“[Jesus said,] ‘But woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation.'” – Luke 6:24
What’s new, Beatitudes? Woe, woe, woe!
OK, Jesus. I’ll get serious with you, since you’ve got serious with me. I’m hardly rich, you know (except by global standards). I’m hardly full, except when I’ve scraped bare my dinner plate. Nor do I laugh, except, of course at my own jokes (a punster’s lot). And people don’t speak well of me, or, well, I guess they do. From time to time.
What’s new, Beatitudes? Woe, woe, woe!
I’d claim I do not need this list of warnings if I could maintain the case that I would honor them without them. And… as I’m relatively rich, and definitely full, and able to make merry, granted honor that is probably beyond my worth, it looks as if I haven’t taken heed of warnings you have made.
What’s new, Beatitudes? Woe, woe, woe!
Well, bring them on, these challenges to what I’ve done and do. Charge me once again to love my enemies and pray for them, to do them good and not bring harm. I’ll note they do not do the same for me. I’d rather not be struck upon the cheek, but if it comes, I’ll not strike back. I’ll turn the other way, and wait, and hope my tears dissuade a second blow.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 6:20-31, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, All Saints Day.
The image is a detail of the figure of Mary Magdalene in the sculpture The Entombment of Christ in the Church of St. Martin, Arc-en-Barrois, France. Photo by User:Vassil – File:Sépulcre_Arc-en-Barrois_111008_12.jpg, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16942922.
Birds, by their very nature, rely on faith. Every bird knows about gravity; every bird knows that what goes up must come down. Every bird knows that while flight is the most natural thing in the world to them, it is also the most unnatural thing in the world. Somehow they hold those two things together.
At least, most of the time they do.
One young ‘apapane had learned to fly from his parents. He’d flown any number of times on his own. He was also still pretty young, so a lot of his feathers were still grey and brown. That had been fine. Now, however, some of his adult colors were coming in, so he had red feathers mixed among the grey and brown, and he had a speckled look. Frankly, I think he looked really interesting, but he thought he looked odd, even a little ugly.
With feathers that looked like that, he thought, how could he keep up with flying?
I don’t think that makes much sense, do you? He’d been flying just fine, and suddenly he didn’t believe he could fly because his feathers were changing? But you know, the first step in doing something is believing that you can do the thing. He stopped believing he could do the thing.
So he stopped flying.
He did manage to feed himself by journeying to other trees in the slowest, and possibly most exhausting way possible. He hopped from twig to twig, then from branch to branch, and when branches got close he jumped from tree to tree. It took time, and it wore him out, and frankly made him hungrier, but he did it.
It was a funny way to live for an ‘apapane.
It took a while for the other birds to notice, because he did turn up among his family and friends, even if he turned up later than everyone else. They just assumed he’d flown off in some other direction and finally got turned around the right way.
It was Tutu, his grandmother, who noticed the way he hopped, rather than flew, from tree to tree. She hopped over to his branch and said, “Are you all right, grandson? Have you hurt your wings?”
“No, they feel fine,” said her grandson.
“Then why are you hopping everywhere?” she asked. “Why aren’t you flying?”
“Well, just look at me,” he said. “Do these look like flying feathers? If I take off with these I’ll crash a moment later.”
“You think you can’t fly because of these feathers?” asked his grandmother.
“That’s right, Tutu,” he said.
Grandmother thought. She was a wise old bird, and she knew that you have to believe you can fly if you’re going to fly. She was tempted to let him hop around until he finished molting, but she knew he’d be pretty miserable the whole time. And who knows? He might never come around to believing again. That would be sad.
“Grandson, are you an ‘apapane?”
“Yes, of course I am,” he said, puzzled.
“Do you believe that you have wings?”
“Of course I do.”
“Do you believe in your feathers?”
“They’re right here,” he said.
“I believe in your feathers, too,” said Tutu, “the ones you have and the ones you’ll grow. In fact, all your family believes in them. Do you believe us?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“It takes just a little belief,” said his grandmother, “and that’s the amount of belief it takes to spread your wings. You’ve done it before. You can do it now.
