Story: Rules for Love

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment
Two small yellow birds on stony ground.

September 6, 2026

Romans 13:8-14
Matthew 18:15-20

The two saffron finches were young. They liked each other a lot. In fact, they liked each other so much that they called it love. They just didn’t know how. That made for a certain amount of disappointing conversations, and gifts that the other one didn’t enjoy, and careless words that launched long periods of hurt silence – saffron finches aren’t much for big fluttering fights.

One day each bird flew back to its parents with a question.

But not the same question.

“How can there be rules for love?” asked the young female. “He wants me to follow rules for love.”

“How am I supposed to love without knowing what the rules are?” complained the young male to his parents. “She just wants me to know what love is and do it.”

Neither set of parents really knew how to answer these questions. The male’s parents liked to know what to do and what not to do. They liked things to be orderly and predictable. They liked to say, “Eat these seeds, but not those seeds.” They liked to say, “Don’t fly when the clouds are a very deep gray.”

The female’s parents, on the other hand, preferred to start with a big idea and work their way down to the way to make it happen. They liked look at the clouds, consider the wind at the moment, and take an experimental flight to see if a storm was kicking up. They liked to try different seeds at different times to see if seeds changed with the season – which they do. They liked to start with the idea of love, and try things they believed would be loving, and, if they had to, make changes.

The male’s parents liked to know what to do to be loving.

In the absence of help from their parents, the young saffron finches fluttered at one another in confusion. “How can I know what you’ll like without a rule?” the male asked the female.

“How can a rule tell me what you’ll like next week or next month?” the female asked the male.

They were pretty well stuck.

“What are we going to do?” they asked one another.

It just happened that a kolea overheard. “Can you tell him the things that make you feel loved?” he asked the female. Well, she could, she thought. And she did. When she had, the kolea asked the male, “Can you make some rules or guides from that?” Well, he could. And he did.

“Now for you,” said the kolea to the male. “Can you assume that what she does, she does because she’s trying to show you she loves you?” Well, he could, he thought. And he would. “Can you tell her honestly and gently when something she does isn’t as loving as she hopes?” Well, he could. And he would. “And can you remember those things that didn’t work, and try new things that might work, and do the things that did work?” Yes, she could. And she would.

“It doesn’t matter whether you love from rules or from ideas,” said the kolea. “What matters is that you love, and trust in love.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not match the story as I told it.

Photo of two saffron finches by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Shallow Cormorant

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

August 30, 2026

Exodus 3:1-15
Matthew 16:21-28

Unusually, today’s story isn’t about a Hawaiian bird. It’s about a bird you’ll find along the coasts, lakes, and rivers of North America. You’ll find them way up north in Canada or Alaska in summer, and as far south as the shores of Mexico in winter. It’s called the double-crested cormorant, and I remember seeing these birds when I was a child in New England.

Like the noio or the koa’e kea of Hawai’i, the cormorant fishes for its food. Both the noio and the koa’e kea, however, fly over the sea and dive down to catch fish when they see them. The cormorant swims along the surface, then swims with its webbed feet down beneath the surface to catch fish. They’ll stay under up to half a minute, which is a long time to hold your breath, and they can swim quite deep.

Well. They can. There was one cormorant, however, who simply refused to dive deeper than a few feet. You know how it is. Some dives had gone badly for him, and he’d come up coughing and gasping for breath. “Try it again,” someone had said, without saying anything about how it could go better, and down he’d gone, got confused and frightened, and come up again gasping and coughing.

“No more of that,” he said. “It’s shallow dives for me.”

Other cormorants would swim 25 or 30 feet down in the ocean water, but not him. No more than five feet. Maybe six. He might dab his beak down a little farther to get a fish, but no more. Definitely no further.

One day he surfaced from a dive next to a friend. He’d already eaten the fish he’d caught four feet below the surface. His friend, however, was wrestling with a much bigger fish. It took some work and a couple tosses in the air to get it lined up right, but finally he ate it and looked really satisfied.

“You’re lucky,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “I don’t see fish that big very often.”

His friend was surprised and a little puzzled. “I see them all the time,” he said. “They’re right down near the bottom.”

“Oh, the bottom,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “You’re likely to find anything there.”

