“Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of the minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God–what is good and acceptable and perfect.” – Romans 12:2
Who would know more about being transformed than Paul? Not me. How many were sightless in mind and then eyes like Paul? Very few. Who sought to transform his entire world view like Paul? Not so many. Who managed carry along all his quirks as did Paul?
Well, that’s me.
Who probably thinks of himself much too well (as did Paul)? Yes, that’s me. Who knows he conforms to the world’s expectation too well? Me as well. Who exaggerates just how much faith is within him? Any guesses? It’s me. Who struggles for balance between faith and knowledge and action?
Well, that’s me.
Transform me anew, living God, Holy One, Conform me to mercy, encouragement, diligence. Transform me anew, living God, Holy One, That I may continue to follow your Way.
A poem/prayer based on Romans 12:1-8, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year A, Proper 16 (21).
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.
From the available evidence, I think Paul’s besetting temptation was always arrogance and hubris. Writing to strangers, he held it in check in Romans. It’s much more visible in other letters – but I think his advice “not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think” was addressed to himself as much as his readers.
It is the one attribute I can safely say I share with a saint.
‘Auku’u are cool birds. They’re the most widespread heron in the world (black-crowned night heron). Our Hawaiian ‘auku’u have relatives across all the continents, including Antarctica. They’ve got startling orange eyes when they’re young and even more startling red eyes when they get older. Their blue and gray feathering is very smart, and who can forget those long black and white feathers trailing back from the head. They’re cool birds.
One of them knew it.
Like most ‘auku’u, he spent a good deal of his perching time settling his feathers. They all do that; it’s kind of like the way you and I wash our hands pretty often. Since he knew he was a really cool bird, though, and wanted to make sure everybody else knew it, he spent a lot more time, twice as much time as the other ‘auku’u.
Which is OK, I guess, if you’re a cool bird and want to make sure you stay a cool bird. The problem was, he decided that since he was a cool bird he would also be the best fed bird.
‘Auku’u do tend to warn other birds away when they’re feeding, but he took it to another level. If he saw a bird land nearby, he’d squawk and screech. If it flew away, he’d squawk until it was out of sight. If it landed, he’d take off and fly right at it, screeching until it took to the air again.
He squawked at other ‘auku’u. He squawked at ae’o. He squawked at ale’e ke’oke’o. He squawked at cattle egrets and kolea and akekeke. All in all, he screeched at everyone.
Then he’d settle back down, settle his feathers, and turn his attention to fishing once more – except that by this time another bird would usually settle nearby and he’d be screeching again.
Not too far away, some other ‘auku’u watched all this with some puzzlement.
“What good is all that doing him?” asked one of the other.
“Is he eating any better?” asked the second of the first.
“I don’t think so,” she answered. “Does he look any better to you?”
“Not to me,” her friend said. “He mostly looks unhappy.”
“With all that preening,” said the first ‘auku’u, “he should look more stylish than that.”
“You know, I hate to say it,” said the second ‘auku’u, “he doesn’t look cool.”
“Not cool at all,” said his friend.
“It’s a pity,” said the second, “that a cool bird looks so uncool.”
The screeching started again from across the pond, and the two birds shrugged, settled some of their own feathers, and turned back to fishing.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and inspiration. As a result, the story you just read will not be precisely as I told it.
Photo of an ‘auku’u (a black-crowned night heron) by Eric Anderson.
“Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now, for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.’ Then he consented.” – Matthew 3:13-15
I wonder.
How many of the senior teachers, how many of the higher priests who gathered with the laborers, the tax collectors, soldiers, on the riverbank in search of some forgiveness through the flowing stream, thought secretly or not so secretly that they, not John, should wash away the sins to be forgiven, or would rather send the penitent to climb the slopes and pay the price charged by the Temple vendors who would scatter later at the wrath of Christ?
How many would have said, “Let it be so for now,” and bowed their heads to wash as Jesus did? Or did they huff upon the bank and claim that they were justified no matter what they’d done, or others seen, recorded, understood, and known for wrong? How many would have roared that they alone determined right or wrong, despite the blood which dripped into the Jordan from their hands?
How many would have humbled pride of place?
Events of then or now suggest it would be very few.
Perhaps: just one.
A poem/prayer based on Matthew 3:13-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Baptism of Christ.
There was a tree, an ohi’a tree, that stood on the cliffside above Kilauea Iki. The tree had stood there long years. He was tall. He was grand. And he was proud.
He looked down upon the mostly flat black rock of Kilauea Iki and sniffed. There were ohi’a trees down there, too, but they were small and bushy. The tallest rose no more than eight or nine feet, less than a tenth of this tree’s one hundred foot crown.
