Story: Sincere Flattery

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment
A green and yellow bird facing to the left. It has a grey beak with a dramatic hook at the end.

October 18, 2026

Isaiah 45:1-7
1 Thessalonians 1:1-10

On most days, the i’iwi and the akiapola’au don’t have much to say to one another. The i’iwi is red and black, the akiapola’au is yellow and black, except when it’s a young one, like this one, whose feathers are still pale green. The i’iwi sips nectar from flowers, the akiapola’au pulls caterpillars from tree bark. The i’iwi tends to favor the tops of trees or the middle branches, the akiapola’au hops along branches looking for signs of small bugs or worms.

So yes. They don’t talk to one another much.

One day, though, a young akiapola’au was higher in the branches, and an i’iwi was lower in the branches. He watched the akiapola’au as she pulled at a caterpillar with her hooked top beak and maneuvered it into her mouth.

“Yuck,” said the i’iwi. “And such a lot of work for something that doesn’t taste that good.”

“I like it fine,” said the akiapola’au, who did.

“I eat bugs when I have to,” said the i’iwi, “but best of all is flower nectar. You can’t beat it. It’s the best.”

“I’ve never had it,” said the akiapola’au, who hadn’t. “Where do you find it? What does it look like? Does it hide in flowers?”

“It’s not a bug that hides in flowers,” explained the i’iwi. “Flowers make this liquid all on their own. You poke your beak into the blossom and sip it up.”

“And that’s good?” wondered the akiapola’au.

“Oh, it certainly is,” assured the i’iwi. “Much better than bugs. And we’ve both got this nice curved beak. It should be really easy for you to sip nectar. You should try it.”

The i’iwi flew off, satisfied that he’d been a big help. The akiapola’au kept hopping up the branch, eating a couple of bugs and another caterpillar and enjoying them, but now wondering if she was missing something. She found herself on a branch that ended in a cluster of ohi’a blossoms. “If I’m going to try it, there’s no time like the present,” she told herself, and hopped into the flowers.

It’s true that the i’iwi’s curved beak is a great help in pulling nectar from flowers. And it’s true that the akiapola’au has a curved beak – but it’s not the same curve at all. More to the point, inside the i’iwi’s curved beak is a tongue that’s as long as the beak is – and that’s not true for the akiapola’au. They’ve got a tongue, but it fits inside the short lower beak, not the long upper beak. Her hooked beak went into the flower, but she had no tongue there to pull out the nectar.

She worked at it, though – she was determined to try that nectar – and finally managed to get her short straight lower beak into the flower. She felt around with her tongue. It was awkward. She felt silly. But she did it. She got the nectar.

“Yuck!” she said. It was, she thought, sickeningly sweet.

“What are you doing?” said a voice. It was her mother, who’d flown in while she was fussing in the blossoms.”

“I’m trying the nectar,” said her daughter. “An i’iwi recommended it. He said it was better than bugs. He seemed to know what he was talking about. And we both have long curved beaks, so it made sense, didn’t it?”

Her mother thought about it for a bit, and said, “It made some sense, but I think you’ve found out it didn’t make as much sense as you thought. Long beaks aren’t all alike, are they?”

“No,” said her daughter, “and it turns out that i’iwi and akiapola’au don’t have the same idea of what tastes good.”

“Was it worth trying?” said her mother.

“I think so,” said her daughter, “but once was enough.”

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 and the story as I told it are not exactly the same.

Photo of a juvenile akiapola’au by Eric Anderson.

Story: How to Argue with Your Mother

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment
A small yellow green bird perched on a bare branch with a blue sky beyond it. The bird faces left and has a short slightly curved black beak, and black feathers just in front of and behind its eye.

October 11, 2026

Exodus 32:1-14
Matthew 22:1-14

Sometimes a mother ‘amakihi lays two eggs, sometimes she lays three. This season had been a two-egg season. They both hatched. Both chicks grew and thrived. Both chicks quickly developed ideas about how they wanted things to go that weren’t precisely the same as their mother’s.