“Believe it. Spread your wings, grandson. Fly.”
by Eric Anderson
I regret that we continue to have problems with the audio in our video stream, so a recording of this story is not available.
He was a yellow-billed cardinal, and he was young. He was so young, in fact, that the feathers on the top of his head weren’t red; they were brown. He was so young that his bill wasn’t yellow, it was tan.
He was old enough to be living mostly on his own, finding his own food among the seeds and berries, and his own shelter for the night. He was old enough to enjoy a sunrise or a sunset, and he was old enough to enjoy sitting quietly in the sun.
What he wasn’t old enough for was to understand what “peace” was.
That may seem odd, given that sitting quietly and enjoying the sunshine sounds pretty peaceful, but it didn’t always feel that way. For one thing, if he sat in the sunshine for too long, he’d start to feel hungry. Feeling hungry, he thought, wasn’t very peaceful. I guess he had a point there. Being uncomfortable isn’t very peaceful.
Worse than that, though, when he got hungry, he had to find food. He knew how to do that, of course. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that other birds would show up, and he didn’t like that. Other yellow-billed cardinals were usually OK – he knew a couple of them that tended to tease him – but he really didn’t like it when different kinds of birds turned up. House finches made him nervous. House sparrows were kind of scary. Saffron finches made him feel uneasy about his rather dull coloring.
Worst of all, as you might guess, were the mynas. For one thing, they had brighter yellow bills than he did. For another, they were a good deal bigger. And, of course, they were often really loud, really argumentative, and really frightening.
As he got older and his head feathers turned red and his bill turned more yellow, he still didn’t like it when other birds turned up while he was feeding. He didn’t really notice that the finches and sparrows and kolea really paid him no mind. They just got on with looking for bugs and seeds and worms to eat. So when the myna turned up near him while he was eating, he jumped.
“What’s wrong, youngster?” asked the myna. “Is there something wrong?”
“Oh, no, myna sir,” said the yellow-billed cardinal. “Nothing wrong at all.”
“You jumped,” said the myna. “Did something startle you?”
“Well,” said the cardinal, “you did. You caught me by surprise when you landed.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” said the myna, who sounded somewhat relieved. “Sorry about that. You had me worried for a minute there.”
“You worried?” said the yellow-billed cardinal. “Why?”
“Some birds get upset about mynas,” said the myna. “They think we’re loud and obnoxious. They don’t like it when we’re around.”
The yellow-billed cardinal had thought such things, so he thought that now he’d better stay quiet.
“I’m glad you’re not like that,” said the myna. “I could do with a bit of peace today.”
That’s when the yellow-billed cardinal learned what peace could be – a time when creatures who were rather different could live side-by-side, meet their needs, and not fear one another. A yellow-billed cardinal could be safe from the bullying he feared from a bigger bird. A myna could be safe from the rejection and disdain of a smaller bird.
“I could use a bit of peace myself,” said the yellow-billed cardinal. “Let’s enjoy it while we can.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory, which means things change.
First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for everyone, for kings and all who are in high positions, so that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and dignity. – 1 Timothy 2:1-2
In a perfect world, prayer should have been enough to win a quiet life in peace, in godliness and dignity. In a perfect world, the Emperor would offer thanks for prayer, would offer to his subjects tranquil peace.
But it is not a perfect world, now is it, Paul? Instead of peace, the emperor presented you a sword, and not to hold. It stilled your tongue, your pen, your breath, and yes, your prayers.
We struggle still to pray for those who persecute our neighbors and ourselves, whose hands retain their firmest grip upon the sword, and strike the pen, the lips, the breath, the prayers from us.
A poem/prayer based on 1 Timothy 2:1-7, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Proper 20 (25).
The image is of the mosaic including the beheading of Saint Paul in the Cathedral of Monreale, Sicily (ca. late 12th early 13th centuries). Photo by Holger Uwe Schmitt – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=128492483.
