“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.
“In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.” – Acts 2:17, quoting Joel 2:28
Assembling for the feast of Shavuot, the Spirit roared. No gentle breeze for us; a tempest howled there among our trembling circle, through our trembling souls. The flickering light upon our foreheads did not shed illumination, no. I saw it as a portent of our immolation. Not since the angel told me not to fear have I been so afraid.
My limbs have dragged my shivering frame into the streets, which teem with goggling worshipers. They fight their way upstream along the way my son last trod beneath the burden of a cross. How many know, how many care, that Jesus died abandoned by his follower-friends, attended by these women who, like me, recall dear Miriam, who danced before the Law.
The raucous streets resound with Babel sound, with accents I know well, and languages I don’t. To my astonishment, one voice is mine, another comes from Mary here, and Mary there, and from a hundred other throats. We praise our God, because when Jesus had been laid into his tomb, the Holy One rejected our rejection, called him back to life.
They scoff, of course, that we are drunk (how drunk, they do not know, for I am filled with Spirit I have never known). I draw my breath in deep. I plant my feet upon the unforgiving stones. I start to lift my arm to summon all to hear my words, and then I hear it: Simon’s voice, my son’s beloved Rock, against all expectation quoting from the prophet Joel. Who would have thought it? I rejoice, except: I wonder, when will faithful people hear a woman’s voice again?
A poem/prayer based on Acts 2:1-21, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Pentecost Sunday.
The image is The Virgin surrounded by twelve apostles or Pentecost, by Master of the Crucifix of Pesaro (ca. 1380). Photograph by Rama, Wikimedia Commons, Cc-by-sa-2.0-fr, CC BY-SA 2.0 fr, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11148957.
Many artists included Mary among the Twelve in their depictions of Pentecost.
Full inclusion of God’s people does not stop at men and women.
He was young, which may explain why he tried something that an older bird would know didn’t work. He was also pretty anxious about things, which explains more. In the end, though, it was his tutu who saw the biggest reason, which was…
I’m getting ahead of myself. Perhaps I should start the story at the beginning.
The ‘amakihi was young. And, as I mentioned, he could get anxious about things. If it was sunny, he worried about whether rain would come again. If it was raining, he worried about whether it would ever stop. If he was surrounded by other birds, he worried about whether it would ever be quiet with all these birds singing. If he was by himself, he worried that he’d be lonely forever.
Mostly, though, he worried about being hungry.
As a young and growing bird, he’d driven his parents to distraction by his constant calls for food. Some birds, and people for that matter, eat when they’re hungry. He’d call for food when he was full, because he knew he’d be hungry again soon. That can be pretty unhealthy for people and for birds, but frankly his parents couldn’t keep up with his demands, so they fed him more or less the right amount of food.
When he left the nest, he kept it up. If he was hungry, he’d head for the nearest flower, snap up the bugs, and drink the nectar. If he was still hungry, it was time for the next flower and the next bug. And if he wasn’t hungry, he’d still move on to the next flower.
What kept him from getting sick from overeating is that he had to do enough flying between trees that he couldn’t quite eat more than was good for him. Not quite.
One day, though, he was watching some bugs instead of trying to eat them. They were bees in their hive, and they were gathering nectar and storing it away. Suddenly it struck him.
“I can gather flowers and store them away like the bees,” he said. “Then I’ll never have to worry about finding flowers, and I’ll never be hungry.”
Off he flew.
He started snipping blossoms from the trees: Ohi’a, Mamane, anything he could find. He tucked them into an abandoned nest he found, then flew out in search again. If there were other birds around, he’d chase them off first so he could get the flowers. He had gotten rather big with eating, so other birds tended to fly away. The forest filled with squawking, protesting birds as he flew about with flowers in his beak.
He’d made quite a few trips and the forest was in an uproar when he found his grandmother perched next to his store of flowers.
“Aloha, Tutu,” he told her.
“Aloha, grandson,” she said to him. “What are you doing?”
“Storing flowers,” he said, “so I’ll never be hungry.”
“Really?” she said. “Who gave you that idea?”
“The bees,” he said. “They store nectar and pollen and they’re never hungry.”
“Grandson,” said Tutu, “would you look carefully at your flowers?”
For the first time since he started collecting them, he looked. No longer connected to their branches, they’d wilted and faded. Their nectar had dried and disappeared. A few bugs were crawling on them, of course, but even the bugs preferred the liquid nectar of a living flower.