Both of them quickly developed very clear ideas about what and when they wanted to eat. Sometimes they agreed, shouting for nectar in chorus. Sometimes they disagreed, with one calling for bugs and another calling for spiders. Taking care of them required a lot of hopping.

They didn’t always get what they wanted. They did always get what the needed, even if they didn’t think so at the time.

As they approached the time to learn to fly, though, another difference appeared between them. Both of them argued with their mother. A lot. It was frequently about food, since there wasn’t much else to argue about as chicks in a nest. They also argued with their mother about how far along the branch they could go from the nest, and how many wingbeats they could take before she told them to stop, and most of all, whether they were ready for that first flight.

They both argued. But the female of the two tended to get more excited in her arguments than her brother. She’d bring in any explanation she could think of for why she should be allowed that first flight now, today, at this moment, here I go, what do you mean I’m not ready, Mom?

The male argued just as hard, but there was one thing he did that his sister didn’t. He asked questions. He asked a special kind of question. He asked how his mother would know – and how he might know – that he was ready to fly.

So his mother answered by telling him things that don’t make any sense to me, because I don’t have wings or feathers. She talked about certain feathers that had to be firmly in place. She talked about wing muscles that had to be strong enough to hold his weight. She talked about what he needed to be aware of in the sky, and she’d ask him about them as he fluttered his wings on the branch. Do you see the tree trunks there? Which way will you go to avoid them? Do you feel the wind? Which was is it blowing? Is it soft or strong?

When he could answer those questions, she told him, he’d be ready to fly.

“Do you promise?” he said.

“I promise,” she said.

A couple days later – which doesn’t seem like long but it’s a long time for a young bird – he checked his feathers. They looked good. He moved his wings back and forth, and realized he could hold himself up with them. He looked out from his branch, and named the things he saw to himself, and checked the wind, and decided how he’d go.

“I’m ready,” he told his mother.

“Are you?” she said.

He told her what I just told you, and she cocked her head to the side to think about it.

“You promised,” he said.

“I did,” she said. “So fly.”

His sister burst into protest. “Why does he get to go? Why don’t I get to go?” she called as her brother beat his wings and leapt into the air. “Why didn’t you promise me?”

“I promise you that you can fly when you’re ready,” mother said. “Are you?” And she ran through the things she’d gone over with her son, now singing merrily in a neighboring tree.

“When you can do these things,” said mother, “it will be time to fly. I promise.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and inspiration. The story as you read it does not precisely match the way I told it.

Photo of a young Hawai’i ‘amakihi by Eric Anderson.

Story: Love Achieved

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

October 4, 2026

Isaiah 5:1-7
Philippians 3:4b-14

The first thing a newly hatched baby bird does is to teach. Teach? Teach. A hatchling teaches its parents what it needs, what they’ll eat, what makes them comfortable. Even an experienced parent will learn new things from a new chick. A first time parent learns more than I can describe in a short story like this.

A parent – in this case a mother – learns a lot about parenting from their own parents, of course, and from other friends and family who know more about it. Our first time mother had eagerly sought her own mother’s advice, not just when she had eggs, but before that when she’d sought a husband.

“How will I know that I’m in love?” she’d asked her mother.

“Look for a bird who is kind, attentive, responsible, and lifts your spirits,” said her mother. “The bird will show you those things. That’s how you’ll know you’re in love.”

Mother’s advice had been pretty good. She’d found a kind, attentive, and responsible bird, and he had raised her spirits. They’d built their nest together harmoniously and they’d eagerly awaited the hatching of their three eggs.

Then they’d hatched, and the learning began.

The first thing she learned was that the three hatchlings were all very different. They sounded different. They were hungry at different times, except for when they were all hungry at the same time. One liked to cuddle near her head, another liked to be beneath her wings. And then they’d shift what they liked.

It was so confusing.