“You’re so small,” he said to the little ohi’a trees below. “What difference can you make?”
Next to him stood another tree, just as tall, just as grand, but not so proud and rather wiser. “Don’t you remember?” she asked him. “This was no more than a pond of lava years ago. These trees had to catch every drop of rain. They had to make their own soil. Someday this crater will be filled with trees, and it will be because these trees got it started.”
“Well, all right,” huffed the other tree. “But what about these little bugs that crawl all over me? They’re even smaller. And they nibble at me. And they itch. They can’t be of any use.”
His neighbor looked him over and said, “These are the same creatures that attract the birds to you. Between the birds and the bugs, they carry the pollen around that means there will be ohi’a seeds.”
“Seeds,” huffed the proud tree. “What good are they? They’re even tinier than the bugs!”
“Seeds,” said the wise tree, “mean that there will be a future for our forest up here on the cliffsides as well as in the rocky bottoms of the craters. Seeds mean new trees where there hadn’t been any before.”
“Seeds,” she said softly, “mean that when we are measuring our height on the forest floor, there will be other trees rising over us.”
The proud tree huffed again. “There could never be a tree as grand as me,” he said, and he ruffled his branches in the breeze.
“Seeds,” said the wise tree, as she watched a little cloud of them dance in the wind from the proud tree, “Seeds mean that there will be a forest even grander than either of us.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (and a little bit of inspiration). What you have just read does not precisely match what you’ll see.
Photo of an ohi’a in the Kilauea Iki crater 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).
If you go up to the summit of Kilauea, look around for some white birds with long white tails flying about. I mean, they might be there when you’re there, and they might not, but take a look. If they seem to be gliding about on the warm air that rises above the volcano, you’ve seen a koa’e kea, the white-tailed tropicbird.
Koa’e kea fish far out to sea, so they’re not flying about the volcano summit looking for food. They do like to nest on the pali, the cliffsides, around Kaluapele. And, unusually for this bird that’s found all around the world, they like to soar.
It’s not just at the Kilauea summit. I’ve seen koa’e kea soaring above the water pool below Wailua Falls on Kauai. Those birds certainly looked like they were having fun.
Something Kilauea has that Kauai doesn’t is hot lava. For these last few months, Kilauea has sent these amazing plumes of lava high into the air, and it’s been flowing out on the crater floor and raising it higher. It’s been impressive. So what have the koa’e kea been doing when there’s been hot rock of about 2,000 degrees flying in the air?
Well, they’ve been flying right next to it, riding the hot air rising over the pooling lava, and getting far closer to the lava fountains than I would ever go.
One young koa’e kea was particularly fond of soaring over the lava, and every time the jets spouted into the air, there he’d be. He liked to toy with getting closer and closer to the plumes. He was sensible enough to keep from getting burned, and he stayed away from the rain of hot rock and ash, but he got close enough to make all the other birds of his generation go, “Wow!”
“Wow! You got so close!”
“Wow! You must be brave!”
“Wow! You must be a hero!”
I’m afraid it went to his head. He started to strut when walking, which is a difficult thing for a koa’e kea to do. It’s built for flying, not walking. More than that, though, he started to look down his beak at his friends who wouldn’t fly as close to the lava as he would. “You’re not so brave, are you?” he’d ask. “When are you going to be a hero?” he taunted. He left a lot of bad feeling behind.
Even his flying showed how arrogant he was, and it wasn’t pretty. It just said, “I’m better than you.”
His father joined him as he soared one day. “You’re flying well, son,” he said, “but maybe you could turn down the attitude. It doesn’t suit you.”
“It certainly does,” said the son. “I’m the brave one. I’m the best. The rest can just deal with it.”
“You’re certainly brave,” said his father, “but do you know what ‘koa’ in our name means?”
“No,” said the younger koa’e kea, who spoke bird, but not Hawaiian.
“It means ‘hero,’” said his father. “We’re all heroes. And if you’re a little braver than most, realize that someone else is certainly as brave as you. Be glad that you can fly in the rising air, and take joy in all the wonder of it all. Others of our kind don’t get that chance, and plenty of other birds can’t do what we do at all.
“Be glad, son, but leave the pride behind. It doesn’t add to your happiness. It just hurts the ones who love you.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and interaction, so the way I told it is different from the way I wrote it.
Photos of koa’e kea and lava fountains by Eric Anderson.
“[Jesus said,] ‘Nevertheless, do not rejoice at this, that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.'” – Luke 10:20
Jesus – May I call you Jesus? “Mister of Nazareth” doesn’t glide from the tongue. Jesus – yes, Jesus – can I offer some help? Your marketing skills are frankly first century.
