Author’s note: In writing the poem by the same title as a #lectionprayer last week, I realized I was writing a song. After it had been published I sat down to set it to music, and this is the result. Enjoy! -ESA
January 3, 2024
[Chorus]
Shine, star, obscuring light, summoning to you our eyes. Shine, star, uniquely bright, raising our gaze from the child you herald, sheltered from harm in the light.
[Verses]
Journey, O wise ones, and follow the star. Messiah is born. Messiah is born. Bring with you offerings costly and sweet proclaiming Messiah has come.
[Chorus]
Journey, O wise ones, but not to the city where monarchs are found, where monarchs are found. The Herods both ancient and modern are vicious. Put not your trust in their words.
[Chorus]
Journey, O wise ones, away from the city. The child is not there. The child is not there. Journey, O wise ones, and do not return to beard a vicious king in their lair.
[Chorus]
Journey, O wise ones, rejoice you have seen Messiah is born, Messiah is born. Journey, O wise ones, attentive to dreams that a bright day will come for us all.
Most of the ‘apapane, if you ask them, are delighted with their red feathers. They think their black wings make for a really smart and distinguished look.
One young ‘apapane, however, was not enthusiastic. As a juvenile, less than a few months old, he’d worn brown and yellow feathers. He was aware that as he grew those brown and yellow feathers would fall out, replaced by bright red or crimson feathers. As far as he was concerned, this was a Very Bad Idea.
“Why can’t my feathers stay brown, like the ‘elepaio?” he asked his mother.
“Because you’re an ‘apapane,” she told him.
“What about green feathers, like an ‘amakihi?” he wanted to know.
“You’re still an ‘apapane,” said his father.
His questions puzzled them, because he didn’t tell them why he wanted different feathering. It was because of the ‘io. His parents had warned him about the ‘io, and about their diet, which would include ‘apapane if they could get it. To our young friend, bright red feathers seemed like waving a big red cape at a bull.
“It’s like a big sign saying, ‘Breakfast here!’” he muttered to his older sister, who wasn’t remotely interested.
“There’s nothing to be done about it, so chill out,” she told him. “And besides, look how many ‘apapane there are?”
“So nobody will miss me when the ‘io eats me,” he muttered, but she didn’t hear him.
One day not long after all his red feathers had grown in, and he was bright scarlet from the top of his head down to his belly, he went foraging for bugs and nectar in an ohi’a tree bright with blossoms. “I’m standing out like a sore thumb,” he muttered, which is an odd thing for an ‘apapane to say, since they don’t have thumbs, but he knew what he meant.
That’s when he heard the cry of the hunting ‘io overhead.
He didn’t know what to do. He froze. He stayed stock-still on the branch with the cluster of ohi’a lehua he’d been feeding from. He could see the ‘io circling overhead, its bright eyes scanning the trees below, looking for breakfast.
The ‘io circled once, twice, and three times, then flew off to circle over another tree.
When the ‘apapane took a breath, he found his sister perched beside him.
“Why didn’t it eat me?” he asked. “I was in plain sight.”
“Take a quick flight overhead and look down,” said sister.
The ‘io had flown farther off, so he did as she advised. When he looked down, he saw spots of red all over the tree. Spots of red flowers… and among them, his bright red sister didn’t stand out at all.
He joined her again. “We hide in plain sight,” he said in amazement.
“We do,” she said. “Do you still want brown or green feathers?”
Sometimes our safety relies on our being right where we’re expected to be, a place where we might not be noticed because we fit right in. And sometimes we’re the ones who are looking, and the first place to look is still the obvious place, the place where things don’t quite stand out, like a child in Bethlehem, or a teacher on a dusty road.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them from what I remember. That means that a certain amount of… improvisation takes place.
Photos by Eric Anderson; the second is a cropped version of the first.
“In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.'” – Matthew 2:1-2
Shine, star, obscuring light, summoning to you our eyes. Shine, star, uniquely bright, raising our gaze from the child you herald, sheltered from harm in the light.
Journey, O wise ones, and follow the star. Messiah is born. Messiah is born. Bring with you offerings costly and sweet proclaiming Messiah has come.
Shine, star, obscuring light, summoning to you our eyes. Shine, star, uniquely bright, raising our gaze from the child you herald, sheltered from harm in the light.
Journey, O wise ones, but not to the city where monarchs are found, where monarchs are found. The Herods both ancient and modern are vicious. Put not your trust in their words.
Shine, star, obscuring light, summoning to you our eyes. Shine, star, uniquely bright, raising our gaze from the child you herald, sheltered from harm in the light.
Journey, O wise ones, away from the city. The child is not there. The child is not there. Journey, O wise ones, and do not return to beard a vicious king in their lair.
Shine, star, obscuring light, summoning to you our eyes. Shine, star, uniquely bright, raising our gaze from the child you herald, sheltered from harm in the light.
Journey, O wise ones, rejoice you have seen Messiah is born, Messiah is born. Journey, O wise ones, attentive to dreams that a bright day will come for us all.
Shine, star, obscuring light, summoning to you our eyes. Shine, star, uniquely bright, raising our gaze from the child you herald, sheltered from harm in the light.
