Christmas

Story: The ‘Apapane’s Christmas Pageant

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

December 24, 2023

2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16
Luke 1:26-38

Last week you gave us a wonderful Christmas pageant. It was touching. It was funny. There was a lot of wonderful cuteness. Thank you. This story is about somebody else’s Christmas pageant. The ‘apapane’s Christmas pageant.

I don’t know how it came into the ‘apapane’s head to organize a Christmas pageant. I don’t even know how he’d heard about Christmas, let alone a Christmas pageant. Nevertheless, he flew around the forest, recruiting creatures who would take parts in the pageant.

He asked the i’iwi, who was feeling grumpy that day and didn’t say yes or no, nothing at all. He asked the i’o, which was pretty brave of him, and the i’o said she might come and looked… hungry. He asked the ‘amakihi and the ‘elepaio and the ‘akepa. They said they might. He even asked the palila in her mamane grove and spoke to a big flock of mynas. That set off an argument among them that wasn’t over when he went to talk with the mejiro.

The honu said no, because she wasn’t going to swim up to the ohi’a forest, which seemed fair. The koa’e kea insisted on playing Mary, because shouldn’t Mary have a long tail? The noio said he’d think about it. The mice looked nervous, and the mongoose looked puzzled. The pig in the forest said, “I’ll come.”

When it was pageant time, it was chaos. Creatures would step into the clearing he’d selected, then fade back into the trees again. Frightened chirps flew back and forth, and so did frightened birds. The mynas insisted they be the angel chorus, then exploded in another argument. The pig alone took its place in the clearing and announced, “I’ll play the pig in the stable,” which was a problem because there weren’t any pigs in the Bethlehem stable, but then he went to sleep.

“What do you need to calm down and play your parts?” asked the ‘apapane in exasperation.

One of the little ‘akepa hopped out. “Is the i’o here?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the i’o from the tree above him.

“Are you going to eat us?” asked the ‘akepa.

For a moment there was silence. Then: “No,” said the i’o. “Not today. Today we’ve got a pageant to do.”

The ‘apapane spent the next hour answering the question of each creature. The koa’e kea wanted to be Mary, so she was. A noio played Joseph after being assured that this wouldn’t take so long that he couldn’t go back to fishing later in the day. The mongoose promised the mice not to eat them, and they were duly cast as sheep and, believe it or not, shepherds. The i’iwi didn’t want to cheer up, so he became the grumpy innkeeper. The sleeping pig played a sleeping cow, and did it very well. The i’o, circling high above, took the voice of the angel Gabriel.

The mynas were relieved they wouldn’t be the only voices in the angel chorus, which stopped the argument, and they were joined by ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, and mejiro in their song, which echoed through the forest and down the mountainside. ‘Akepa brought the gifts of the magi. A young palila, such a rare bird, played baby Jesus.

When it was over, the creatures vanished back into the trees, leaving the ‘apapane alone in the silence. He’d answered every question, met every need, somehow.

The trees rustled in the darkness, applauding the ‘apapane’s Christmas pageant.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I probably should have taken a piece of paper with me when telling this story today, because there were a lot of creatures and I lost track of who wanted to do what, but this is the story as I told it this morning and I hope you enjoy it.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

What Do Angels Know?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“And he came to her and said, ‘Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.’ But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.” – Luke 1:28-29

I almost wish I’d punched him in the nose.
What do angels know, anyway?

“Greetings, favored one!” he said.
I wish I’d told him, “Do not do me favors.
I’m up to here with ‘Just a little task,”
from parents and with posies from that man.

“Don’t do me any favors, angel!
I’m up to here with favors done,
and favors asked, and too few favors given.
Leave me to the chores I have already.”

“Perplexed,” Luke called it. There’s another man
who asked the favor of my memories,
and dressed them up in pink chiffon,
made me sweet as pie.

At least he didn’t blanche the tan
upon my face and rouge my cheeks
and paint a simpering smile on my lips.
No, centuries of artists, they did that.

I almost wish I’d punched him in the nose.
What do angels know?

What do angels know of explanations
to my mother, to my father,
to my oh-so-righteous fiancée?
Only one – my cousin – didn’t ask for words.

What do angels know of smirking gazes,
harsh denunciations, pity hidden
from those oh-so-righteous ones
and hardly even shared with me?

I wish I’d been like Moses, “No! Not I!”
Except it didn’t work for him at all.
And Jonah, I could follow him, through fish and all,
to sit unshaded bitter in God’s favor.

What do angels know?

Well. What do angels know?
They know who will say, “Yes.”
They know who will embrace the need,
and tolerate the scorn, and do the thing.

They know who will endure
the travels and travails, and sing
of mournful seven joys, will break their hearts.
That’s what angels know.

