love

Life Dreaming

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

“Peter put all of them outside, and then he knelt down and prayed. He turned to the body and said, ‘Tabitha, get up.’ Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up.” – Acts of the Apostles 9:40

“To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?”
asked William via Hamlet in the play.
In Joppa Tabitha had ceased her work.

She lay upon the cot unmoving as
her friends displayed with streaming eyes the cloth
and clothing she had made with loving hands
for them, their families, and those in need.

She’d lived a life full well and full of grace,
and if she’d died, a life reborn would come,
so said the messengers who preached the Way,
the Jesus Way she’d taken as her own.

What dreams moved through her soul as she lay still?
What visions came to eyes of spirit now
that those below her brow saw naught? What sight
of welcome to a life eternally?

Somehow she heard the summons, “Tabitha,
get up.” The dreams collapsed as her lids raised,
to see an unfamiliar, anxious face,
perhaps a little bit surprised, above.

She rose. She met her friends once more. What did
she say? We’ll wonder, since the author left
that out, and failed to write as well, what dreams
she’d had, which we may have ourselves someday.

She rose, awoke to love and work, restored
to life ephemeral, a life to end
someday once more, a life she would lay down
again, and dream the interrupted dreams.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 9:36-43, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Fourth Sunday of Easter.

The image is the Tomb of Tabitha, Jaffa, Palestine by William H. Rau (1903) – This image is available from the United States Library of Congress’s Prints and Photographs divisionunder the digital ID ppmsca.10664.This tag does not indicate the copyright status of the attached work. A normal copyright tag is still required. See Commons:Licensing., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18866918.

This poem includes quotes from Hamlet by William Shakespeare (ca. 1599 and 1601) and “Awake, Awake to Love and Work” by Geoffrey Anketel Studdert Kennedy (1921).

Light in a Stable

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” – John 1:9

The true light may now be at hand,
but the light is lit by flickering flame
and smoky wick. I watch that light
with anxious eye, for fear it spread
its burning oil on the straw below.

The light unsteady served to hide
the dark green sticky contents of
that first cloth barrier, wrapped
inexpertly by unaccustomed fingers round
the infant’s flailing hips,

But did not muffle his fierce cries
of outrage testifying that the light
has lungs! Re-swaddled, he subsides,
and sleeps re-laid into the feeding trough,
while grateful stable denizens rest, too.

The midwife gone, the man and I
trade naps, and watch, and wait
for his next cry. Will he be hungry?
Dirty? Lonely? Or just angry that
the borrowed cloth moves roughly on his skin?

“The light shines in the darkness,” they will write,
and I suppose it does. It murmurs sleepily,
then coos a moment, then subsides.
The crude light wavers at the breeze,
and shadows waver on incarnate light asleep.

I am too weary to compose a poem;
I ache in every muscle, every bone.
I cannot help but think that this poor babe,
in manger laid, could shine so bright
this stable would be taken for a star.

For now, the light is dimmed,
and in its dimness I, at least, can see
that lovelight shines most clearly here,
in common human form, and in
the dark.

A poem/prayer based on John 1:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday after Christmas Day.

The image is The Nativity, a section of the 13th century altar frontal of St. Mary of Avia Church in Bergueda, Catalonia, Spain, by an unknown artist. The frontal itself is in the National Art Museum of Catalonia in Barcelona. Photo by Enfo – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21384531.

Story: Important Things

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A cattle egret in tall grass.

December 8, 2024


Philippians 1:3-11

Luke 3:1-6

The cattle egret is a relatively quiet bird. Most of the time it goes about its business of hunting insects and such without talking about it. When a cattle egret has something to say, it will say it. But if it doesn’t have something to say, it doesn’t say anything.

Unlike a lot of people you’ve met, I’m sure.

There was another bird who really wanted a cattle egret to say something. I don’t know why a saffron finch decided that he wanted wisdom from a cattle egret, but he did. Maybe it was their relative sizes (rather small to quite impressively tall). Not that size reliably indicates wisdom. Maybe it was the bright white feathers, but color doesn’t tell you much about wisdom, either. Maybe it was the silence.

Not saying anything until you have something to say could be a good sign of wisdom.

At any rate, it’s wiser than saying something when you don’t have anything to say.

The saffron finch landed on the ground near a cattle egret and the two of them fed side-by-side without speaking for a while. The cattle egret ate bugs. The saffron finch ate one or two spiders and a good amount of seeds. Neither of them chose to speak with their mouths full.