Most confusing of all was that her chicks didn’t show her the things that she’d looked for in finding a husband. None of the chicks showed much kindness to her or to each other, especially when they were hungry. None of them were really attentive. They were constantly looking off at different things. They certainly weren’t responsible, hopping out of the nest at random times before they were even close to having the ability to fly.

It was really frustrating. How was she supposed to love these little bundles of needs?

“How am I supposed to love my chicks?” she asked her mother, and launched into describing all the ways in which they weren’t like her husband, or like her friends, or like her parents or aunties or uncles.

Her mother, I’m afraid to say, laughed out loud. “Children aren’t like husbands,” she said. “You love them before they learn how to be kind, or attentive, or responsible. You love them by teaching them to be those things, and you love them when they try and fail to be those things. You love them by keeping them fed and warmed and comforted and safe. You love them by guiding them to become the kind of bird you want to be, and the kind of bird you would fall in love with.”

“This will change?” said her daughter.

“It can,” said her mother. “I won’t lie – there are ‘apapane who prefer to remain selfish and flighty and irresponsible. But it will change. You’ll be surprised at how fast it does.”

“Did I do the same thing when I was newly hatched?” asked her daughter.

“Of course you did,” said mother, “and so did I. But you grew into a bird I’m proud of and delighted to be with. Now if you could use some help with the chicks?”

“Oh, yes,” sighed her daughter. “They’re all hungry again, and I could use the help.”

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 and the story as I told it do not precisely match.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: How to Build a Nest – Or Not

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

September 27, 2026

Ezekiel 18:1-4, 25-32
Matthew 21:23-32

A lot of birds build nests of some kind. Some are very simple, just a scrape in the earth. Others don’t build a nest at all, including the oh-so-brave manu-o-ku, which simply lays an egg on a branch. Some build pretty complicated nests. The ‘amakihi makes a very complex nest, and only the expectant mother does the building. Among the ‘apapane, both mother and father work at it. Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.

An ‘apapane couple was very excited because two of their children, both males, had found wives and decided it was time to hatch some eggs and fledge some chicks. These were their first, um, grandbirds, and that makes both people and ‘apapane very happy.

What they weren’t happy about was how the preparation was getting along.

Their first son flew over with his wife and they asked, “How’s the nest building going?” The younger couple looked around in embarrassment for a bit before they confessed that they hadn’t started. “How are you going to lay any eggs if you haven’t got a nest?” demanded the hopeful Tutu.

“Go build your nest,” said the grandfather (he hoped) to be, and to his surprise the younger couple said, “No.”

“What?”

“No. We’re going to rough it, like the koa’e kea. We’re going to keep it simple. Find a hollow in the rock. That will be enough.”

The parents were appalled as they flew off. A few moments later, the other son and his wife flew by.

“Please tell me you’re getting a nest ready,” said the grandmother-to-be.

“Oh, absolutely,” said her son, and his wife agreed. “It will be ready well before time.”

“What a relief,” said grandfather-to-be as they flew off. “At least we’ll have some grandchildren raised in a proper nest.”

Strange things happen among birds – and among people, too, but these are birds. That first couple, who were going to lay their eggs in a hollow in the rock, like a koa’e kea? They checked out those holes in the cliffs, and they looked uncomfortable and they felt uncomfortable. Shortly afterward, they were flying about the forest collecting mosses, twigs, and leaves. The nest took shape high in an ohi’a tree.

The other brother and his wife started work on a nest, but they got tired and bored. They barely poked at it. When they left it for a day or two, it began to come apart. No nest took shape. And they didn’t lay any eggs that year.

The ‘apapane grandparents were disappointed, but they were also thrilled. One son and daughter-in-law had said they wouldn’t prepare, but then they did, and raised three much-loved chicks to fledglings and adults. The other couple said they would get ready, but they didn’t, and it would be some time before they had their first nest, and eggs, and children.