You’ve got seventy people who are all on a high! What things they accomplished! What heights they’ve attained! They may not have seen the fall of a devil,
But then, who has?
Now, Jesus – yes, Jesus – let’s get to brass tacks. They’re open. They’re glowing. They’re all fired up. That’s the time when the iron is hot. So strike! Whatever it is that you’re selling, they’ll buy.
But Jesus – oh, Jesus, may I call you Jesus? – why throw cold water on bright red-hot steel? They’d follow you anywhere, until that sad moment you quenched their enthusiasm at the power they’d found.
C’mon, Jesus, why?
So try it again. This is a disaster, but you can recover. I know that you can. Praise them for their power. I tell you, they’ll love it. And then, O and then, what they’ll buy! What they’ll buy!
Oh, yes. What they’ll buy.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 10:1-11, 16-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 9 (14).
The image is “Christ Came into Galilee” by Phillip Vere. From “An illustrated commentary on the Gospel of Mark” by Phillip Medhurst, between 1791 and 1795. FAL, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=34448342. This isn’t an illustration of the return of the Seventy, but I really like the way Jesus’ extended hands seem to be pushing down on the emotional level.
James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came forward to him and said to him, ‘Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.’ And he said to them, ‘What is it you want me to do for you?’ And they said to him, ‘Appoint us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.'” – Mark 10:35-37
While you’re at it, Jesus, sign me up for that. For while I think I have one of the sittingest jobs there is, (I sit in chairs and cars and at so many meals), I’d really like to sit nearby to you and bask in glory.
Ahhhhhh…
Yes, I can follow you and what you do to find my place in glory, banquet marvelous, and if the places to your right and left are occupied already, I understand.
Ahhhhh…
So though I share the indignation of your other followers, I share as well their thought that it should not be them, but me, to sit at your right hand. Of course.
Ahhhh…
I’ve chosen to forget as James and John did then, so long ago, that you’d been laying out the likely forecast, which was stormy to be sure, a blow to carry you up on a cross.
Ahhh…
I’ve chosen to ignore again your call to servanthood and service. Humility, not arrogance, displays your Way. I’d be more comfortable, frankly, with my pride.
Ahh…
Instead, I sit dismayed. You’ve asked for all, for more than I prepared, for more than I have understood. It’s not enough, but in this moment, it is all I have to give.
Ah.
A poem/prayer based on Mark 10:35-45, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 24 (29).
The image is “The Calling of the Apostles St. James and St. John,” print, Friedrich August Pflugfelder, after Johann Friedrich Overbeck (MET, 2004.451) (August W. Schulgen/ Josef Spithöver) – This file was donated to Wikimedia Commons as part of a project by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. See the Image and Data Resources Open Access Policy, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=60859225. Sadly, most artists’ renderings I could find of this interchange between Jesus, James, and John, favor Matthew’s version of the story, in which their mother made the request on their behalf.
It was a Big Cloud, with a capital B and a capital C. There have been bigger clouds in the history of the world, but this one rivaled the clouds of hurricanes and typhoons. It swept across the Pacific Ocean with a kind of ponderous majesty, with the trade winds gently carrying it along. Other smaller clouds would try to go north or south to get out of its way. If they succeeded, they breathed a sigh of relief. If they failed, well, they became part of the Big Cloud.
It rained on the ocean as it sailed along, but warm sunlight ahead of it raised plenty of water vapor to replace what substance it lost and, in fact, to make the Big Cloud even Bigger. With a capital B.
In the distance it saw Hawai’i Island.
Some clouds accompanying it – after all, what cloud wouldn’t want to ride the Pacific Ocean trade winds? – warned the Big Cloud. “You see those mountains?” they said. “You want to turn aside for those mountains. Bad things happen to clouds that try to go through those mountains.”
The Big Cloud said nothing. It was the Big Cloud, after all, with a capital B and a capital C. What had a Big Cloud to fear from mountains?
“No, really,” they told it. “You’ll rain out on the slopes. You won’t make it through the saddle.”
The Big Cloud coughed, and it sounded like thunder.
“Make a turn to the south or the north,” they urged. “You can do it. Plenty of storms have done so before.”
The Big Cloud was not pleased, and its displeasure flashed in lightning bolts along its forward edges, like a giant electric frown.
“I will go my way,” it said. “I am the Big Cloud, and I go where I choose. I fear no mountains.” And the Big Cloud set its course right between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa – and actually over both of them, because the Big Cloud was so big it didn’t fit between them.
Rain fell here in Hilo, of course, and way up the Hamakua Coast to Honoka’a and Waipio Valley. Rain fell in Puna, drenching Pahoa and Nanavale and all the way down in Opihikao.