“You don’t go to the bottom?” said his friend. “I thought everybody did.”

“I dive as far as I need to,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “I don’t need anything on the bottom.”

“But there’s these amazing fish down there,” said his friend. “Wait here; I’ll bring one up.”

He dove down, leaving the shallow cormorant alone on the surface… briefly. Because he came up quickly, carrying another of the big fish in his beak, and looking forward to sharing it with his friend. On the surface, though, he was alone. He saw a black speck heading for a perching rock. The shallow cormorant had flown away.

He asked his auntie about it later, who sighed. “Some birds are like that,” she said. “They’re content with what’s obvious, what’s on the surface, what’s easy. If you go deeper, you discover things, but they don’t want to know those things. They’re content with the surface.

“But if you go deeper, you find delights you otherwise would never have known.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not exactly match the story as I told it.

Photo of a double-crested cormorant by Eric Anderson.

I Must Turn Aside

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A male figure standing next to a bush.


“Then Moses said, ‘I must turn aside and look at this great sight and see why the bush is not burned up.'” – Exodus 3:3

Before the Name, there was the charge.
Before the charge, there was the word of grief.
Before the word of grief, there was the word of heritage.
Before the word of heritage, there was the holy ground.

Before the holy ground, before toes dipped into the Earth,
there was his own name.
Before his own name, before he knew the voice knew him,
there was the voice.

Before the voice, before air waved and wove,
there was the question.
Before the question, before the wonder at strange sights,
there was the vision.

There was the vision, light flickering on the hillside,
flames orange and red, flashing despite the sun,
but somehow still green, still verdant, aglow
with the life of its leaves and its stem.

Before all that followed, curiosity led
a man without nation, a tree without root,
to turn from his path and take a new course,
and just for a moment, plant his toes in the soil.

A poem/prayer based on Exodus 3:1-15, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Proper 17 (22).

The image is Moses and the Burning Bush by an unknown artist (ca. 3rd century) – Dura Europos Synagogue, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=129215196.

Story: Body of Nene

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Nine gray, white, and black nene (Hawaiian geese) along a shore - two in the water, the rest standing on land.

August 23, 2026

Romans 12:1-8
Matthew 16:13-20

He’d done it at last. He’d graduated from nene school. He’d learned to forage, and he’d learned to fly even better, and he’d learned to fly in formation. He knew everything there was to know about living well as a nene.

I have to say that that’s a pretty good accomplishment for anyone moving on in school.

So now he formally joined the flock as a certified adult nene. He was pretty young, but he was also pretty confident. After all, he’d done very well in school. What more was there to being a nene?

It turned out that the little flock had a leader. That surprised him, and it shouldn’t have. Learning to fly in formation, there had always been a bird, usually the teacher, at the very front of the “V” of the flock. The same thing was true among the adults in flight. Somebody had to be at the point.

“Welcome to the flock, youngsters,” said the leader kindly. “We’re so glad to have you here with us and to increase the flock. Let me just introduce you to some of our specialists here.”

The young nene was caught again. Specialists? But he held his tongue – for a moment, anyway.

“This is our ‘ohelo specialist,” started the leader, but the youngster interrupted.

“I know how to find ‘ohelo,” he said. “It’s easy.”

“We can all find ‘ohelo,” said the leader, “but she’s been able to spot it farther away than any of the rest of us. By all means tell us when you find ‘ohelo, but the chances are that she will spot it first.”

The youngster thought that seemed unlikely, but he didn’t say it.

“This is our pukiawe specialist,” continued the leader, “and he’s also really good at spotting ‘aiakanene.”

“I can do that, too,” interrupted the youngster again, and the leader calmly continued:

“We’ll find out if you can do that faster than him. Now, this nene is the best among us at forecasting the weather. If there’s a storm coming, she’s been great at telling us to find shelter in time.”

“Seriously, can’t the rest of you do that?” burst out the young nene. “It’s simple!”

“It’s simple when the clouds are getting tall and dark,” said the leader. “It’s not so simple when they’re white and fluffy.”

“Can’t any of you do anything?” demanded the youngster. “I can’t believe a flock would be so full of birds that can do only one thing.”