People, in general, don’t do well if they eat a lot of food quickly. It’s a good way to feel sick. Sometimes, somebody who eats a lot of food really quickly will get sick.
Ick.
The young ‘akekeke had learned something similar from his parents as they led him and his sister and brothers around the Alaskan tundra near where they’d hatched. There they found the bugs and worms that filled their bellies and kept them growing. Both mother and father, however, warned them against eating too much, and after one of his brothers ignored their advice and got a nasty stomachache the rest of the chicks decided their parents knew something after all.
As the summer wore on, it became time for the trip to Hawai’i. The four chicks became fledglings, learned to fly, and watched as more and more of the ‘akekeke began flying toward the coast. Their mother joined in with lots of the other mothers, leaving them with their father to finish flight school with him.
Even more birds departed before their father gathered them along with some other youngsters into a little flock and said, “It’s time to get ready.” They flew to the shoreline where they found a number of other groups of ‘akekeke probing through the shallows for small fish and shrimp.
“It will be time soon,” said their father, “to make the long flight to Hawai’i. You’ll need all the energy you can get for this. So eat. Eat all you can. Eat more than you think you can.”
“But wait,” said his son. “You’ve been telling us for weeks not to eat too much. In fact, when our brother tried it anyway, he got sick. Are you telling us that was wrong?”
“It was wrong then,” said father, “but now we’re doing something very different. We’re making a long flight and there’s nowhere to stop and eat until we get there. This is the time to plan. This is the time to prepare. This is the time to get ready.”
The young ‘akekeke wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t convinced that eating a lot was a good idea, even though his sister and two brothers had plunged right into an outcrop of mussels. He also wasn’t sure that taking such a long flight was a good idea, even if so many of the adults had already gone. His father looked at him with sympathy and with love.
“There’s some time, youngster,” he said. “Take time. Consider. I don’t think you’ll enjoy staying here for the winter – it gets cold, you see. But think it over. I hope you’ll join us.”
The young ‘akekeke thought about it. He thought about being cold, which he couldn’t really imagine. He thought about eating more than he ever thought possible, which he couldn’t really imagine, either, but he could see that his father, sister, and brothers didn’t seem to have any troubles as they ate their way along the shoreline. He thought about Hawai’i, which he also had trouble imagining, since he’d never been there before. Mostly he thought about being the only ‘akekeke in Alaska when everybody else had gone.
A little while later he was industriously feeding himself alongside his father.
“I’ve thought it over,” he said, “and I’ll stick with you.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them without notes, so the text I prepared does not match the way I told it in worship.
Photo of an ‘akekeke (ruddy turnstone) on Hawai’i Island by Eric Anderson.
“[Jesus said,] ‘For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule him, saying, “This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.”‘” – Luke 14:28-30
What are we, Jesus, except people (men, women, beyond the binary) who have begun to build and have not finished?
The Church may be your body, Jesus (an image which you did not create), but if it is, it’s a growing body. Growing, perhaps, and barely born.
It’s a tower rising slowly. Is there a course of stones or even less above the ring of the foundation?
How many Christ disciples over the millennia have hesitated, dropped their stones before they’ve placed them on the wall?
It is no wonder that so many ask derisively, “Do you still hope to finish this construction, grow this Church?
“The walls are fragile, trembling in a gentle breeze. They waver from their courses so that any stone which rests upon them will inevitably fall.”
Well, Jesus, here’s my stone. I’m not sure it’s well shaped. I’m not sure it’s well placed. But here it is. Long may it stand.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 14:25-33, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 18 (23).
Up on the mountain slopes, there are a lot of very colorful birds. The i’iwi and the ‘apapane are the brightest in color, with those glistening red feathers and the contrasting black of their wings. They’re not alone, though. The ‘amakihi makes a pretty brave sight in yellow, and the ‘akiapola’au is brighter still. Add in the colors of the flowers on the trees and on the bushes, and the forest is a pretty colorful place.