“Why did you do that?” she asked. “Did you really think it would work?”
“I thought that I needed food for myself,” said her grandson, “that the other birds couldn’t take away from me.”
“The forest is for everyone,” said Tutu, “for every one of us. We’re not bees, who have ways of storing things, and they share what they store with the entire hive. We are forest birds. We don’t hoard. We don’t keep things away from others, not from ‘amakihi, not from ‘apapane, not from i’iwi. We share.”
She looked at him closely. “What do we do, grandson?”
“We share, Tutu.”
“Good. Let’s go have lunch.”
They left the sorry hoard behind for the living flowers they shared with all the creatures of the forest.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (and inspiration).
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.
“[Jesus read from the scroll of Isaiah:] ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.'”
“Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” Your own words, Jesus, amazing them with graceful speech. Until they turned upon you.
Remind us once again of what is grace. I’m told that grace is strength, is force. I’m told that power is right, and might is good. I’m told that what we want we take.
Where is the news that sounds good to the poor? Where is the vision for the ones who will not see? Where is the freedom for the ones who are oppressed? Where are the prisoners released into the light?
You did not speak the words of grace alone. You needled them, you did, O Christ, until they burst in rage, and nearly did the work of Pilate three years earlier, by casting you to break upon a rock.
O, can we learn the lesson that you tried to teach? We claim your name but do not tread your ways. We leave the poor uncomforted, we close our eyes to the oppressed, and those we free are those who’ve flattered us.
May there be good news for the poor. May there be vision which will pierce the shade. May there be freedom for those who have been bound. Bring quickly, Jesus, the favored year of the LORD.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 4:14-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of the Epiphany.
The image is “The Rejection of Jesus in Nazareth” (“Prophets are not without honour, except in their hometown”); 18th-century tile panel by António de Oliveira Bernardes in the Igreja da Misericórdia, in Évora, Portugal, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=97133284.
Now when all the people were baptized and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. – Luke 3:21-22a
The water gently swirled about their legs as John and Jesus stepped into the stream, the echoes of John’s fierceness still perceivable in those who stood upon the bank, and those who dripped the water of forgiveness.
The water may be gentle, but the fire promised by the Baptist came descending. Like a dove, indeed, but doves are sharp of claw and though they promise coming home they promise nothing gentle on the way.
The river’s soft embrace receded, puddling on the riverbank. The Holy Spirit’s fire ignited in the eyes beneath the water-speckled lashes. The one who had, with hardly any word, descended peacefully, has risen purposefully.
Was there a word for John? Who knows. Perhaps a hand to brush the drying skin which shortly would be washed again with washing someone else. The fire drove him from the water to the wilderness.
O Gentle Spirit, how do humans dare to call You gentle, source of prophets’ words, apostles’ energy, and martyrs’ blood? Indeed the Baptist said it true, that though he washed with water, You baptize your followers with fire.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 3:15-17, 21-22, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Baptism of the Lord.
I wrote this skit to meet a very particular need. Our Sunday School coordinator had surveyed the young people, and nobody (really nobody) wanted to play Joseph. Could I write a pageant that didn’t include Joseph? The result is what’s below.
We didn’t have any children who wanted to play the magi, either, so the original script didn’t include them. As rehearsals began, more of them wanted to participate, and so the size of the shepherd’s flock increased, a second shepherd got lines, and so did more of the magi.
By Eric Anderson
CHARACTERS
Mary: A young woman Gabriel: An angelic messenger Angels: A musical chorus Star: A bright object in the sky Shepherd: A tender of sheep Sheep: A wooly creature Magi 1: A scholar dressed a lot like a king Magi 2: Another scholar dressed a lot like a king (non-speaking) Magi 3: One more scholar dressed a lot like a king (non-speaking)
SCENE 1: [MARY enters and sits at center stage, twiddling her thumbs]
Mary: I’m bored.
[GABRIEL enters]
Gabriel: Hail, O favored one!
Mary: (to audience) Well, this might be more interesting.
(to Gabriel) Who are you, and what kind of “Hello” is that?
Gabriel: What would you prefer?
Mary: “Hello” would be nice.
Gabriel: In that case, hello. My name is Gabriel. I’m an angel. Do not be afraid!
Mary: Was I supposed to be afraid?
Gabriel: It’s not required. I’m supposed to say that, though.
Mary: Are other people afraid?
Gabriel: People tend to get nervous talking to an angel, yes.