When he was feeling pretty satisfied, the saffron finch asked, “What’s the most important thing?”

The cattle egret looked around to see if there were any other birds the finch might have been talking to. She didn’t see any, but she also didn’t think that this was a question a complete stranger was likely to ask her, so she didn’t say anything.

“No, really,” said the saffron finch. “What the most important thing?”

The cattle egret looked carefully at the saffron finch. He was clearly asking her, though she didn’t know why. She took a couple more mouthfuls of insects to give her time to consider the question. Then she cleared her throat and said:

“Love.”

She looked around and didn’t see any more bugs, so she nodded to the saffron finch and took off to find another spot with more bugs. When she got there, she was surprised to find the saffron finch landing beside her.

“Could you say that again?” he asked.

“Love,” she said, and went on eating.

“Really?” he asked.

“Love,” she repeated for the third time.

“I’m not sure I know how to love,” he said sadly.

The cattle egret paused her hunting for a moment and looked carefully at the saffron finch.

“Ask,” she said.

“Really?” he said.

“Ask,” she said.

I’m still not sure I’d go first to a cattle egret for wisdom – which is mostly my problem for not understanding what a cattle egret might say – but I have to agree with this cattle egret. What’s the most important thing? Love.

And if you’re not sure how to love: Ask.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation, so it won’t sound exactly like you’ve just read.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Stripped Down

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A painting showing a man with a long white beard in a prison cell holding a book and quill and looking at a sheathed sword.

“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.

The image is St. Paul in Prison by Rembrandt van Rijn (1627) – photo by anagoria, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27638749.

Hearts Sprinkled Clean… for?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“…Let us approach with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water.” – Hebrews 10:22

There are mornings when I revel in the water
which cascades along my form and carries off
the aggravating dust and clinging grime.

In likewise do I cast my grateful soul
into refreshment of a loving God,
who takes away the grunge, the guilt, the shame.

And then I step upon the shower mat,
to towel off the residue of cleanliness,
prepare to wrap my form in clothing for the day.

In likewise does my soul release forgiveness’ bliss,
replenished to the work which lies ahead,
and clothed (we hope) in righteousness’ array:

Provoking those around to love, to acts
of doing good, to mercy shared, to meet and raise
the courage of those souls who’d do the same.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 12:38-44, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 27 (32).

Photo by Eric Anderson

Story: Close to Heaven

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
Photo of a kolea (a Pacific Golden Plover), a bird with a thin straight beak, white, brown, and tan feathering, walking along a grassy area.

November 3, 2024

Ruth 1:1-18
Mark 12:28-34

It’s a funny thing. When you hear just part of a conversation, it can be misleading. I mean, you might think you know what folks are talking about, but it turns out you might not.

In this case, it was a kolea, a Pacific Golden Plover, who overheard some people talking about heaven. And yes, he got confused.

He heard enough to learn that the people talking about heaven believed it was a really nice place. He heard enough to learn that the people talking about heaven didn’t expect to go there for some time. He heard enough to learn that the people believed that other creatures could also go to heaven.

He didn’t hear anything about it being a new life and a very different kind of place. He didn’t hear anything about dying as a transition from one kind of life to another kind of life. They just didn’t mention that while he was listening.

But at the end of the conversation, as the people were walking away, one of them said something about heaven being beyond the clouds.

People tend to talk that way about heaven because even though we have telescopes and can look a long way into space, “beyond the clouds” is something most of us don’t know much about, and the life God intends for us beyond our lives here is also something we don’t know much about. But the kolea didn’t know that. He said to himself:

“Those people can’t fly beyond the clouds, but I can. I can get to heaven myself.”

And he launched himself into the sky.

A kolea migrating from Hawai’i to Alaska, or from Alaska to Hawai’i, can get very high indeed. He flew up over the low clouds that were raining on Hilo. Then he flew up over the middle clouds that were spotted about around the slopes of Mauna Kea. Then he flew up even above the high wispy clouds above Mauna Kea.

Each time, he looked about for signs of heaven.

Each time, he didn’t see them.

“I must be close to heaven,” he said.

