“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.
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.
“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.
“He opposes and exalts himself above every so-called god or object of worship, so that he takes his seat in the temple of God, declaring himself to be God. Do you not remember that I told you these things when I was still with you?” – 2 Thessalonians 2:4-5
I remember lots of things. I remember grandiosity and pride. I recall my own, of course, and sometimes mourn its passing, though more often I regret its resurrection.
I remember lots of things, including those who, yes, exalt themselves. They openly accept the praise that’s due to God, declaring that they stand for God.
What law except their own will they obey? What limits place upon their power and their pride? What wisdom will they own except the rules of ownership and privilege?
In times like these, I fear I may be like your troubled friends in Thessalonica, dear Paul. With evil rampant, justice tossed aside, I say: “Come Jesus, now, and bring us your relief.”
Though twenty centuries have passed since Thessalonians cried out for the same thing, dear Paul advises us the same: Stand firm. Hold fast. Be filled with Spirit’s love. And may God strengthen you in doing good.
A poem/prayer based on 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Proper 27 (32).
The image is The Apostle Saint Paul by El Greco (between 1610 and 1614; painting displayed at the El Greco Museum, Toledo, Spain – 1QEs4novinaf3A at Google Cultural Institute, zoom level maximum, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29844105.
Well, I never have either. It’s not a natural place for a honu to be. A honu really prefers to be in water, like the honu in this picture.
Unfortunately, one day a honu found herself in a tree.
As I mentioned, I’ve never actually seen, let alone photographed, a honu up a tree. I’m afraid that photo is the result of a certain amount of non-artificial intelligence that produced that unconvincing image.
It was a storm, of course. Ordinarily honu in a storm find a safe place to ride it out, which is frequently offshore. I don’t know precisely what happened with this honu, and I’m not sure she ever did, either. One minute she was being tossed about in the water, and the next minute she was flailing around in a tree, not getting anywhere, and getting sprayed by the waves and the rain.
All in all, not where she wanted to be.
When things got brighter, the birds came out and found the honu in the tree, and they knew she wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Can you swim out?” asked an ala’e ke’oke’o, who was a swimming bird, even though the honu had better flippers on her limbs than the ala’e ke’oke’o had on his.
“I’ve tried all night,” said the honu. “My flippers can’t move these leaves the way they move water.”
“Besides,” she added, “I’m a pretty high off the ground here, and those rocks look hard. I think I might hurt myself if I fell from here.”
The birds looked things over and thought about it. Winged creatures don’t think about falling very much.
“I know,” said some of them. “Let’s pull some of the leaves and twigs out of the way so she’ll slip down slowly.”
“Right!” said some others. “And we’ll go get some other leaves and grass and mud and sand and we’ll cushion the rocks below her.”
That’s what they did. Some pulled up grass for padding, some moved branches of naupaka aside (OK. She was in a naupaka bush, not a tree, but it looked like a tree to her). The pile of padding grew and her distance from it slowly shrank. They worked slowly but steadily, cautiously but creatively, until with a creaking sound the last naupaka branches bent and lowered her to the top of the padded mound.
The birds cheered as the honu hauled herself off with her flippers and made her way down the beach to the water.
At water’s edge she turned and said, “Mahalo nui loa, friends. I hope you get help like this if you’re ever up a tree!”
One of the birds, a kolea, shrugged and said, “Most of us will be quite fine up a tree. But if you can help me out like this if I’m ever stuck in the water, I’ll be just as grateful as you are now.”
Then she waved and swam off into the deep. I don’t know if she ever did have to help a bird stuck in the water, but I know she would have, and she’s ready to if there’s ever a need.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. What you have just read is not identical to the way I told it.
Photos of a honu and of naupaka by Eric Anderson, as is the not-very-convincing blending of the two.
“[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.
“[Jesus said,] ‘Would you not rather say to him, “Prepare supper for me; put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink”?'” – Luke 17:8
Stand at your watchpost, Holy One, and see, if I have brought your sustenance to table where the hungry you have called are blessed by word, and heart, and bread.