Mary: Oh, right. You’re an angel. You said. Well, I’m glad to talk to anybody. I’m bored.
Gabriel: Why are you bored?
Mary: I’m supposed to be getting married soon, but my family is doing all the wedding plans. Every time I try to suggest something, my father or my mother will say, “Oh, no, it’s better this way.” Actually, they both say it. Then they disagree about what the best way is, and send me out of the room. So I don’t have a lot to do.
Gabriel: Couldn’t you talk to your fiancé? What’s his name?
Mary: Joseph. And no. Now that we’re engaged, we don’t spend a lot of time together. He’s working. And I’m… not.
Gabriel: I think I can promise that your life is about to get more interesting.
Mary: Well, that’s good. What’s happening?
Gabriel: Mary, you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.
Mary: What did you just say?
Gabriel: Mary, you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb…
Mary: (interrupting) Did you just say I’m going to have a baby?
Gabriel: Yes. Yes, I did.
Mary: How is that going to happen?
Gabriel: Nothing is impossible with God.
Mary: And this is God’s plan? It seems a little… unexpected.
Gabriel: I grant you that God hasn’t done this before.
Mary: And I’m having this baby… why?
Gabriel: He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David…
Mary: (interrupting) Did you just say I’m going to be the mother of the Messiah?
Gabriel: Yes. Yes, I did.
Mary: Wow.
Gabriel: You did say you were bored.
Mary: Yes. Yes, I did.
Gabriel: Are you less bored?
Mary: Now I’m terrified.
Gabriel: That’s not bored.
Mary: I think I need to go talk to Joseph. He’ll want to know.
Gabriel: I’m sure that’s true. Where is Joseph, anyway?
Mary: This way.
[MARY and GABRIEL exit]
Narrator: Nine months later…
Scene 2:
[SHEPHERD and SHEEP enter]
Shepherd: Well, another boring night.
Sheep: Baa!
Shepherd: Why don’t you ever seem to sleep, sheep?
Sheep: Baa!
Shepherd: Have you ever thought of counting sheep, sheep?
Sheep: Baa!
[pause]
Shepherd: Well, I agree. Counting to one isn’t all that helpful.
[ANGELS enter]
Angels: Hallelujah!
Shepherd: What?
Angels: Hallelujah!
Shepherd: Are you hearing what I’m hearing, sheep?
Sheep: Baa!
[GABRIEL enters]
Gabriel: Do not be afraid!
Shepherd: OK.
Sheep: Baa!
Gabriel: I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.
Shepherd: Could you repeat that?
Sheep: Baa!
Gabriel: I am bringing you good news…
Shepherd: Did you just say that the Messiah has been born down in Bethlehem?
Gabriel: That’s exactly what I said.
Shepherd: And we can go see him?
Gabriel: You can do exactly that.
Shepherd: And greet the father and the mother?
Gabriel: The mother for sure. The father, well, that’s a little tricky.
Shepherd: Are you going to explain that?
Gabriel: No.
Sheep: Baa!
Gabriel: Are you going to go visit the child?
Sheep: Baa!
Shepherd: You heard him.
Angels and Gabriel: Hallelujah!
Scene Three:
[ANGELS, GABRIEL, SHEPHERD, and SHEEP exit]
[MARY enters with BABY]
[GABRIEL enters]
Gabriel: Where’s Joseph?
Mary: He went looking around the town for baby things. We hadn’t brought anything. All we’ve got are these bands of cloth and a manger.
Gabriel: That’s going to be tricky this late at night.
Mary: Everything has been tricky. Explaining my pregnancy to my family, my friends, and to Joseph was tricky. Then getting summoned down to Bethlehem for the census was tricky. Then finding a place to stay the night was tricky. Having a baby in a stable was tricky. All in all, it’s all been tricky.
Gabriel: Well, I’ve got good news.
Mary: I’m not sure I’m ready for more of your good news. That’s what’s got me here in a stable with a newborn.
Gabriel: You’ll like this one. I’ve brought some people to give thanks for the birth of the Messiah!
[ANGELS, SHEPHERD, and SHEEP enter]
Angels: Hallelujah!
Mary: More angels?
Sheep: Baa!
Mary: And sheep.
Shepherd: Hi! Are you the mother of the Messiah?
Mary: And a shepherd. Where’s Joseph? When’s he coming back?