What he found as he circled higher and higher was that it got colder and colder. He’d felt that before, but as he flew higher than he had before it got colder than he’d ever known. He didn’t like that. He also didn’t like that the air got thinner. Not only was it harder to breathe, he had to flap his wings harder to move enough air to keep flying. In fact, there came a point that he just couldn’t go higher. Gasping, he let himself fall, then circle, and glide back down to the ground.

He landed, still winded, on some grass near another kolea, who hopped over to see what was wrong. “I tried to fly up to heaven,” he said sadly, and told her the story. “I must have been close, but I couldn’t get there.”

“That’s too bad,” she said to him. “Here, take a bite or two. There’s some tasty things here. And you’ll find some good water to drink just over this way.” She led him over to the food, and water, and a safe place to rest.

He ate. He drank. He rested. His breathing settled. His wings regained their strength. He looked at his new friend.

“You know, I flew a long way up to get close to heaven,” he said, “but you’ve been kinder to me than I can remember anyone else being. It might just be that I’ve been closer to heaven here than I ever was up there in the sky.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, then tell them from memory during worship. The story you just read and the story as I told you will not be the same.

Photo of a kolea (a Pacific Golden Plover) by Eric Anderson.

First Commandment

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A brightly colored painting showing two women facing forward, both showing grief, with a third holding the shoulders of one from behind, face hidden. Two other women show signs of grief at right and to the rear.

“One of the scribes came near and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well he asked him, ‘Which commandment is the first of all?’ Jesus answered, ‘The first is, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.” The second is this, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” There is no other commandment greater than these.'” – Mark 12:28-31

The scribe approved your words, or so says Mark,
and silenced all the snare-deploying crowd.
Yet he might ask (and yes, in Luke he did)
“Who is my neighbor to receive my love?”

Then you, Redeemer, might have said
(though you did not, or so says Luke),
“Look to the Book of Ruth, to what is written there:
‘I will not leave you. Do not press me.

“‘Where you journey, I will go.
And where you stop, there I will take my rest.
Your people shall be mine, and more:
Your God shall be my God.'”

A poem/prayer based on Mark 12:28-34, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading, and Ruth 1:1-18, the First Reading, for Year B, Proper 26 (31).

The image is Whither Thou Goest: Naomi and Ruth by Rupert Bunny – http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/360/rupert-bunny-whither-thou-goest.jpg/4079790, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=56415654.

Story: Everybody’s Songs

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
An 'apapane, a red bird with black wings, singing in tree branches.

September 22, 2024

Jeremiah 11:18-20
Mark 9:30-37

Everyone thought she was one of the best singers among the ‘apapane. Her notes were clear, her improvisations were delightful, and she had the breath to sing long bubbling musical runs. Other ‘apapane used to listen for her in the mornings, and if they heard her, they’d take off in her direction.

It turned out that she used to sing loudest and longest when she found a grove of ohi’a with lots of blossoms, so everybody who flew into the neighborhood got a good meal. She’d sing, however, even in a tree between flowering times. When she did, the other ‘apapane – and the akepa, and the ‘alawi, and the ‘amakihi, and even the i’iwi – settled into nearby trees to listen.

It was like having a great concert every day.

She couldn’t help noticing that a fair number of birds got a free lunch, or breakfast, or dinner out of her songs. At the start she didn’t mind – she was pretty flattered that everyone flew to hear her sing – but as time went on it started to rankle. “Can’t they find their own trees?” she grumped to her brother one day, and if he had anything useful to say, she didn’t listen.

Then she had a bad scare. She’d landed on a branch near to the ground, which she rarely did, and began to sing. Suddenly the branch heaved with a heavy weight. She fluttered into the air, taken by surprise, and only then noticed the hunting cat which had leapt onto her branch and only just missed her.

She flew higher into another tree, whistling with alarm, and watched while the cat climbed back to the ground and disappeared into the forest.

The next day the sun rose, but her voice didn’t rise. The day grew brighter, but nobody heard her song. Other ‘apapane and ‘amakihi and mejiro and the rest begin to sing, but she remained silent.

She found a place deep within some leafy ohi’a branches and hid from the world.

They noticed that she wasn’t singing that day, the other birds did, but they mostly thought she’d gone to another part of the forest and would be back soon. But one day became two, and two became four, and four became over a week and nobody had heard her song. They began to look around, hoping to find her well, and terribly afraid that something bad had happened.

 Her mother found her – mothers often have a talent for finding their children – still huddled in her ohi’a tree, silent and afraid. She told her mother about what had happened with the cat.

