“So again Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.'” – John 10:7
It’s not your most compelling image, Jesus. In a section where you said, “I am…” three times, how many hold this one in memory? To say the truth, I barely do.
And yet a gate is comforting. It guards a home, a sheepfold, or a soul from harm. It’s hardly perfect, since a thief may climb the wall: They’ll have to work to work their ill.
The beauty of a gate is not protective force, but its capacity to swing, admitting those outside who’ve recognized the voice and come to claim their place and home.
You tell us you are gatekeeper and gate. May we remember that the gate is you, and when we close it, we usurp your power, your authority. and you yourself.
May we have faith and wisdom both to hold the gate wide open for the gathering flock and only close it in the most compelling circumstance, then open it with welcome love.
A poem/prayer based on John 10:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday of Easter.
I don’t know how it came into the ‘apapane’s head to organize a Christmas pageant. I don’t even know how he’d heard about Christmas, let alone a Christmas pageant. Nevertheless, he flew all over the island, searching for creatures to take part in the pageant.
He asked the I’iwi, who was feeling grumpy that day and didn’t say yes, or no, or anything at all.
He asked the ‘io, which was very brave of him. The ‘io said she might come and looked… hungry.
He flew down to the shoreline to ask the honu. She said no, she wasn’t going to swim up to the mountain forest, which seemed fair. A house sparrow said he might fly up after he’d finished his bath.
A saffron finch thought it sounded odd but said he might hang around for it. The ‘apapane asked a yellow-billed cardinal and a myna. They both looked doubtful, and then the myna started an argument with some other mynas that wasn’t over when he left to talk to more shorebirds.
The auku’u looked puzzled, but said he’d come. “I’m coming, too,” announced a kolea. “I’ve flown thousands of miles for this. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“If the kolea is coming, I’m coming, too,” piped up an ‘akekeke, and a hunakai said the same.
The koa’e kea announced that she would play Mary, because didn’t Mary have a long tail? The ‘apapane wasn’t sure, so he didn’t argue. An ala’e ke’oke’o asked if there was a good fish pond up in the forest, and when he was told there wasn’t, looked skeptical.
The ae’o said she might turn up. If she felt like it. If she didn’t have anything else to do. The cattle egret said, of course he’d be there. One of his ancestors had been present at the original birth, hadn’t she?
The ‘apapane left the shorebirds to spread the word further and returned to the forest. The oma’o stopped singing barely long enough to say, “Yes.” The ‘alawi just looked nervous and kept hunting insects without saying anything.
He searched long and hard for an ‘akiapola’au, who asked, “What’s that all about?” After listening to the ‘apapane’s explanation, he gave a whistle and flew off into the forest. The nene just stared at him.
When it was pageant time, it was chaos. Creatures stepped into the clearing the ‘apapane had selected, then faded back into the trees again. Frightened chirps flew back and forth, and so did frightened birds. Mejiro and ‘elepaio peeped out from the trees. The mynas announced that they would be the angel chorus, then exploded into another argument.
“What do you need to settle down and play your parts?” shouted the ‘apapane from a tree.
“Is the ‘io here?” asked an ‘amakihi. “Yes,” said the ‘io from the sky overhead. “Are you going to eat us?” asked the ‘amakihi. For a moment there was silence. Then the ‘io said, “No. Not today. Today there’s a pageant to do.”
The ‘apapane spent the next hour answering the questions. The koa’e kea had just flown in from a lava fountain, and since she wanted to play Mary, she did. A kioea had flown up from the shore and wanted to play Joseph. “You’re a rare bird,” said the ‘apapane, so he did. The little ‘elepaio played shepherds while the nene played sheep. The I’iwi didn’t want to cheer up, so he played the grumpy innkeeper. The sleeping pig was cast as a sleeping cow and did it very well.
High overhead the ‘io provided the voice of Gabriel, while ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, mejiro, and mynas sang as the angel chorus. Seabirds and shorebirds took places as creatures of the stable.
When the time came, birds from other shores – a northern cardinal, a red junglefowl, and a pair of zebra doves – played the magi.
The ‘akiapola’au lay just one egg and very rarely, so a young one played Jesus.
When it was over, the creatures vanished back into the trees, leaving the ‘apapane alone in the silence. He’d answered every question, met every need, somehow.
The trees rustled in the breeze, applauding the ‘apapene’s Christmas pageant.
The End.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
On this occasion, I read from the prepared text (and still made a couple of changes).
“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power; put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil…” – Ephesians 6:10-11
I’m grateful that the struggle is not with the powers of blood and flesh. Not if I’m to rely upon these items for protection of my vital spark.
What happens to the righteous? Why, they suffer, as do those who speak of peace. A shield of faith is powerless against an arrow, or a club, or fist.
Should I entrust my head to its salvation? The logic doesn’t work for me. I wish I thought an offense of the Spirit, of the Word, protected anyone, but… no.
And worst of all, to recommend I gird my waist with Truth, as if the truth has ever carried any weight when cut so easily by lies.
But then I see a brilliant coral called “The Armor of our God,” protected by no more than truth, feebly anchored to its rock.
These corals can be shattered by a careless underwater step, the floating residue of sun protection, by a current that directs its food away.
If coral, brilliant in its indigo, can live its fragile life beneath the sea, I might, perhaps, submit my life to living with this unprotective armor,
Rooted in the truth, acting righteously, striding ever toward the reign of peace, with faith displayed before me, head a-crowned with Christ’s salvific work,
Equipped to bring the Spirit’s Word to those who might, in turn, take on this truth, this righteousness, this peace, this saving faith, this summons from our God.
Author’s note: I have no idea what I was going to write about before I found this photo of an “Armor of God” Zoanthid coral.
A poem/prayer based on Ephesians 6:10-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year B, Proper 16 (21).
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