christianity

That’s Not How It Works

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments


“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.

Did They Know?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments
A black and white drawing with two men in the foreground at left hauling a fishing net. At right further away a third man beckons at them as they look toward him.

“As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea for they were fishers. And he said to them, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fishers of people.'” – Matthew 4:18-19

Matthew left it out, of course.
What did you tell them, Jesus?

“Hey, guys, I’m sort of on the run
since they took John, although
they probably don’t know my name,
so that’s all right, you think?
Come follow me.

“Now mind you, folks will hear my name,
and quickly, too, if I am any judge.
They’ll come even from Syria to seek
some healing for their bodies and their souls.
Come follow me.

“I’m sure no one will think to look for me
atop a mountain peak – unless they follow those
who follow me, and frankly guys, I hope
to leave a wide and beaten track.
Come follow me.

“Now come along. We’ve work to do
that doesn’t need a net. No, we’re as likely to
be caught in Roman or Herodian nets as John.
They’ll lift us high – but not as high as God will raise us all.
Come follow me.”

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 4:12-23, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is from The End of that Person (1980), published by the Indonesian Bible Society. Anonymous artist – Koleksi Wikimedia Indonesia, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=141661922.

Story: What Are You Looking For?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments
A sharp-beaked red bird with its head more brightly lit perched in a tree with smallish dark green leaves.

January 18, 2026

Isaiah 49:1-7
John 1:29-42

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.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

That Awkward Question

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments
Three figures wearing Biblical clothing standing in a sandy landscape. Two of them follow the first, who is turning to speak to them.


“When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, ‘What are you looking for?'” – John 1:38

Well, Teacher, I’ve been following you
for forty-five years and more, and yet:
I don’t think I can tell you what I’m looking for.

It’s such an awkward question.

Like Andrew and his long-forgotten friend
(what happened to him, anyway?),
if you asked me I’d say something inane.

“Where are you staying, Teacher?”

You know, I know, they knew
that wasn’t why they took those steps
from John the Baptist’s side to yours.

But how were they to answer what they didn’t know?

And I, with decades as a follower,
with decades as a teacher of your flock,
with years of writing poem prayers to you,

I still don’t know.

What am I looking for in you?
A place of honor, a big frog
in what seems like a shrinking pond?

That would be silly, wouldn’t it?

Might I be looking for some meaning in
a world that seems to shed its sense
and sense of morals, too?

Can you make sense of what’s nonsensical?

Could I be looking for a safe embrace,
for arms extended wide, to hold me
fiercely, gently, for all time?

I could. I could indeed.

But most of all, dear Teacher, I
suspect I’m looking for the One
who’ll listen to my babbled nonsense answer, and

Reply with, “Come and see.”

A poem/prayer based on John 1:29-42, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Second Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is Vocation de Saint Jean et de Saint André (The Calling of Saint John and Saint Andrew) by James Tissot (between 1886 and 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.55_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10195829.

Power at the Riverside

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A circular image of mosaics in a dome. At center are three figures, a bearded figure representing God at left, a beardless figure in water at center, and a bearded figure wearing furs at right pouring water over the central figure. A dove is over the central figure. Surrounding the central image are twelve male figures representing saints.
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

“Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now, for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.’ Then he consented.” – Matthew 3:13-15

I wonder.

How many of the senior teachers,
how many of the higher priests
who gathered with the laborers,
the tax collectors, soldiers, on
the riverbank in search of some
forgiveness through the flowing stream,
thought secretly or not so secretly
that they, not John, should wash away
the sins to be forgiven, or
would rather send the penitent
to climb the slopes and pay the price
charged by the Temple vendors who
would scatter later at the wrath of Christ?

How many would have said, “Let it be so
for now,” and bowed their heads to wash
as Jesus did? Or did they huff upon the bank
and claim that they were justified
no matter what they’d done, or others seen,
recorded, understood, and known for wrong?
How many would have roared that they alone
determined right or wrong, despite the blood
which dripped into the Jordan from their hands?

How many would have humbled pride of place?

Events of then or now suggest it would be very few.

Perhaps: just one.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 3:13-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Baptism of Christ.

The image is the ceiling mosaic in the Arian Baptistry, Ravenna, Italy, 5th-6th cent. Photo by Petar Milošević – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=39891909.