“I don’t want to sing ever again,” she said.

“Your songs are beautiful,” said her mother. “Everybody loves you for them.”

“Everybody follows me because they think they’ll eat well,” said the daughter. “Somebody else can do that. Not me.”

“Listen for a moment, daughter,” said the mother, and the two were quiet. The forest, however, was not. The calls and songs of the forest birds sailed out over the trees.

“Listen to that,” said mother. “It’s everybody’s song.”

“Won’t they attract cats?” asked the singer.

“They might,” admitted her mother, “but there are ways to sing beyond their reach. Mostly, though, realize that it’s your voice, and your melodies, but it’s not really your song. It’s everybody’s song when you share it, greater and more wonderful than you know.

“What do you think, daughter? Can you sing with everybody’s song?”

In answer, the young ‘apapane opened her beak and sang.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them in worship from memory and from improvisation. What you’ve just read will not match what you watch.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: Fed Up

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

May 5, 2024

Acts 10:44-48
John 15:9-17

The noio (the English name is “black noddy,” but I like the Hawaiian “noio” better than “noddy”) – the noio was fed up. By which I mean that she was wet, and cold, and hungry. She circled over the ocean croaking unhappily as she looked for small fish and squid. She saw some. She swooped along, dipped her bill, then splashed into the water, and…

Missed.

For the eighth time.

Her mother was circling nearby as she lifted herself back into the air with her cold, wet, wings.

“That looked really good,” mother said. “You might try coming in behind the fish, so it’s less likely to dodge.”

That’s when she yelled at her mother.

She yelled about being wet. She yelled about being cold. She yelled most of all about being hungry. She yelled about being taught to do something that was plainly impossible. She yelled about being the most ignored daughter in her generation. She yelled that her mother didn’t love her. At all.

Then she flew back to the nest, because really, where else could she go?

She plopped herself down on the nest hard enough to make her feet uncomfortable. Her mother hadn’t flown back with her. She sat in the nest and cried with all the frustration of being young, and trying to do something that’s not easy, and failing, and being wet, and cold, and uncomfortable, and not being sure her mother loved her.

She was shivering and her eyes were closed when the nest rocked with someone landing in it. Whoever it was drew close and put their wings over her. Gradually her feathers dried and she started to feel warm. She was still hungry, though, when she opened her eyes to look at her mother.

But it wasn’t her mother. It was her father.

“Where’s mother?” she asked. “I thought she’d come here.”

“She had something to take care of,” said father.

“Did you hear what I said?” asked the daughter.

“Everybody heard what you said,” said father.

“Did I drive mother away?” asked the daughter.

“I don’t think so, but we’ll see,” said her father. She closed her eyes.

A little while later, the nest rocked again as another bird landed. Father’s wings lifted away from his daughter, and she opened her eyes again to see her mother.

“Why didn’t you come right back?” she asked her mother.

“Because it took some time to get you this. Those were sneaky fish you were trying to catch, daughter.” And mother served up some food, and daughter ate, and so she was fed, rather than fed up.

“I guess I’ll try again tomorrow,” said the daughter.

“Maybe they’ll be slower tomorrow,” said the mother.

“Will you help me learn?” asked the daughter.

“Of course,” said the mother, “because I love you.”

And her daughter gave a noio smile and said, “I know. I love you, too.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time (it’s the text you’ve just read) but I tell them from memory, anticipating some new creation as I tell them. So what I’ve written and what I say in the moment are not, cannot be the same.

Photo of a noio in flight by Eric Anderson.

I Fear I am not God

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. – 1 John 4:18

Fear is not just about punishment, John.
Fear is also about being hurt.
Fear is about taking a risk.
Fear is about the unknown.

I fear punishment, of course.
The pain is not just the harsh words,
hard tones, spoken to me.
I punish myself as well.

I fear as well the hurt
that is not punishment,
but comes from accident
or malice done around me.

I fear to take a risk, of course,
because, deserved or not,
if risk turns into failure,
I will feel the pain.

And I fear the unknown
because who knows (I don’t)
what dangers lurk for me,
what hurts I’ll face and feel?

So John, I know that God is love,
rejoice that God loves without fear.
I live in love and fear.
I fear I am not God.

A poem/prayer based on 1 John 4:7-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Fifth Sunday of Easter.

Self-portrait by Eric Anderson.