And then there’s the ‘alawi. The ‘alawi isn’t brightly colored. It’s grayish green with some yellow tint on the belly. It’s not even a strong singer. It has a pretty plain kind of call. It’s so understated, in fact, that people went many years before making the connection between the old Hawaiian word “’alawi” and a bird westerners called the “Hawai’i Creeper.”
Mostly, this hasn’t bothered the ‘alawi at all, since they don’t pay much attention to what people think of them. But one of them did start to feel bad. In the midst of a forest full of bright red ‘apapane, orange ‘akepa, and yellow ‘akiapola’au, who would notice a little green ‘alawi?
“It’s a pity I’m so drab,” he told himself one day. “I’m going to change that.”
I have to admit that his approach had some promise. He was going to start wearing jewelry – that is, he was going to tuck a flower behind his ear, as we see so often from human women in Hawai’i. He was so clever that he came up with the idea himself – he really didn’t pay much attention to people.
There was, however, a problem. Oh, he could grasp flowers with his feet quite well. But when you want to tuck a flower behind your ear, it really helps to have, well, ears.
An ‘apapane watched him do this and asked, “Why? I mean, why?”
“I want to be noticeable,” he said with some embarrassment. “I don’t want to be drab.”
“I’m noticing,” said the ‘apapane, “and I guess you aren’t drab. But you do look silly. Is that how you want to be noticed?”
This might have gone on for a while, but it turned out to be another of those dry times in the forest, and it got harder and harder to find things to eat. For the ‘alawi that’s mostly bugs. Everyone in the forest was feeling the pinch in their bellies.
Our friend the ‘alawi, however, got lucky one day. He found a stand of trees that were better watered, and the flowers on them had attracted a good crowd of insects. He flew over to feed, but stopped. He didn’t want anyone else to be hungry while he ate his fill. So he started to call the ‘alawi’s plan song. That didn’t seem to attract anyone, so he found an ‘akiapola’au and brought him to those trees. The ‘akiapola’au whistled, and some other birds and some other birds and some other birds made their way over, sang their songs, and settled in to eat.
Hopping along a tree branch, the ‘alawi met the ‘apapane he’d seen a few days before.
“You found a way to be noticed, youngster,” said the ‘apapane.
“I did?” said the ‘alawi.
“You did,” said the ‘apapane. “We’ve all noticed you, and not for wearing a flower. We’ve all noticed you for being the considerate and compassionate bird you are. Well done. And thank you.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them without notes, so between memory and improvisation the story as I told it is different from the story as I wrote it.
“[Jesus said,] ‘But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, “Friend, move up higher”; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you.'” – Luke 14:10
Is it fair to tell you I’m waiting, Jesus? Yes, waiting for you to return in power. Yes, waiting for resurrection’s dawn. Yes, waiting for the Day of the Lord.
But I’m also waiting for your advice to work.
For truly, and sadly, I’m just as proud as ever I was. When others are honored, a part of me waits to hear my name called though I know that it’s not about me.
But Jesus, you know, it’s still about me.
I’ve no cause to complain. I’m aware that the praise I’ve received is more than I’m due. I know it, and know I should head for the end of the room, and take my place there,
But Jesus, you know I don’t like to be there.
I like the limelight, the spotlight, the office. I like the small pond where my frog looks big. I like it, and sure I’ve received it quite often. I’ve heeded the summons of, “Friend, move up higher.”
But Jesus, I don’t always think I should be.
I can’t say I’ve bidden the poor to my table. I can’t say I’ve done all the work I could do. I can’t say I’ve lifted the spirits beside me. I can’t say I’ve always been guided by you.
So Jesus, I’ll wait, and I’ll pray that you call.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 14:1, 7-14, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 17 (22).