I’ve Got to Know

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A mosaic of a bearded figure with a halo behind bars, flanked by armed men.

“When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?'” – Matthew 11:2-3

John, there you are, imprisoned by a king
whom you had castigated for a sexual misdeed
and took it badly. Beyond the stony walls,
you hear, another speaks your word: “Repent!”

“The realm of God is near!”

You know this one. You baptized him despite
your protests that he should have baptized you.
The water has flowed on beneath the bridge,
incarcerating you and prompting him to speak:

“The realm of God is near!”

I’m with you, John, if not behind those iron bars,
I’m with you in the need to know: “Are you the One?”…
and I believe he is the One, and preach that faith as truth!
There is no faith without anxiety, for me as well as you.

“The realm of God is near!”

You said, “I’ve got to know,” and John, I hope you knew
to hear about the healing and the good news for the poor.
It’s what I hang my hope on, and my faith,
and why I trust in God’s eternal love.

“The realm of God is near!”

You know, I hope, wherever you may be today
your faith and hope and trust moved in the world
alive and powerful and merciful. And I will trust,
like you, that our Anointed One still lives.

“The realm of God is near!”

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 11:2-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday of Advent.

The image is The Imprisonment of John the Baptist, one of the mosaics in the Baptistery of Saint John, Florence, Italy, unknown artist (early 1300s). Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=41892074.

Story: The Best Flock

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

December 7, 2025

Isaiah 11:1-10
Matthew 3:1-12

An ‘apapane wanted to know what the best way to be a flock is.

There are plenty of examples if you journey around the island. He found an i’iwi, who said, “Keep it small, less than ten. And chase everybody else away. Speaking of which, ‘apapane, it’s time you got out of here!”

He checked with a myna, who said, “Oh, just get a few birds together.” “Yeah,” said a second myna, “but make sure they don’t argue.” “What do you mean by that?” demanded a third myna. “Don’t you get cross with me!” said the first, and the ‘apapane flew away as the mynas argued about… nothing.

The ‘akiapola’au, the ‘akepa, and the ‘amakihi said that it’s useful to join a flock because then some of the predators, like cats and such, get intimidated. “A good flock is one that keeps us safe,” they told him.

That sounded pretty good.

He looked in on the ‘akekeke, who said, “Just stay together!” He asked the kolea, who prefer to keep some distance from one another. He thought about asking some fish, but they weren’t coming to the surface to talk to any hovering birds.

It was the nene, however, who gave him the most to think about.

When he found a nene to talk to, they were gathered around one of their number who’d hurt her wing. The little group was hungry and rather footsore as they trooped along, looking for ‘ohelo berries (or pretty much anything they could eat).

“Why aren’t you flying?” he asked one of them.

“Because she can’t fly for a while,” said the one in front.

“Can’t you leave her while you go eat?” he said.

The nene looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“A good flock is one where nobody gets left behind,” the nene said.

The ‘apapane returned to his part of the forest, and gathered his friends and family and any other birds he could. Together they could find food and shelter. Together they could scare off some of the dangers. But most of all, he told them:

“A good flock is one where nobody gets left behind.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory plus inspiration. As a result, the recording of how I told it does not match how I wrote it.

Photo of four nene by Eric Anderson.

Shoot of Jesse

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse,
    and a branch shall grow out of his roots.
The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him,
    the spirit of wisdom and understanding,
    the spirit of counsel and might,
    the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.

Isaiah 11:1-2

I hate to break it to you, Isaiah.
But then, perhaps you know already.
You saw it, after all, in Hezekiah,
who trusted in the word of God
and watched the army of Assyria
retreat from Jerusalem’s walls,
but then succumbed to royal pride
and showed his wealth to greedy eyes.

These shoots of Jesse had their moments, true,
the worst had flashes of your wisdom. But
they let the widows cry for justice,
let the orphans cry for food, while they
enriched the wealthy, fed the full.
The best of them, like Hezekiah, fell
afoul of hubris like their ancestors before.

And then, Isaiah, came a child anointed
by the Holy Spirit, who embraced your words,
declared they’d been fulfilled, and best of all
with mercy, stories, grace, and healing brought
them to fulfillment. You would have cheered
to see this shoot of Jesse blossom and bear fruit.