Before Maren Tirabassi asks, yes: these have become the lyrics for a song. I think I can perform/record it next week.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 2:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Epiphany.
The image is the Magi and the Star by unknown artist, found in Eliza Codex 24, an Ethiopian Biblical manuscript (date uncertain) – Hill Museum & Manuscript Library, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3106202.
“More light,” grumbled the camel. “I want more light.”
Camels are not naturally night animals. If I lived in the desert I would be a night animal, but camels can tolerate the desert sun in ways that I can’t. They like the day, and their favorite way to spend the day is with eating.
After all the Christmas celebrating we’ve done, that might feel a little familiar.
This camel was grumpy because, first of all, he was a burdened beast. On his arched back he carried a saddle sometimes, and a load of goods on others. There was one set of bags he really dreaded. It was heavy and sometimes it clinked in a really annoying way. He preferred carrying one of these stargazers to that one.
“It’s as heavy as lead,” he’d say.
“I think it’s gold,” said another camel.
“It’s as heavy as lead,” he’d repeat, which is basically true, after all.
He didn’t complain quite as much about the other two loads, which were both lighter and smelled nice.
Second of all, the camel was grumpy because it had become a very long trip. Long trips aren’t unusual in the life of a camel, but that doesn’t mean they like them. This one didn’t like them.
“Will it never end?” he said.
“I think we’re almost there,” soothed another camel.
“Will it never end?” he’d repeat.
Third of all, the camel was grumpy because they were travelling at night. Camels aren’t night animals. This camel wasn’t a night animal. This camel was increasingly cross.
“More light,” he grumbled. “I want more light.”
“I think they’re following that star,” said another camel.
“Stupid stargazers,” said the camel. “I want more light.”
I think you can probably guess who those star-followers were, and where they went, and who they saw, and what gifts they gave that family. Here’s a hint: it wasn’t lead. It was gold.
When they left, the camel was in a much better mood. For one thing, it looked like they were taking a different, hopefully shorter route back. For another, the three loads were gone, so there wasn’t as much to carry. For another, they were finally back to sensible travel by day.
And finally, something had happened when that camel had, drawn by some unlikely curiosity, stuck his nose through a window and seen a baby receiving those things he’d carried across the miles. The gold and frankincense and myrrh didn’t seem like great playthings for an infant, but they seemed really important for a family that was obviously poor and seemed to be worried about trouble. And the child himself, well: the camel felt, just for an instant, like he had made a world of difference, and that he could do so again.
“More light,” he said as he took each step on the way home. “I think I’ve seen more light.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
In the recording, I’m telling the story from memory of the prepared text above. Between memory and improvisation, there’s a lot differences between them.
Side by side they march across my media screens: the images of travellers who, bearing gifts, will praise an infant in all ignorance of how his royalty will manifest, and
The images of violence incited by repeated lies, of broken windows, hangman’s noose, Christian symbols raised in blasphemous approval of both praise and blame that went too far.
On this Epiphany I pray for an epiphany, for light to penetrate the hearts lost in the shadows, for wisdom to once more display itself in giving, for a jealous would-be ruler to, for once, step down.
While power battles power still (if with less flash grenades and tear gas clouds), I’ll turn in prayer to One who manifested perfect power in its weakness: a radiant love that flickered like a star.
“When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him…” – Matthew 2:3
One year since some deluded, some deluding, some misinformed, some misanthropic stormed the halls of Congress, to retain a would-be Herod on his throne,
Revealing in an afternoon of rage the violence they credited to others, the hollowness of civic virtues claimed, the eagerness to claim the lie as truth, to curse the truth.
The rising of tide of wrath withdrew as evening – came in face of force – so legislators came once more to count the votes, and as they did, the injured sought relief, the grieving comfort.
King Herod missed his mark. The child he sought escaped, though wailing rose in Ramah where Rachel wept uncomforted. His rising tide of wrath withdrew though unfulfilled, without success.
Would Herod be assured to know his work was finished near Jerusalem’s height by Pontius Pilate after thirty years had passed? Did his corpse-teeth grin to hear the soft moan, “It is finished”?
Is our Epiphany to be that Herods rise, and Pilates rise, as tides of poison circling the globe? Oh, might see once more the One beset by violence, who died, indeed – and rose.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 2:1-12, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Epiphany of the Lord.
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” – John 1:1
“For we observed his star at its rising…” – Matthew 2:2
Star-Creator discovered beneath a star, Planet-Former found over the curve of Earth, Human-Shaper nurtured in the womb of Mary, All-Embracer wrapped in mother’s tears:
Shine upon us.
Monarch-Ruler fleeing from a king, Word-Incarnate lacking human speech, Life-Light needing one to testify, All-Knowing yet unknown:
Shine upon us.
Spirit-Eternal in human flesh, Glory-Unbounded with a weary face, Life-Everlasting corpse upon a cross, Love-Transcendent unrecognized in a garden:
Shine upon us.
A poem/prayer based on John 1:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday after Christmas, and Matthew 2:1-12, the RCL Gospel Reading for Epiphany.
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