I really wish I’d punched him in the nose.
He knew I wouldn’t.

That’s what angels know.

Luke’s description of Mary during the Annunciation reveals very little emotion. The Greek word translated here as “perplexed” also means “upset.” Unlike my depiction here, Luke’s Mary appears composed, forthright, mindful, and faithful. This is in stark contrast with nearly every other story of a prophet’s call, and if only in the Magnificat, Mary played a prophet’s role. Thus my imaginative retelling here.

I don’t really think Mary would have punched Gabriel in the nose.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 1:26-38, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Fourth Sunday of Advent.

The image is Annunciation 1912 by Maurice Denis (1912) – Originally from en.wikipedia; description page is/was here., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1880715.

Story: Imperfect

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

December 17, 2023

1 Thessalonians 5:16-24
Luke 1:46-55

She was making gingerbread cookies for the first time in her life – she wasn’t very old – and she was all excited about it. Her older brother had learned to make gingerbread cookies a few years before, and he’d got rather good at it.

This was her very first time.

She thought it was going pretty well, even if there sometimes seemed to be more flour on the counter than in the bowl. She might have miscounted the amount of ginger, too. She decided she’d better add some more to make sure there was enough. Yes. Just a little more. And a little more.

When she was cutting out the shapes – there were cookie cutters for people shapes, and for star shapes, and for reindeer shapes, and even for Christmas Tree shapes – she got things a little scrunchy. In transferring the cut-out cookies to the trays for baking, things got more disarranged. One poor gingerbread person lost their leg, and she tried to mash it back together.

Her older brother came by about this point and decided to make fun of her more oddly-shaped cookies. The two discussed it calmly and reasonably – well, no. The two of them were yelling by the time the cookies came out of the oven. Which might be why there were a little overdone.

She burst into tears.

Mother gathered her into her arms as she said, “They’re not perfect! They were supposed to be perfect!”

Indeed, they weren’t perfect. Some of the trees looked like they’d been through a windstorm. The mashed-together leg had come off in the baking. At least two of the stars had very bent points.

And, it had to be said, they were a little too brown. Not burnt, quite, but any longer in the oven and burnt they’d have been.

“They’re not perfect for Christmas!”

Mother, who thought about things like this, said, “Do you think Christmas is about being perfect?”

The girl said, “Isn’t it supposed to be?”

Mother told her that Jesus didn’t come into the world because it was perfect. It was full of people doing unkind, even cruel things to one another. Jesus came to show a better way, and help people find and live a better life here on earth and beyond. Jesus came to love the ones who didn’t think they were loveable.

“But my brother’s Christmas cookies are perfect.”

Brother, who was feeling sorry he’d picked on his sister, told her that they certainly hadn’t been perfect the first time. “I really burnt the first batch,” he said. “And the second batch wasn’t much better.”

“Let’s see how yours are,” said mother, and all three of them took a bite. She had, in fact, put in far too much ginger.

“I don’t think these are very good, Mommy,” she said, but she wasn’t crying.

“Not so good,” Mother agreed. “Shall we try again?”

In the meantime, her older brother reached for a second cookie. Mother and sister looked at him.

“I like lots of ginger,” he said. “Can I have the recipe?”

Imperfect we may be, but there’s love for us, too.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

When I tell these stories, I tell them from what I remember of the story I’ve written. And… I make new things up as we go through. There will always be a difference between what I’ve prepared and what people hear.

The image of gingerbread people cookies is by ParentingPatch – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=24263325.

Story: Don’t Stop Me if You’ve Heard This One Before

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

December 25, 2022

Isaiah 62:6-12
Luke 2:1-20

So… Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

Once upon a time there was a woman named Mary, and she was expecting a baby. It was a special baby, which you’d think would mean that she’d be as comfortable as she could be when the baby was born – a nice room, plenty of helpers, that sort of thing – but instead she found herself far from home, amidst strangers except for Joseph, and putting her newborn baby in an animal’s feeding trough to sleep because there wasn’t any room in the inn.

You’ve heard this one before, haven’t you? I can tell.

Don’t stop me, though.

There were animals around when she wrapped the baby up and set him down to sleep. I mean, he was lying in their eating spot. I’m sure they were curious. A couple might have been a bit annoyed because where were they going to eat? If it had been you, would you be OK if somebody put a newborn lamb on your plate at your place at the dinner table?

A couple of those animals might have felt that way, too.

There’s some old stories – not as old as the story of the baby, but old – that say that the animals in that stable gained the ability to speak that night. It faded away in a short time, but that story says that they regain that power of speech each Christmas Eve – last night – but people never hear them because we’re all asleep.

And so the honu surfaces on the star-lit ocean and whispers to the ‘ulili on the shore, “Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world. Peace on earth, good will to all!”

