirit. Right. Of course. In spirit.
By God, you’ve got it so wrong, Jesus. Do you really not know? That’s not how it works.
And Jesus wept.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 5:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany.
The image is “The Sermon on the Mount,” woodcut by Lucas Cranach the Elder, from his Passion Christ und Antichrist, Herzog Anton Ulrich-Museum, Braunschweig (1582) – Digitised image, Rheinisches Bildarchiv, Köln, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=50665418.
At this time of the year, you might forgive an ‘apapane for looking a little flustered. Or just for looking around. And flying around. A lot. This time of the year can be complicated.
For one thing, it’s time to get pairs together. When two birds have decided they’ll be parents with one another, they’ve got to find a spot for a nest. Then they’ve got to build the nest. Then there are eggs to lay and brood over, and then there will be chicks to feed and fledglings to teach fly, and during all of that, they still need to watch out for cats and hunker down in the storms and, of course, find themselves enough to eat.
One ‘apapane, one who had become something of a tutu to the younger birds, noticed another ‘apapane looking a little frantic.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“I can’t remember,” said the other ‘apapane.
“Have you eaten?” said the first one.
“I don’t think so,” said the frantic one.
“Go eat something,” she told him. “There’s some ohi’a in blossom over there, and there will be plenty of bugs there, too. I’m sure you’ll remember better after that.”
Another frantic ‘apapane landed nearby.
“What are you looking for?” asked the tutu.
“I can’t find my husband,” she said.
“Did you find a place for a nest?” asked the tutu.
“We found two, and they’re not in the same tree,” said the younger bird.
“Perch half way between the two, and watch for him,” said the tutu. “I’m sure he’s looking for you, too.”
About a minute after the younger bird flew off, a male ‘apapane flew up.
“What are you looking for?” said the tutu.
“I can’t find my wife!” he said.
“Did you pick two likely nest sites?” asked the tutu. When he said yes, she sent him off to find his wife between those two trees. “You’ll find her,” she said. “She’s looking for you.”
She did this all day, in between sipping nectar and snacking on bugs. She sent some birds after nest materials and some after food and more than you’d expect to find their missing spouses.
“How do you do it?” asked another ‘apapane who’d been watching it all.
“It’s simple,” she said. “I ask them what they’re looking for. Once I know that – actually, once they know that – I can probably help them, or send them to somebody who can help them.
“It’s really hard to find anything when you don’t know what you’re looking for.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory plus inspiration. The story you just read does not precisely match the way I told it.
“What is wisdom?” wondered the ‘amakihi as he flew through the sky.
“What is wisdom?” wondered the ‘amakihi as he sipped on ohi’a nectar.
“What is wisdom?” wondered the ‘amakihi as he settled down to sleep at night.
“What is wisdom?” wondered the ‘amakihi as he woke in the morning.
“What is wisdom?” is, in fact, an extremely good question whether you’re an ‘amakihi or a human being. Wisdom, after all, tends to prevent a lot of foolishness. Foolishness, on the other hand, tends to happen in the absence of wisdom.
“What is wisdom?” wandered the ‘amakihi over the course of the day.
One of the features of wisdom is that when someone who is wise doesn’t know or doesn’t understand something, they do things to learn more about it. They look around at things. They measure and they think about what they’ve measured. If they’re human, they might read something, or a lot of somethings. They ask others to see what they know.
Whether you’re a human or an ‘amakihi, a good one to ask would be tutu.
“Tutu,” asked the ‘amakihi, “what is wisdom?”
Tutu was pleased. It was a wise question – if you don’t know something, wisdom says, “Ask.” He’d made a wise choice about who to ask – grandparents often know things. And he was asking about something important, wisdom itself.
She replied with a question of her own: “What is knowledge, grandson?”
“Knowledge?” he asked. “I hadn’t thought much about that… it seemed kind of obvious. If I know something that’s true, that’s been demonstrated to me, that’s knowledge. If I think I know something that isn’t true, or if I simply don’t know something, that’s not knowledge. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” said Tutu. “Now let me ask something else.”