The young nene’s former teacher – who was also his auntie, since nene flocks are small – answered him. “Of course we can do all these things, nephew,” she said. “We can forage for ourselves, we can fly for ourselves, we can see danger coming for ourselves. We can all do that. You can do that. I know because I taught you.

“But some of us went beyond what all of us can do. They got really good at seeing storms coming, or spotting ‘ohelo in the lava field. I’m not quite as good at holding formation in a high wind, so I don’t take the lead when flying, but I am pretty good at teaching other fliers, so that’s what I do.

“Think of the flock as a nene made up of nene. Some have really enhanced their skills, and that means that all of us benefit from it. I can’t spot the ripe pukiawe as far away as he can, but on the other hand, he can’t teach how to find pukiawe as well as I can.”

There was silence for a moment, and then the leader said, “Welcome to the flock, young nene. Over time we’ll find out which of your skills we’re all grateful to receive. And you’ll find out which skills you’re grateful one of these other birds possesses and shares.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not exactly match the story as I told it.

Photo of a small flock of nene by Eric Anderson.

Conformed or Transformed

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment
A painting of a robed man holding a sword and letter.

“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.

Story: Settle Down, ‘Amakihi

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A yellow bird taking off from a tree with green leaves and red blossoms.

August 16, 2026

Isaiah 56:1, 6-8
Matthew 15:21-28

‘Amakihi aren’t the most social birds in the world. We’re used to seeing the flocks of myna around Hilo, and we’re used to seeing saffron finches in pairs. I’ve never seen more than one ‘amakihi at a time, which I grant you isn’t all that useful as information, because there could be six of them near me and if five of them are on the other side of some trees, I won’t see them. And probably haven’t.

That said, ‘amakihi do participate in mixed flocks of birds over the summer, and they are pretty mellow about other birds getting near their nests – but that is the time when they’re the most anxious and the most aggressive. When they’ve got eggs or young in the nests, they’re not very happy to have other birds about. Parents can be protective like that.

One first-time father was particularly eager to see that his eggs and then his hatchlings and then his fledglings stayed safe. He warned other ‘amakihi away from the nest, and he chased mejiro and ‘apapane. He even dared to chase i’iwi away, which is kind of unusual in the mountain forest. I’iwi are far more accustomed to chasing ‘amakihi than being chased, but fortunately the i’iwi was more amused than angered by it all. Besides, eggs are important, and so he kept a respectful distance after that.

The ‘amakihi kept it up as the youngsters learned to fly. It didn’t take all that long before they were flying with him and their mother about the forest. In a short time they had flown off for themselves, joining with some other young ‘amakihi and ‘apapane in the forest.

That’s when most ‘amakihi stop aggressively defending their nests. For whatever reason, he didn’t. Or rather, he did: he kept chasing birds away from a nest without eggs or young or anything. His wife was confused, and told him so. “I’m keeping the nest safe,” he said.

“Keeping it safe from what?” she asked.

“From everyone!” he said.

“Why? There’s nothing in it but sticks and grass,” she said.

“It’s got to be safe!” he said, and nothing she said changed her mind.

Nothing his auntie said changed his mind, either. He was so anxious and afraid. Nothing his tutu said – and you know he was would up if he wouldn’t listen to Tutu.

It was the i’iwi that got through to him. That same i’iwi he’d chased away months before fluttered over to perch just far enough to prevent a quick rush by the nervous ‘amakihi, who was fluffing up his feathers and getting ready to chase him anyway.

“Settle down, ‘amakihi,” said the i’iwi. “I’m staying away from your nest. But I’m confused. Why are you still protecting it so fiercely?”

“Nests are for protecting!” said the ‘amakihi, “especially from strange birds.”

“Nests are for protecting?” asked the i’iwi. “I thought eggs and chicks were for protecting. Was I wrong about that?”

“Eggs and chicks…” repeated the ‘amakihi, and suddenly the light flashed in his head. He looked at the empty nest, which would fall to pieces before it was time for eggs and chicks again, and then looked back at the i’iwi.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been foolish.”

“That’s all right, ‘amakihi,” said the i’iwi. “You can recover from foolishness. If you’d like, you can come fly with this flock I’ve found for the summer. There’s some birds who can spot nectar a mile away.”