The ‘ulili trots on its stilt legs until it finds a dozing saffron finch. “Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world. Peace on earth, good will to all!”

The saffron finch spreads its small wings and finds the sleeping nene. “Wake up! Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world. Peace on earth, good will to all!”

The nene takes to the sky and honks out to all who can hear, “Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world! Peace on earth, good will to all!”

On the mountain slopes, the ‘apapane awakes, and though I’m afraid that he’s cross, he flutters about and sings, “Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world! Peace on earth, good will to all!”

High above, the ‘io leaves off hunting for a moment, and soars over the bay, calling once more, “Spread the word! God’s savior is in the world! Peace on earth, good will to all!”

Now, you and I, we slept through all that. And with midnight gone, the creatures of Hawai’i have gone back to their regular voices, their everyday songs. So we have to take up the message, don’t we?

Spread the word. God’s savior is in the world. Let us bring peace on earth, and share our good will with all.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I told this story from memory of the text above – which means that between memory and improvisation, there are differences.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Christmas Eve 2022

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

This poem closed the Christmas Eve meditation at Church of the Holy Cross UCC in Hilo, Hawai’i, on Christmas Eve 2022.

May the infant born two thousand years ago,
emerge again into our restless lives,
to overturn the pretense of our egos,
to comfort where we feel the stings of strife.

Awake the wonder of the Christ child,
sleeping in that manger of our memory,
as angels’ songs were echoed by the shepherds,
to summon us from our complacency.

May hope rekindle in our weary hearts
and faith revive within our flagging souls
for Christ is born, and God’s salvation comes
to make the world and all its people whole.

The image is The Nativity and the Annunciation to the Shepherds by Bicci di Lorenzo (ca. 1440) – Harvard Art Museums, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=106008860.

Mary’s Treasury

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
The Birth of Jesus – Luke 2:1-20

But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. – Luke 2:19

Treasuries, they say, are filled with gold.
The mansions of the powerful protect the rooms
whose contents build the edifices which enclose them.

A treasury, they tell me, is the due of you, dear child,
a message from the heavens (though it strangely smells of sheep),
and so I lay your well-wrapped form in straw.

An angel spoke to me, he did, and told me not to fear.
I thought his greeting odd, but much odder was his word,
to tell me that I would become the mother of a King.

A mother I’ve become, but what royal babe is so
conceived to summon those suspicious eyes?
They’ve followed me for months, though not to Bethlehem.

A mother I’ve become, as witnessed by my groans and pains,
by midwife, by my worried Joseph, by the ox
whose manger I’ve now stolen for my infant’s bed.

The bloodied rags have vanished, whisked away
by midwife’s hands. I tell you, it is hard to hold
to memories of angels as a child crowns.

They came, then, those poor wanderers of the fields,
abandoning their flocks by night to see a child
in a manger. A child. A Savior. A Messiah King.

They spoke of angels singing in the skies,
they spoke of glory shining all around them, and
they spoke of peace, God’s peace, for all.

In honesty, I’d like to know the reason that
the angels sang to shepherds, not to me, this night,
since Gabriel’s words have faded in this place.

I’d like to hear the angel once again assure me that
the treasury of royalty will be my son’s someday,
that he will grow and thrive and save and rule.

For now I must content myself with angels’ echoes
in the voices of the poor. For now I must content
myself with pondering their words within my heart.

An inn without a room. A stable and a manger.
Angels’ voices echoed. Son, your treasury tonight
contains no gold. Instead, it is your mother’s heart.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 20:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, the Nativity of the Lord (Proper I).

The image is The Birth of Jesus with Shepherds. JESUS MAFA. The birth of Jesus with shepherds, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48387 [retrieved December 22, 2022]. Original source: http://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr (contact page: https://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr/contact).

Christmas Eve 2021

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

Such fear upon that blessed night:

The fear of Joseph, who had failed
to find a shelter proper for the birth.

The fear of Mary, who had never birthed
a child before, nor known her body to take charge.

The fear of neighbors, who awoke
to sounds of labor echoing.

The fear of stable owner, wondering
if father’s stormy brow meant violence.

The fear of midwife, all experienced
with healthy births – and infant deaths.

The fear of all, when mother’s screams
went silent, and the universe was hushed.

The fear of mother, marveling to hold
a newborn who would not be comforted.

The fear of angels, asking if a band
of shepherds was their audience.

The fear of shepherds, so the messenger
said first, “O do not be afraid.”

The fear of singers in the heavens’ choir,
lest heaven’s song lack harmony.

The fear of watchmen at the gate,
confronted by the shepherd band.

The fear of seekers for the infant Christ,
uncertain where to find the stable bed.

The fear of parents, shocked to see
the hillsides’ wanderers had come.