“If you do the things to get ready,” said the grandmother to her grandchicks, “it comes out right.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write theses stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation on Sunday morning. The story as you read it does not precisely match the way I told it.

Photo of two ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: The ‘Apapane Who Deserved More

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A brown bird with lighter belly feathers, and some red feathers starting to appear. perched on greenery with a red flower filled with nectar.

September 20, 2026

Jonah 3:10-4:11
Matthew 20:1-16

‘Apapane chicks don’t all behave the same way, just as human children don’t all behave the same way. You have loud ones and quiet ones, greedy ones and hungry-but-not-pushy ones, polite ones and brash ones.

This ‘apapane nest had an assortment. There was one who was greedy and pushy, and mom and dad had to push him out of the way quite often to feed his brother and sister. The sister was pretty pushy herself, but not quite willing to get into wrestling matches with her brothers. The last brother, though, was quiet and polite. He waited patiently for mom or dad’s attention, ate his caterpillars with every sign of appreciation, and even chirped, “Thank you.” Politely!

His parents had had a number of chicks by then, and most of them had been pretty pushy when mealtimes came along. They didn’t quite know what to do with a polite chick, but they made sure they he was fed the same as his brother or sister, despite his siblings’ best efforts to get in front all the time.

They all grew, of course, and they learned to fly. The pushy brother and sister alternated between pushing to the front and loudly squawking that it was too scary to fly. The polite brother kept his beak shut, watched his parents closely, and when it came time for that first leap into the air managed a very creditable first flight. His brother and sister protested that they would have been better if they’d gone first, but they hadn’t, so…

The days drew on, and it was time to leave the nest. Mother and Father continued to feed them from time to time, but they were finding their own food, and they were getting better and better at it. The pushier siblings did, in fact, excel in seeking out new blossoms, bugs and caterpillars. The polite one tended to follow along behind and not get in anyone’s way. He ate just as well, though.

They were out of the nest, and the rambunctious chicks were making a somewhat rambunctious life. The polite one stayed near his parents, and to their surprise, kept making occasional flutters with his wings at them. That was a sign that he’d like something to eat – but he was fully capable of finding food himself. One day Mother just had to ask.

“What’s the matter? Why are you asking us for food? Is there something wrong?”

“Not at all,” said the polite son. “I just thought it made sense.”

“You thought what made sense?” asked Mother, who didn’t know.

“I’ve tried to be a good son,” he said. “I’ve tried to be calm and polite. I’ve tried to learn things quickly and well. I’ve tried to treat you, my brother and sister, and all the birds well.”

“And I appreciate it,” said Mother, who still didn’t understand what that had to do with wanting to be fed.

“Shouldn’t there be a reward for that?” asked his fledgling son. “Like more feedings, perhaps?”

“Feedings aren’t a reward, son,” said Mother. “Your father and I love you, and we love your brother and sister, so we’ve given you what you need. And you’ve grown. You’ve learned. You’ve thrived. Nothing we’ve done was intended to reward any of you. We’ve seen to your needs.

“But now you don’t need what you’re asking for. You have our love always, and it’s bigger than you know. But you need to be your own bird, and that’s how we’ll love you today: by giving you what you need. Again. Go find your own nectar, and enjoy it.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full beforehand, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as you read it and as I told it are not identical.

Photo of a juvenile ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

About Five O’Clock

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“And about five o’clock he [the landowner] went out and found others standing around, and he said to them, ‘Why are you standing here idle all day?’ They said to him, ‘Because no one has hired us.’ He said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard.'” – Matthew 20:6-7

I know this isn’t about me. How could it be?
The tales that people talk about, they feature princes, kings,
princesses, queens, and emperors (however poorly dressed).
They do not linger on the laborers.

This story is about the one who wandered in
the marketplace five times, and each time hired
workers for the vineyard, even as the sun was headed
for the horizon.

The light upon the market stalls was tinged with gold
(the only gold I’ll see) when he came by and asked
why I was idle, as if I hadn’t sought a place all day
to work and earn some bread.

