“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.
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.
Caterpillars don’t have the easiest life. They don’t get around very much – but then, when you move mostly to find another leaf to eat, you don’t need to move very far. There are things about that, while you’re eating leaves, would be very happy to eat you, and that makes for more than a few anxious moments. A lot of the birds I happily tell stories about would happily eat a caterpillar, and that makes them rather sad.
Caterpillars are among the most hopeful creatures on Earth, however. Each one of them hopes to go from an animal that crawls slowly across the branches to one that flies through the skies. They hope to go from someone that you hope will be overlooked (and so not eaten) to one that glows brightly in the sunlight. They hope that the beauty they feel on the inside will be mirrored on the outside.
What’s amazing is that that’s what happens.
Two caterpillars were sharing their hopes on a branch one day between bites of leaf. I’m going to leave out the biting and chewing, because it actually took more time than the conversation. Caterpillars are serious about eating.
“I’m really looking forward to being a butterfly,” said the first.
“Me, too,” said the second.
“I can’t wait to fly,” said the first.
“Me, too,” said the second.
“I’d like to see more of the world than this flower patch,” said the first.
“It’s a good patch,” said the second.
“I’m not saying it isn’t,” said the first.
“You’re right, though,” said the second. “It would be nice to visit another one.”
“All we’ve got to do,” said the first caterpillar, “is wait.”
“Just wait?” asked the second.
“Just wait,” said the first.
“That doesn’t’ sound right,” said the second. “I think we’ve got to build a chrysalis, and stay in it, and then come out as butterflies.”
“Don’t be silly,” said the first. “You hope for it, and then it happens.”
“I don’t think so,” said the second. “I think you hope for it, and then you do something about it. And then it can happen.”
I don’t know what happened to the first caterpillar. I hope it made a chrysalis and became a butterfly, because the second caterpillar was quite right. Caterpillars become butterflies in the chrysalis. They’ve got to make things happen to make other things happen.
Dream of better days. Hope for them, and believe they can come to be. But don’t forget to do the work for them. Hope is good, but hope and effort are better.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them on Sunday from memory plus inspiration. The story you just read will not be identical to the story as I told it.
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.
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,] ‘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).
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).
“[Jesus said,] ‘I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything out of friendship, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs.'” – Luke 11:8
I could wish that Israel had been so considerate of its poor, instead of getting into bed with riches and with greed. I’d think that hard-edged coins would break their sleep, but sleep they did until they slept no more.
I could wish that Hosea had been so considerate of his wife and children. Yes, It was a metaphor of power, but I’d think the tears of hard-said words and names would break their sleep, but sleep they did.
I could wish the neighbor heard his friend’s distress and rose with empathetic energy to meet his need. I guess the friend was fortunate that shouts and calls would break their sleep, until they brought the bread and slept anew.
I could wish all these many things and more, when wealthy men enrich themselves at the expense of people who, deprived of healing balm, find death would break their sleep, and carry them from this world’s cares.
While in the shadows Jesus watches, weeping. While in the shadows God is raging, tears a-stream to know that in these broken covenants even the rich will wake from sleep to find their fortunes blazing.
While in the shadows God the Holy Spirit waits for someone who will listen and embrace the wisdom that resounds of old: to give your neighbor care, and wake from sleep to bright and joyful day.
A poem/prayer based on Hosea 1:2-10 and Luke 11:1-13, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading and Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 12 (17).
“And he sent messengers ahead of him. On their way they entered a village of the Samaritans to prepare for his arrival, but they did not receive him because his face was set toward Jerusalem. When his disciples James and John saw this, they said, ‘Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?’ But he turned and rebuked them.” – Luke 9:52-55
Did I not ask you, not so long ago, who you say I am? James? John? Do you remember that? I guess you thought I was Elijah, after all (or that you were?), to call down fire on the captains and the fifties, or onto their Samaritan descendants in this village.
Did I not say that those who’ll follow me will bear a cross, and lose their life to save it? And were you listening to me, or to your glorious dreams? No wonder that the heavenly voice which called me “Son” demanded that you listen to me – since you weren’t. And now you want to destroy lives with heavenly fire.
Well, no, my friends, we won’t do that. We’ll make our way on by, and take our rest where people offer welcome out of grace, not out of threat, and we will tread a Via Dolorosa, you and I and all our friends, to show God’s love will not be bounded by
rejection much more thorough, drenched in blood’s finality, a breath unfinished, body broken, and forsaken by my friends. No, James and John, the world is filled with fires; no need to summon them from heaven’s vault. What’s needed is to love, and love, and love.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 9:51-62, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 8 (13).
Photo of lava fountains on Kilauea by Eric Anderson (May 25, 2025).
Birds are pretty honest creatures. They sing when they’re happy, and they screech when they’re mad. They give alarm calls when they’re scared, and they make hungry noises when they’re hungry.
An ‘akiapola’au used to follow ‘elepaio through the forest to find food. The funny thing is that ‘elepaio and ‘akiapola’au don’t eat the same things. ‘Elepaio like bugs and spiders, which I don’t, to be honest. ‘Akiapola’au will eat those, it’s true, but they prefer the worms, caterpillars, and bugs that burrow into the wood of koa trees. It’s been noticed that a tree full of bugs and spiders is probably also one that’s full of burrowing insects, too. The Hawaiian canoe makers knew that, and the ‘akiapola’au knows it, too.
The ’elepaio could be trusted to tell the truth.
This one ‘akiapola’au, however, came up with a new idea one day. You see, while he was following the ‘elepaio, other birds were following him. He worried that they’d eat all the food before he did. The fact that none of them ever left the trees hungry didn’t seem to make a difference. He had to protect his food.
He thought.
Not that it was his food before he ate it, but anyway.
So he developed the habit of tapping at tree branches that didn’t have bugs in them. ‘Akiapola’au do that to find where things have burrowed into a tree, but he started doing it, and then digging where he hadn’t found any. It attracted other birds. They’d come in to see.
And he’d fly off to some other tree where he’d try to find something he could actually eat.
The result was a fair number of frustrated birds, who’d look around where he’d been tapping and find fewer spiders and insects than they expected. They went to bed somewhat hungry.
He was pretty satisfied with his trick when his auntie turned up after a day of tapping on insect-free trees. “Nephew, why are you spending so much time hunting in trees without food?” she asked.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m drawing the other birds away from the good trees,” he said. “I don’t want to run out of food and be hungry.”
“So you’re lying to them?” she asked. “And before you say, ‘No,’ don’t think about lying to me.”
“I don’t think I’m lying to them,” he said.
“You’re acting as if there’s food where there isn’t. You don’t have to say a word. It’s still a lie. It’s a lie that’s bringing hunger to our forest when it isn’t necessary. There’s plenty to eat. Isn’t there?”
“I guess so,” he said.
“As for you, you’re spending so much time in trees without food: how hungry are you when you go to sleep?” she asked.
He realized that, in fact, he spent so much time in trees without caterpillars that he was hungry at the end of most days. His lie meant that he wasn’t eating enough.
“No lying, nephew,” said auntie. “It’s not worth it and it never was. Go find the trees with food in them, and share the word with the other birds around us. We’ll all be better for the truth.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and inspiration. On this particular day, I’d happened to speak to one of the young people the night before on a video call, where I told him that I’d be telling him a story the next day.
Photo of an ‘akiapola’au (adult male) by Eric Anderson.
ordainedgeek 