The two birds flew off together.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them on Sunday mornings from memory and improvisation. The story you have just read does not exactly match how I told it.

Photo of an ‘amakihi by Eric Anderson.

Foreigners and Eunuchs, Eunuchs and Foreigners

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A single image with three elements of the same story. In the upper left, a child flailing in bed. In the center, a woman leaves the home to follow a group of men, one of whom is Jesus. In the the lower right, she kneels to him in petition, with a dog next to her.

Do not let the foreigner joined to the Lord say,
    “The Lord will surely separate me from his people,”
and do not let the eunuch say,
    “I am just a dry tree.”
– Isaiah 56:3

Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.
Anathema they are in the words of the law.
Anathema they are in the tales of the histories.
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.

Suddenly, inspired by God
a new word: “These I will bring
to my holy mountain,”
to joyfully raise up their prayers.
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.

We have heard other words,
have we not, from this time,
from our time, from the times
of so many others rejecting outright
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners?

We can choose what we read
and believe from the Bible.
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners
Exiled from the homes that they made
with their families, commanded by Ezra.

Foreigners and eunuchs
Eunuchs and foreigners;
would challenge the limits that Jesus
imposed on himself and win
healing for children, not dogs,
with great wit and compassion.

Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners
would read in Isaiah
of a lamb deprived justice,
and persuaded by Philip
would seek out the waters.

So which shall it be,
and how shall we be, with
Foreigners and eunuchs,
Eunuchs and foreigners?
The cruelty of Ezra?
The welcome of Philip?

Or perhaps we might follow
the quick turn of Jesus
to hear wisdom and heal
and to lay down our limits on
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.

A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 56:1, 6-8, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year A, Proper 15 (20).

The image is Jesus and the Woman of Canaan by Lucas Cranach the Elder (1537) – https://www.sammlung.pinakothek.de/de/artwork/8eGVWjr4WQ, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=105154922.

The editors of the Revised Common Lectionary chose to omit Isaiah 56:2-5 from the reading, which specifically address the welcome for eunuchs in the prophet’s vision. I’ve chosen to include their inclusion in this poem.

Story: Wide World

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Two birds near each other in mown grass. One is dark brown with a yellow beak and feathery mask. The other is cream colored speckled with darker brown.

July 26, 2026

Romans 8:26-39
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

Over the next few weeks we’re likely to start seeing one of our famous Hawaiian birds again. We’re approaching the time of year when the kolea make their 3000 mile non-stop flight from Alaska to Hawai’i where, like sensible birds, they’ll spend the winter.

A myna and a kolea happened to be scrounging for worms and insects side-by-side one day. As you know, kolea are generally pretty quiet, and mynas are frequently pretty noisy. They didn’t much mind one another, though, poking through the grass stems to put together a good breakfast.

The myna, naturally, was the first to say anything. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you for months.”

“A long way away,” she said. “Someplace that’s pretty cool in the middle of summer.”

“Oh, come on,” said the myna. “There’s no such place.”

“There is,” she said. “It’s a long flight, though. It took me four days to get there, and it’s taken me four days to get back.”

“Look, if you want to spin fables for me, go ahead,” said the myna, who was getting increasingly grumpy about all this. “The world isn’t that big.”

“It is,” she insisted. “It’s even bigger, as far as I can tell. There are coastlines and lands far, far away. I’ve even met birds who’ve come from other lands with other shores. It’s a big world.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed the myna.

“Go take a look,” said the kolea. “Fly as high as you can. You won’t see the shore where I spent the summer, but you’ll see at least one other island, and you’ll see a great big ocean.”

“I’m not going to stick around to be lied to,” grumped the myna, and he flew off to another lawn where there wasn’t a kolea to tell him stories. But her last words stuck. She’d seemed so sure and so sincere. It seemed incredible. At the least he should take her challenge and prove her wrong.

So he flew up along the slopes of Mauna Kea, bound for the sky above the summit. He’d never been there before, since he had all the seeds and worms he needed right here. Up he went, and to his surprise it got cold. Then the air got thin, and he had to work harder to keep his place in the air. He was a determined myna, though, and he kept going, until he could see the ocean all around the shores of Hawai’i Island. It seemed to go on forever, much further than he’d imagined.

And he could see the summit of Haleakala rising above the clouds on Maui.