The fear of parents, hearing angels’ words,
which would the fear of monarchs generate.

The fear of monarchs, which would bring
no celebration, only tears like rain.

The fear of sleeping child. Who can know
what infants know? And who can say
what infant Jesus knew of dusty days
and stormy seas and quiet conversations
by the water’s edge, of questions over meals
and by a paralytic’s cot and in the shadows of
the night, of lepers leaping thanks unspoken
save for one, of baptism and Satan’s snares
and stories told and proverbs taught
and so much more, and so much more,
all leading to an agonizing cross
and to a tear-swept joyful dawn.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 2:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Nativity of the Lord, Proper I.

The image is The Adoration of the Shepherds (ca. 1612-1614) by El Greco, 1541?-1614, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48042 [retrieved December 24, 2021]. Public Domain. Original source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:El_Greco_002.jpg.

In Those Days

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. – Luke 1:39-40

In those days, Luke? Say rather:
“After her imagined life had been upset
by visitation of an angel,
Mary saw the pretenses of life too well,
her friends and loved ones, neighbors, too,
persisting in a sad semblance of ‘normal’
when the love of God was breaking in.

“She fled because her efforts to
acquaint the villagers of Nazareth
with blessing, with deliverance,
were greeted with polite discount,
with blank incomprehension,
silent disbelief, and smirks that smack
of shame and slander.

“She fled because she had no outlet for
the wonder bottled up inside,
no person who would recognize the glory.
Who but one already bearer of
a miracle would comprehend
a miracle before her?

“So in those days she fled. When Mary stood
upon the threshold of Elizabeth, received
a wave of welcome, knew they shared in wonder,
all the pain of others’ disbelief gave way,
and in a flood of tears she praised
magnificent reversal, pride dispersed,
power humbled, humble lifted,
hungry satisfied and wealthy leaving empty.

“For in the shared experience of grace,
they built on love’s foundation,
Mary and Elizabeth, to raise up faith
and hope and joy that others would not see.”

Write that, Luke. It’s what you meant by,
“In those days.”

A poem/prayer based on Luke 1:39-55, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Fourth Sunday of Advent.

The image is Visit of Mary to Elizabeth by Fr. George Saget, a portion of a larger mural behind the altar of Keur Moussa Abbey in Senegal. Downloaded from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=56517 [retrieved December 15, 2021]. Digital source photo by Jonas Roux – Flickr [1], CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4870110.

Christmas 2020

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

Far from a barn in Bethlehem
in miles and in time,
remembering the stories passed
and wondering just how much
was forgot, and how much lost,
of Jesus’ birth that holy night.

Who will recall, in truth,
the circumstances of this year?
For though we think our times
“unprecedented,” it is just
a sign of swift forgetfulness,
a well-established human trait.

The griefs so hard to bear will not
be felt by our descendants, for we
did not recall the sorrows of
our ancestors, nor think to learn
from their successes or their failures to
protect ourselves from ill.

Nor will our children’s children hear
of ti leaves waving gently in the breeze
beyond the window’s Christmas glow.
Why should they? They will have their own
bedazzling sights and sounds at hand,
their own deep scents to breathe.

Now my tree’s glow (in echo of
ohi’a blossoming upon the slopes of
Kilauea) takes on the shades of stone
a-fountaining, a-flowing, and
a-pooling at the mountain peak.
This might be held in memory.

For this becomes a link between
the distant island of Hawai’i and the inn
of Bethlehem, the places where the Earth
grows thin, and from the deepest places
of the planet and the love of God
there flows the light a-glowing bright.

Yes, here we have the breaking-in of grace:
the one builds up the land and rises
from the seas. The other builds up love
and joy and peace, reclaiming souls
from greed and other-disregarding sin.
So come, Lord Jesus! Make the darkness bright.

Make this a holy Christmas.

It Begins

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

In the manger of Bethlehem, the infant sleeps.
On the Judean hillsides, the shepherds seek their flock.
Which of the parents dozes? The father?
The mother? Neither one? Both?
Love made flesh, power made weak,
Majesty made lowly, will soon awake in tears,
Seeking the warmth of skin and blood and milk.

Let that infant grow within our hearts.
Let that love take form within our purpose.
Let that mercy take shape in what we make.
Let that peace enfold those we embrace.
Let that grace shine forth just like that star:
Let the work of Christmas begin in me.
Let the work of Christmas begin in us.

A poem inspired in part by Luke 2 and in part by “The Work of Christmas” Howard Thurman. This poem was written for the Christmas Eve meditation of December 24, 2019, at Church of the Holy Cross UCC, Hilo, Hawai’i.

The image is The Birth of Christ (between 1570 and 1603) by Joos van Winghe – https://skd-online-collection.skd.museum/Details/Index/888833, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=81597171.