“Are you going to answer my question?” asked her grandson, who was starting to worry that if he answered all her questions she wouldn’t get around to answering his.
“I am,” she said. “Now here’s my question: Can you fly with your wings closed?”
He opened his beak to reply, then stopped. It doesn’t make much sense, but he realized that sometimes while flying, he would close his wings. Not for long. Not all the time, obviously. But for a few moments in many flights, he would be flying with his wings closed.
“Yes,” he said carefully. “For a moment or two.”
“How do you know whether to close your wings in flight?”
“It’s complicated,” he said. “How high up am I? How much do I need to rest my wings for a moment? Will I need to make a quick turn or slow down to land? There isn’t a simple answer.”
“That’s right, there isn’t,” she told him. “Knowing that you can fold your wings in flight is knowledge. You know it’s something you can do. Choosing the right moment to do it – or the right moment not to do it – that’s wisdom.
“Wisdom is when you consider what you don’t know for certain, what might happen, or what might not happen if you do something, and then make a good choice. Wisdom looks at what you know, and asks whether you should.
“That, grandson, is wisdom.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and inspiration on Sunday mornings. What you have just read does not precisely match how I told it.
Shepherd 1: A tender of sheep Shepherd 2: A tender of sheep and one goat Sheep: A wooly creature Goat: A non-wooly creature Lead Angel: A messenger to shepherds Angels: A backup chorus of messengers Mary: A young woman Joseph: A young man Magi 1: A scholar dressed a lot like a king Magi 2: Another scholar dressed a lot like a king
SCENE 1: A hillside
[SHEPHERD 1, SHEPHERD 2, GOAT, and SHEEP enter]
Shepherd 1: I can’t believe you brought a goat.
Shepherd 2: Why not bring a goat? Goats are cool. They don’t get lost as often as sheep. And they give milk. That’s useful.
Shepherd 1: OK, all that is true. But you only brought one goat. Shouldn’t you have brought a herd of goats?
Shepherd 2: Of course I’ve heard of goats.
Shepherd 1: Ha, ha. I’m not sure that joke is going to be funny even if two thousand years go by.
Shepherd 2: I thought it was funny. And I’m sure the goat heard. Did you think it was funny?
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Shepherd 1: Why did you bring just one goat?
Shepherd 2: I’m picky.
Shepherd 1: So brought just one goat because…
Shepherd 2: It’s the best goat.
Shepherd 1: Just how do you choose the best goat?
Shepherd 2: The best goat has great hair, great hooves, great ears, and most of all, great horns.
Shepherd 1: And this one is the best goat, is it?
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Shepherd 2: You hear them? They agree.
Shepherd 1: That sounded like “Bah” to me.
[The LEAD ANGEL and the ANGELS enter]
Shepherds: Aaaggghhhh!
Sheep: Bah!
Goat: Bah!
Lead Angel: Do not be afraid!
Shepherd 1: Why not? I’m terrified!
Shepherd 2: Me, too! I planned on the best goat, not the Lead Angel.
Angels: Us, too!
Shepherd 2: Plus the other angels. Sorry.
Lead Angel: I bring you good news!
Shepherd 1: We’re getting good grass this season?
Shepherd 2: The price of goat’s milk is going up?
Shepherd 1: My family is going to learn to spin and weave wool?
Shepherd 2: This really is the best goat ever?
Sheep: Bah!
Goat: Bah!
Angels: Hush and you’ll learn something!
Lead Angel: Think bigger, shepherds.
Angels: Much bigger!
Shepherd 2: I need a bigger goat?
Goat: Bah!
Lead Angel: No. Down the hill in the City of David…
Shepherd 1: The what?
Lead Angel: Bethlehem. It’s where King David came from.
Angels: Now stop interrupting!