The ‘elepaio are usually the most actively curious birds in the forest. They hop and flutter and fly their way around the trees from the topmost branches all the way to the forest floor. They look into gaps in the leaves, cracks in the bark, and even holes in the rocks for the bugs and things they like to eat. They’ll perch on a branch and pick up bugs and caterpillars. They’ll pull bugs out of rolled-up leaves. They’ll chase flying insects on the wing.
You can do that if you’re paying attention.
If you’re not paying attention, well… it’s all going to be harder.
There was an ‘elepaio who just couldn’t concentrate. He didn’t pay attention to what was around him. His friends liked to sneak up on him and ruffle their feathers; they made a game of how loud they had to be before he noticed. I’d like to say that he was so inattentive because in his curiosity he was thinking deep thoughts, but no. He wasn’t.
Mostly he was sitting rather sleepily on a branch.
The result was that he got rather hungry. An ‘elepaio is a small bird, for sure, but an ‘elepaio eats small things, so you have to eat a lot of small things to keep from being hungry. He’d get hungry, but it would only rouse him to do a casual look around. If he spotted a bug, well, he could usually catch it. He still didn’t look closely, though, and it surprised those who watched him how many other bugs and caterpillars he’d miss.
It was an ‘alawi that helped him concentrate.
She was moving along a branch near the one he perched on one day, searching for the bugs she liked to eat, which were also pretty much the bugs that the ‘elepaio liked to eat. He wasn’t greedy, so he didn’t chase her away. He was even feeling a little friendly, so he called out a greeting, and then said:
“I’m afraid you won’t find anything there. I’ve been here a while and haven’t seen anything to eat.”
She looked puzzled, because right in front of her, barely hidden by a fold in the bark, was a spider. She took it in her beak, showed it to the ‘elepaio, and ate it rather sheepishly. She felt a little guilty eating in front of a hungry fellow creature.
“Oh,” he said. “I didn’t see that one.”
“How about this one?” she said, showing him another bug.
“Really? There were two?”
“Three,” she said, and then, “Four. Actually, quite a bit more than four.”
He watched in some amazement as she pulled bug after spider after caterpillar from the branch he was sure didn’t have any bugs on it.
“How did you find those?” he asked, astonished.
“I looked,” she said. “I moved along, and as I moved, I looked.”
He thought about what he’d been doing, which was sitting still, and not looking.
“I guess I ought to do more of that,” he said.
“If you don’t want to be hungry, it would work better,” she agreed.
So the two birds moved along their respective branches, and both of them agreed it was good to be fed.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them in worship from memory (and improvisation). What you just read will not match the video recording of my telling.
Photos of an ‘alawi and ‘elepaio by Eric Anderson.
It hardly seems fair to call him a fool. Call him a practical man, call him far-seeing, call him descendant of Joseph, I say.
What did he do when faced with a surplus? He saved! Did the thing I’ve been told since a lad I’m to do with the coins that remain. When the rainy days comes, I’ve been told, they’ll be there.
In Egypt, the dreams of a monarch warned Joseph, “Prepare when it’s fruitful for days when it’s not.” And so I’ve been taught (if not followed so well), and so I have urged when it’s my turn to tell.
What’s wrong the rich man? Why was he a fool? He followed the ancient advice to the letter: Built barns that would hold all a good year produced; saved grain for the needs a bad year would demand.
Is that what he did? No, he said, “I’ll make merry with all of my goods in my barns and my hand. I might give a pink slip to all of my workers. They’ve done all I want, and I want to be done.”
Whose will the grain be? And whose all the wealth when the soul and the body divorce in the night? Not his. He has gone where the soul is the seed, and gold is the spirit which he had ignored.
How easy, how likely, to play such a fool, to mistake greed for prudence and pride for precaution. How often, I wonder, have I played the fool, for much lesser riches
And hubris as great? You know, Storyteller, and though you disclaim it, I know that you judge with a knowledge I lack. Though I’ve no grain for barns,
And no fruit for freezers, I’ll spend what I have for the people around me: a poem, a song, or even a sermon. May God bless these gifts. May God bless us all.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 12:13-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 13 (18).
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