As the Big Cloud rained on the island, it stretched toward the saddle between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, with rain thundering down the rising slopes. “I will go my way,” it thundered.
But the other smaller clouds had been right. The rising slopes coaxed more and more rain from the Big Cloud, and didn’t lift moisture from the ocean to replace it. The Big Cloud became a big Cloud with only a capital C, and then a big cloud with no capitals at all. Then it was a medium cloud, and a small cloud, and by the time it got to Kona, it wasn’t a cloud at all.
The other clouds watched with sadness that the Big Cloud’s pride had prevented it from taking their advice.
“The Big Cloud was too proud,” said one.
“It certainly was,” said another. “Now it’s been rained away. Pride goes as the rain falls.”
If you ever hear a human being say something like, “Pride goes before a fall,” well, that’s true enough for people, but among the clouds they say, “Pride goes as the rain falls.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories and then tell them from memory – well, memory and improvisation. As a result, the story as written differs from the story as told.
She was the best. Everybody knew it. When young koa’e kea began learning to fly, they aspired to fly like her. She was the best.
Koa’e kea move awkwardly on land, and so did she, but the grace with which she’d take off had everyone gasping with amazement. One moment she was stationary on the ground, the next moment she was in the air, moving as if she’d never been anywhere else. When fishing, she would dive straight down, and only stray to the side to intercept the moving fish in the water below. Her take-offs from the water were as seemingly miraculous as her take-offs from land. One moment bobbing in the waves, the next moment climbing to the skies.
When young koa’e kea tried to race her, they rapidly fell behind. When they tried to turn more sharply than she, they either skittered away or fluttered helplessly down until they’d caught themselves and controlled their flight again. She landed so gently that her legs barely flexed. From time to time she’d gently roll through the air. Those who imitated her went through day after day of struggle, turning this way and that and descending rapidly, until they finally mastered those subtle movements of the feathers. Then they’d roll, but never with the same grace and power.
When she wanted to relax, she’d catch the rising air above Halema’uma’u Crater, soaring in rising circles with barely a wingbeat, higher than any of the other koa’e kea dared to go, a spot of white against the blue sky.
She was the best.
One young koa’e kea was determined to be her successor – in fact, to fly even better than she did. He studied every move she made. He exercised his wings. He spent hours facing into the trade winds and seeing what happened when he moved this feather like this, or that feather like that. He was going to be the best.
There was one difference, though. He announced it.
“I will be the best!” he said at some point during just about any conversation. He knew he wasn’t the best, not yet, but every koa’e kea on the mountainside knew what he aspired to be.
As for the best flyer among them? She said nothing, did nothing, but flew her best over the ocean, and over the pali, and over the mountain. When someone asked her help or advice she gave it (she was a willing teacher), but there was never a word from her about who the best flyer among the koa’e kea was.
There were plenty of words from the younger one. “I’ll be the best!” he said. “I’ll be the best very soon!” And indeed, that seemed like it might be true. He was taking turns almost as sharply as she. His take-offs were almost as magical. When he soared, he rose nearly as high.
So his grandmother took him aside one day. “Grandson,” she said, “I am very proud of you. You are the best flyer of your generation, and you may become the best flyer of us all. I’m so proud of all your hard work.”
“I’ll be the best,” he said.
“But one thing, grandson,” she said, “will prevent you from being the best if you keep doing it.”
“What’s that?” he asked. “Is it the way I hold my tail on takeoff? I’ve been working on that.”
“No,” she said. “It’s the way you keep talking about becoming the best.”
He was confused. “If I’m the best, or nearly the best, shouldn’t I say so?”
“Does the best flyer among the koa’e kea need to say it?” his grandmother asked.
As he thought about it, he realized that she never said a word about it. Even when she was doing something showy – like those rolls through the air – she never did it in a way that upset the other birds. She relaxed through those rolls, and in those rising circles, so that nobody ever thought her skill was a taunt or an insult to them. It was just an expression of her joy in flight.
“No, I don’t think she does,” he replied.
“You’re more than a good enough flyer,” said his grandmother, “that you don’t need to say a thing about it, either.”
It took a while to break the habit – bad habits are hard to break, aren’t they? – but on the day that his soaring circle reached higher than hers, he said nothing about it. She did – she congratulated him on his skill – and the two of them were the wonder of the koa’e kea of Hawai’i Island, rising, turning, diving, and soaring so beautifully that everyone else watched in wonder and in awe.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories first, and tell them from memory – which means things change. Today that includes the addition of sound effects.
Photo of a koa’e kea (white-tailed tropicbird) by Eric Anderson.
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