Lead Angel: Down in the City of David a child has been born to save all people. He is the Messiah, the Lord.
Shepherd 1: Wow.
Lead Angel: Go to the city and look for a newborn who is wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.
Shepherd 2: Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt, but… what are swaddling cloths?
Lead Angel: You don’t have children, do you?
Shepherd 2: No. I have the best goat, though.
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Lead Angel: Swaddling cloths are light blankets you wrap around a baby to keep him warm.
Shepherd 2: Oh. OK. Good. And… One other thing?
Lead Angel: Really? All right. What else do you want to know?
Shepherd 2: A manger? Like, a feeding trough? We should be looking for the Messiah in a stable?
Lead Angel: Where else would you look?
Shepherd 1: Don’t argue with the angel.
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Shepherd 2: Right. We’ll look in the stables.
Shepherd 1: Thanks for the good news!
Angels: Hallelujah! Glory to God!
[ANGELS and LEAD ANGEL exit]
Shepherd 2: What do we do now?
Shepherd 1: You might want to argue with angels, but not me. We’re going to Bethlehem.
Goat: Bah!
Shepherd 1: Don’t forget your goat.
[SHEPHERD 1, SHEPHERD 2, GOAT, and SHEEP exit]
SCENE 2: A Stable
[MARY and JOSEPH enter with baby]
Mary: Did I just have a baby in a stable?
[JOSEPH looks at the bundle Mary is carrying]
Joseph: That’s a baby you’ve got. I’d say yes. Yes, you just had a baby in a stable.
Mary: No wonder I’m so tired. Can you hold him for a bit?
Joseph: Sure. Wait. There’s a manger here. It’s got straw in it. That should be soft for a baby, right?
Mary: Put him in it and see if he cries.
[JOSEPH puts the baby in the manger. No crying]
Joseph: No crying.
Mary: Not from him, maybe. I’m about ready to cry. What a night!
Joseph: It’s all right, Mary. It’ll all be quiet from here.
[SHEPHERD 1, SHEPHERD 2, GOAT, and SHEEP enter]
Shepherd 1: Hi. Sorry to bother you, but is there a baby here in a manger?
Shepherd 2: This is our sixth stable tonight and boy are my feet tired.
[GOAT looks in the manger]
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Shepherd 2: Would you look at that?
Shepherd 1: It’s a baby in a manger!
Shepherd 2: And my goat found it. He really is the best, you know.
Joseph: Excuse me, but who are you?
Mary: And why are you looking for a baby in a manger? Why would you even think to look for a baby in a manger?
Shepherd 1: Oh, we didn’t think of it.
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Shepherd 2: We don’t think very much, really.
Shepherd 1: Some angels came and told us to look for a baby in a manger.
Shepherd 2: It was pretty scary, actually.
Shepherd 1: It was scarier after you started arguing with the angels. Who does that?
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Shepherd 2: I don’t do it often.
Joseph: Slow down. You say angels told you to come here?
Shepherd 1: They told us to look here.
Shepherd 2: And six stables later, here you are!
Mary: Why? Why did the angels tell you to look for a baby in a stable?
Shepherd 2: Oh. Didn’t we mention that?
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Shepherd 1: I guess we didn’t. You see, the angel told us that this baby is…
Goat: Bah!
Shepherd 2: The Messiah!
[Everyone looks at the baby]
Shepherd 1: So… that’s what a Messiah looks like?
Mary: When he’s just been born.
Shepherd 2: Oh. So you knew already?
Mary: Let’s just say I’ve had my own conversation with an angel.
Shepherd 1: I’m sure she didn’t argue the way you did.
Mary: I just asked questions.
[LEAD ANGEL and other ANGELS enter]
Lead Angel: You didn’t argue at all.
Mary: It was weird, though.
Lead Angel: Of course it was unusual. You don’t think we send Messiah every day, do you?
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Lead Angel: Well said.
Angels: Hallelujah!