Stand at your watchpost, by the door, to see if any leave with bellies pinched, with faces sad, with spirits quenched. See if your banquet has been served.
Stand at your watchpost, Jesus, to observe if I have nurtured that so precious seed of faith into a shelter for the birds and beasts and people. O Jesus, have I grown my faith in you?
A poem/prayer based on Luke 17:5-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 22 (27), with an additional nod to Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4.
The image is a photo of the shrine at the Tomb of Habakkuk in Tuyserkan, Iran. Photo by hamid3 – Own work, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=99699676. The tower may date to the 11th or 12th centuries, an architect’s attempt to render Habakkuk’s vision of the watchtower.
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,] ‘Sell your possessions and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.'” – Luke 12:33-34
Jesus, I am not a wealthy man… by some standards. Were I to leave my work, I’d quickly run through savings, have no home, sell the things I use to give me joy – the instruments, the cameras, the things that prompt my memory.
By other standards, I have wealth beyond imagination. I do not know where my next meal will come from, but I know that it will come. I know that if a wave arises or a lava river flows, I’ll have a place where I am safe.
My wealth be great or small, I must confess, it still is mine. In honesty, I’d sooner heed Isaiah’s words: do good, seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, raise my voice in favor of the widow. But.
You, Jesus, raised the bar. The tithes has turned to everything: my ukulele, photographs; my work time and my leisure, what I think and write and speak and make. For you demand all these be yours, be God’s, be holy gift.
So Jesus, I confess that though I give you much, it is not all. I may give alms; I may give time; I’ve taken on the role of the religious, but: it is not all. It is not all.
Dear Jesus, please accept my offerings, my alms of treasure and of time, of sweat and contemplation. Take the portion of my heart that unreservedly I give to you. And forgive the heart, and treasure, which I still keep for myself.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 12:32-40, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 14 (19).
So when Peter went up to Jerusalem, the circumcised believers criticized him, saying, “Why did you go to uncircumcised men and eat with them?” – Acts 11:2-3
You think I wanted to eat with them? I didn’t want to go at all. I was riding pretty high, you know, elated with a woman’s resurrection. OK, the only place they’d put me up was with a tanner, but a fisherman’s smelled worse.
Yes, I was riding high, and trying not to think about the things that happen when you’re riding high, the way success becomes a series of new challenges, new obligations. I was smelling those amidst the tannery. It came for Jesus; it would come for me.
I didn’t know that I could lie in dreams or visions, waking or asleep. I claimed I’d never eaten food that was unclean, and knew full well I’ve eaten shellfish when the Romans hadn’t purchased all my stock. And let’s ignore the grain I plucked on Sabbath Day.
A vision or a dream; regardless, it would summon me to something new I knew. I did not know what it would be, but who gets visions for a trivial thing? I didn’t know what that dream meant. I knew I’d go where I’d not wish to go.
The house of a centurion was not within my plan. Who knew what I would find when I reached there? Most likely was a naked sword to seek my naked gut. Why trouble with a cross when you can drain a troublemaker’s life without?
I had no plan to speak of Jesus there until they asked, but ask they did, and I pulled in my breath, and breathed it out, and spoke with sometimes trembling voice of Jesus, of his healing touch, his mercy to such fools and failures as I am.
I certainly did not expect the fire of the Spirit in a Roman house, of one who marshals military might against the people of this land. They said that he feared God, but this? The Holy Spirit, lit in him as it had been in me? Who knew?
And now, my friends, I have no plan for you. I didn’t want to go. I went. I didn’t want to speak. I spoke. I didn’t know the Spirit would appear. She did. I didn’t know that God had welcomed them, the Gentiles, just as openly as us. And now, I have no words for you, except
To tell my tale again.
A poem/prayer based on Acts 11:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Fifth Sunday of Easter.
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