Gabriel: I know this isn’t what you expected, Mary. This is no palace. It’s not even your own home. Or a house, in fact. But you know what a miracle this is. You know, better than anyone, that God has been at work. These are people…
Sheep: (interrupting) Baa!
Gabriel: …and creatures who have come to understand God’s miracle as well.
Angels: Hallelujah!
Mary: That is pretty wonderful, now that you put it like that.
[THREE MAGI ENTER]
Gabriel: And look! More visitors!
Mary: Couldn’t they have waited until Joseph got back?
Magi 1: Look, it’s been a long trip. And we got lost. So we stopped for directions in Jerusalem.
Mary: Jerusalem? Where the king is?
Magi 1: That’s the place. That’s where a new monarch should be born, right?
Mary: Gabriel, this sounds like trouble. The king is not going to be happy to hear about the birth of a Messiah. Would you go fetch Joseph, please?
Gabriel: Ah. You’re right. This is trouble. We’ll take care of it. No problem. You guys, magi, king-like people: Don’t go home via Jerusalem. OK?
Magi 1: Really? The king seemed to want to meet this child. A lot.
Mary: Seriously, where’s Joseph?
Gabriel: Go home another way.
Magi 1: Well, OK. You’re the angel. In the meantime, we’ve got some gifts for the child. Here they are: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
[EVERYBODY stares at the gifts]
Mary: Wow. Joseph needs to see this.
Gabriel: He will. And you won’t need to worry about your safety. Shepherds, creatures, wise people from far away have come to rejoice in this child. The heavens themselves are celebrating. Take a look:
[STAR enters]
Mary: Oh, wow.
Star: Welcome, newborn Messiah!
Mary: Where’s Joseph? He should see this.
Star: He’s three streets away on his way back. I’ll light the way for him.
Mary: Thank you. Thank you all. Thank you for welcoming my baby into the world.
Gabriel: We’re glad to do it. Happy Birthday, little Jesus!
John said to the crowds coming out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?” – Luke 3:7
Who warned us, John? You did. We heard your words through others, much as those you called “a brood of vipers” heard your words through rapid rumor’s run.
We heard your warning through the memories and tongues and pens of those you had impressed with word, with deed, with baptism, with righteousness.
We heard because they passed along your warning that to wash with water would not cleanse the soul, but full repentance, all enacted, would receive the nod of God.
They came to hear themselves. They came to learn how they might change. They came to leave upon a road that might look like the one on which they had arrived, but was a road made new.
They came. They heard. They washed. They went away and told the tale. More came. More heard. More washed. More told. Soon one would come to wash though you would tell him, “No.”
You warned us, John, across the years. But tell me, we who follow him whom you baptized, have we been heedful of your warning? Do we bear the fruits of righteousness?
I fear, old harsh-voiced friend, that you would find us heedless of your words despite our claim to follow Christ. I fear you’d rail once more at broods of serpents writhing in the dust.
I fear it would not only be the ones I judge as frauds, or casual extortionists, or simply selfish souls withholding all their wealth,
But also me, secure in my self-righteousness, and satisfied with my reputed rectitude. What sins do I ignore, refuse to cleanse?
Shout on, old Baptist friend. Across the years, through others’ words I hear your call. Shout on, and by the grace of God may I repent, and wash, and bear good fruit.
A poem/prayer based on Luke 3:7-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of Advent.
The image is John Preaching in the Desert, a mosaic in the series of the Life of John the Baptist in the Florence Baptistery, Florence, Italy (ca. 1225-1330). Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=41892069.
“And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what really matters, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.” – Philippians 1:9-11
I am stripped down. I wait my fate. What will it be? Will it be gain? Will it be Christ? I will not choose, except, of course, that I have chosen by the words I’ve spoken, by the things I’ve done.
I am stripped down.
I have been stripped of agency. Another will decide my course. I’ve lived in faith that God has set my way, but set my way through me. A crueler hand now rests upon the tiller of my time. Does it grow short?
I am stripped down.
I struggle to bring influence, to speak good news, for few may hear me now. Is it hubris to believe that they who hold me in this place consider what I’ve said and turn their souls toward Christ?
I am stripped down.
Thank God Epaphroditus has recovered, though for him, like me, to die is gain. For Jesus and for me he’ll carry word to those I love that… well, that I love them from the heart. I am stripped down. What more to say?
Just that I love.
A poem/prayer based on Philippians 1:3-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Second Sunday of Advent.
ordainedgeek 