Shepherd 2: Of course it’s well said. He’s the best goat.
[MAGI 1 and MAGI 2 enter. MAGI 1 is really tired.]
Magi 1: Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.
Lead Angel: Hey, that’s my line!
Mary: Yes, I’ve heard that one before.
Magi 2: I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive him. He’s been carrying the heavy stuff.
Joseph: If you don’t mind, who are you, and why are you barging into our baby’s bedroom – er, stable – at this hour?
Magi 1: Barging? We haven’t got a barge. Not a sign of a boat at all. No, we’ve had camels.
Magi 2: Our other friend is parking the camels.
Magi 1: Why didn’t he bring them in here? It’s a stable, after all.
Magi 2: Because of the newborn baby? Really. Put the gold down. It’s not helping you think.
[The MAGI put their bundles down]
Shepherd 1: Did he say, “Gold”?
Shepherd 2: I think he said “Gold”.
Mary: Gold?
Joseph: Gold?
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Lead Angel: Yes, he said gold.
Mary: Why are you carrying gold?
Magi 1: I’m not carrying it any more. I put it down.
Magi 2: What my exhausted friend means is that we’re here to celebrate the birth of the newborn Messiah. That’s him, isn’t it? In… Why is he in a feeding trough?
Joseph: There wasn’t any room in the inn.
Magi 1: I guess the inn was an “out.”
Magi 2: That’s not going to be funny if you wait for two thousand years.
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Magi 1: Is that a goat criticizing my sense of humor?
Shepherd 2: Yes, sir, but rest assured, he’s the best goat. The best goat ever.
Magi 1: Oh. Well, that’s different. The best goat ever.
Joseph: Could we go back to why you’re here?
Magi 2: We’re here to welcome the newborn king, and to make sure he’s greeted with proper respect.
Magi 1: And presents.
Magi 2: Right. Presents for a king.
Mary: Kings get presents?
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Magi 1: Oh, yes. Kings definitely get presents. And given that this one is sleeping in a manger, it seems like a good thing.
Joseph: He’s got a point.
Lead Angel: Oh, while we’re talking about it, you’ll probably want to sell the presents and go to Egypt for a while. And, wise men? Don’t go back to tell Herod where this baby is. OK?
Goat: Bah!
Sheep: Bah!
Angels: Amen!
Magi 2: Well. All right. We’ll go home another way.
Lead Angel: Good plan.
Mary: Could you tell me one more time why you’re all here in this stable with my baby in the middle of the night?
Shepherd 2: Well, you see, we’ve got the best goat…
Shepherd 1: I can’t believe you brought up the goat.
Shepherd 2: No, really. We’ve got the best goat. But when I listen to the wise men here, and when I listen to the angels…
Lead Angel: When you’re not interrupting the angels…
Shepherd 2: I realize that while I might have the best goat, here in this manger you’ve got, I mean, we’ve got, I mean, the whole world has got:
The young people of Church of the Holy Cross UCC in Hilo, Hawai’i, performed “The GOAT” on December 21, 2025.
Author’s Note
I began writing Christmas pageants a few years ago when I realized that we could violate copyright if we streamed a commercially available script via live stream. It says something about me that I was more willing to write a script than I was to dig through the marketing of pageants to find one that included a streaming license.
It also means that I can adapt the script to the available actors. I once wrote a script with no Joseph because we simply didn’t have a youngster willing to do the role. In this case, the children were very impressed with a story featuring a goat that our Associate Conference Minister, the Rev. Jonathan Roach, told them some months ago. One of them announced that he wanted to be a goat in the pageant, and therefore the pageant needed to include a goat.
As is the way of some creatures, the goat took over.
One of the things I like about this pageant is the way everyone notices all the things that simply don’t make sense, such as a newborn monarch born in a stable rather than a palace. It emphasizes the truth that God does what God does, not what we expect God to do. A Messiah was born in a stable. What more might be waiting in God’s imagination?
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