You would have cheered to see the fishermen,
the shepherds and the farmers, even tax
collectors, daughters of Jerusalem,
embark on journeys up and down the land
to seek his healing and his word.

They cheered to see the lepers cleansed.
They told his stories to their neighbors with
excitement and enthusiasm. They affirmed
a humble man from Galilee as Christ.

They could not save him, though, Isaiah,
from the fear and might of powerful men.
They seized him and they beat him.

They called him rebel, and they nailed him to a tree,
and jeered to see him suffer there and die.

Isaiah, human folly is enough to break your heart.

A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 11:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Second Sunday of Advent.

Photo of a fern shoot by Eric Anderson.

Up a Tree

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way.” – Luke 19:4

I didn’t think my hands could grip so tight.
I also didn’t think I’d ever be this high.
So let’s be clear that I regret this choice.
I wish I hadn’t scaled these heights.

Were I to fall, the people down below
would step aside. I grant you that not one
of them could cushion me. We’d both
be left in broken bones and tears upon the road.

I really wish I hadn’t climbed this high
into this tree or into my career.
I used to see my neighbors’ faces as
they doled out coins. Now I just see the coins.

Their faces turn away before I can
pronounce their names, but not before
I recognize their scorn, their bitter fear,
and their disgust at just how high I’ve gone.

Too high. Too high. When branches creak
at heights like this, the climber’s soul
sways unassuaged by creature comforts,
linen, gold, attentive slaves.

I got myself into this tree. I don’t know how
to get myself down to the ground.
My hands are knotted to this limb.
My breath is hoarse as I cling on.

Ignore me, Jesus, Just pass by.
Don’t look up. Don’t notice me.
Don’t speak. Don’t call. Don’t ask me anything.
Above all else, don’t ask me to come down.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 19:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 26 (31).

The image is Zachée sur le sycomore attendant le passage de Jésus (Zacchaeus in the Sycamore Awaiting the Passage of Jesus) by James Tissot – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.189_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10904526.

Story: Remember

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

October 26, 2025

Ephesians 1:11-23
Luke 6:20-31

I remember a good number of things. I also forget a good number of things. Some of them I’m happy to forget, especially if they made me unhappy at the time. Some of them I wish I could remember, especially if they involve the question of where did I put down my keys?

The i’iwi wasn’t much worried about the things he’d remember. He was worried about the things others would remember about him.

A lot of i’iwi get remembered by other birds as being, well, kind of aggressive. Bossy. Selfish. They drive other birds away from the places that they’re eating. Other kinds of birds do that, too, but when an i’iwi gets aggressive, ‘apapane and ‘amakihi will tend to give in and fly away.

“But is that,” he asked himself, “how I want to be remembered?”

He knew plenty of i’iwi that loved to chase other birds away. They claimed that they ate better when they did, but he also knew i’iwi that tended to ignore other birds, even slept in the same trees overnight. They seemed to eat just as well, he thought.

“How do I,” he asked himself, “want to be remembered?”

He had a friend who was one of the most effective bullies around. Where some of the aggressive i’iwi would chase an ‘apapane for a couple of feet, he’d chase them for a twice or three times as far. Sometimes he’d chase a bird so far that he’d find another bird in the place where he’d started, and he’d chase that one, too. If that seems like extra work to you, it does to me, too. Still, he was flashy (but then, all i’iwi are pretty flashy) and he was popular (as long as he wasn’t chasing you).

“But is that,” he asked himself, “how I want to be remembered?”

Then he remembered his grandmother.

She didn’t take any nonsense from other birds, no she didn’t. No ‘apapane had ever driven her away from a cluster of ohi’a blossoms. But she’d never chased an ‘apapane, either, or an ‘amakihi, or a young i’iwi. In fact, she’d let other birds know when she’d found a good spot, whatever the color of their feathers.

His grandmother loved him. He knew that, because she used to hop aside so he could get to the best flowers.

He loved his grandmother.

He went to find her, and said, “I want to be remembered like you, grandmother.”

“That’s good,” she said. “Let’s go see if we can find something good to eat, and then we’ll let everybody else know.”

That’s how both of them would be remembered.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation) during Sunday worship. The story you have just read will not precisely match the story as I told it.

Photo of an i’iwi (being reflective?) by Eric Anderson.