He spiraled his way back down to the lawn where he’d disbelieved the kolea. She was back again, poking at the ground, making herself a good breakfast.

He broke the silence. “It is a big world, isn’t?”

“Bigger than I imagined,” she said. “I couldn’t believe there was anyplace like here the first time I made that flight.”

“I’m sorry I disbelieved you,” he said. “Could you tell me about the places you’ve been?”

And she did. The world was more wonderful and more amazing than he’d thought, and he was glad to know it.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation – so the story you read is not precisely how I told it.

Photo of a common myna (at left) and a kolea (Pacific golden-plover, at right) by Eric Anderson.

Story: One Loves

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Most of the frame contains a massive lava fountain, but also visible is a white bird with black bars near the end of its wings and a long thin white tail.

July 19, 2026

Psalm 86:11-17
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

The koa’e kea (white-tailed tropicbird) loved to fly. She loved to fly over the sea, and to hover over the water before diving to capture a fish or squid. She loved to fly over the land as well, to feel the thermals lift her wings as she crossed from sea to shore. And of course, as a koa’e kea from Hawai’i Island, she loved to fly around the Kilauea summit, with all the excitement of the rising hot air and, from time to time, the thundering lava fountains.

When Kilauea has fountained recently, she’s tried to be there.

“You can’t love all of these,” said a grumpy friend. “Love isn’t like that. You love some things, but that means that you don’t love other things. You can’t love all those different airs.”

“But of course I love them,” protested our koa’e kea, but her friend repeated:

“You can only love one. Just one. Love is for one. Pick just one.”

That’s all her friend would say.

How was she to choose? She couldn’t imagine. Yes, flying over the water could be more challenging, because sometime the spray would leap toward her, but she liked that. Flying over bare rock gave her a lift, and flying among and around trees and branches gave her a thrill.

She supposed that she probably loved flying around a lava fountain the best, but that was mostly because it didn’t happen that often. She flew over water every day. Lava only fountained once or month or so. If it happened every day, it wouldn’t so special, and she thought she’d probably love it, but not quite as much.

And besides, as much as she loved flying around the fountains, she still loved the other flying. How could she choose one? She just wanted to weep.

“What are you sad about?” asked another friend, one who wasn’t quite as grumpy as the first friend.

“How can I choose what kind of flying to love?” she asked, and was very surprised when her friend said:

“Why would you?”

She explained what their other friend had said, and he shook his head in unbelief.

“Love is bigger than that,” he said. “I love all sorts of things and all sorts of birds. Sometimes I love them in different ways. I love squid, but I love to eat it. I love my parents, but I’m not going to eat them.”

The two birds laughed at that.

“I think you’ve got enough love in you for lots of things, and lots of birds, and lots of different kinds of air and flying. Besides, it’s all the same in the end. It’s the world we were given, and I say we can love all of it.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” said our koa’e kea. “I’ll love all of it. Come fly with me. Let’s have a lovely time.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it is not identical to the way I told it.

Photo of a koa’e kea in flight near a lava fountain by Eric Anderson.

Wholehearted

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments


“I give thanks to you, O Lord my God, with my whole heart, and I will glorify your name forever.” – Psalm 86:12

My heart is fractured, God.

Let’s face it, it’s been broken by
the disappointments and betrayals of
my all-too-human life. What mortar can
rebuild the broken soul?

My heart is fractured, God.

My heart is torn by contradictions, pulling me
from one side to the other. If
it were a matter of but two directions, I
could manage – but it’s more than two.

My heart is fractured, God.

Not all my inclinations and desires
content me, God. I know that some are sin,
and know you know which other ones are sin,
that I am happy to delight in.

My heart is fractured, God.

How can I give you thanks
with a whole heart? My heart is shattered in
the bony cage which carries it.
I sing a wild cacophony of praise.

My heart is fractured, God.

But you, O God, are merciful.
Your grace abounds beyond imagination. You
forgive and heal and give me strength. Someday,
perhaps, I’ll praise with a heart that’s whole.

A poem/prayer based on Psalm 86:11-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate Psalm Reading for Year A, Proper 11 (16).

The image is A Paper-made “Broken Heart” by Sakazaki at English Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=55764723.