“No one has hired me,” I said, for it was true,
a truth that meant a troubled sleep with empty belly
for myself and for my daughter, wife, and son.
In idleness was my despair.

“Go work,” he said, and so I’ll go, to earn
what bread I can. It will not be enough to feed
my hunger let alone the others in our creaky home.
It is but what it is.

Tomorrow I will hope to find this vintner
or his manager much earlier, and earn
a full day’s wage, and maybe eke a living from
the hot and penetrating sun.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 20:1-16, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 20 (25).

The image is “The Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard” (central panel) by an unknown illustrator (11th cent.) – Codex Aureus Epternacensis, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10315166.

Author’s Note: A number of commitments have prevented me from writing LectionPrayers in recent weeks, and it is more than likely that some added responsibilities around the office will prevent me from doing so in some weeks to come. I intend to resume this weekly reflection when I can return those tasks to other people. In the meantime, I consider a LectionPrayer in any week to be an accomplishment. Please bear with me.

Story: The I’iwi Who Liked Spiders

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A red orange bird with a very long curved orange beak perched in a tree.

September 13, 2026

Romans 14:1-12
Matthew 18:21-35

I’iwi can be rather opinionated birds. They can also be very grumpy about their opinions. In their opinion, for example, blossoms full of nectar should be sampled by… me. That is, whatever i’iwi happens to have noticed those blooms at the time. ‘Apapane and ‘amakihi can go to another tree. Another i’iwi might be tolerated. Might. If they behave themselves. And aren’t greedy.

Most of all, though, they had to act like a proper i’iwi, and sip from the floral nectar. That’s how a proper i’iwi behaved. Most of all, they didn’t go looking for spiders.

I’iwi do eat spiders, but not very often by choice. They like the liquid diet of nectar, and they’ve got a long beak and a long tongue to drink it with. If a butterfly or moth happens by, they’ll eat it. They’ll fill in with other bugs as well. Far down the list, though, is spiders.

It’s something they’ll eat, but only if they’re really hungry.

Except for one i’iwi, who just so happened to really enjoy spiders. I don’t know why he did. He did. I’m pretty sure that if he explained it to me, I wouldn’t understand it, because I don’t like eating spiders. And I’m pretty sure that if I explained it to you, you wouldn’t understand it, since I suspect you’re not big fans of eating spiders.

If you are and I got that wrong, I apologize. You can explain it to me later.

The older i’iwi watched this younger one enthusiastically eating spiders with a certain feeling of, “Ick.” Most of them were content to let him enjoy his meals. After all, if he was eating the spiders, there was more nectar for them, wasn’t there?

One of those older i’iwi, though, got really annoyed with it all. He took it upon himself to fly over and grumble, “Knock it off, spider-lover. No more of this. Eat like a real i’iwi. Drink nectar.”

“I do,” said the i’iwi who liked spiders. “I drink plenty of nectar.”

“But you’re also eating all these spiders,” said the grumpy one. “Stop it.”

“I like spiders,” explained the younger i’iwi, which was really all that could be said, wasn’t it?

“No proper i’iwi likes spiders,” pronounced the elder. “No sensible i’iwi would make a full meal out of them. No real i’iwi prefers spiders to nectar.”

“And that’s how it is, youngster,” said that older i’iwi. “If you keep eating spiders like this, you’re not a real i’iwi, and we’ll treat you like a stranger and a nuisance.”

Word flashed around the little community of i’iwi about what had been said, and they called a very unusual little gathering to set matters straight. The older grumpy bird and the younger spider-eating bird perched before the flock.

“Do you eat spiders by choice?” they asked the younger one, who had to say, “Yes.”

“Did you tell him that eating spiders by choice meant he wouldn’t be a real i’iwi?” they asked the older one, who proudly said, “Yes.”

One of the grandmothers fluttered her wings at this, and said, “Diet does not make an i’iwi an i’iwi, or not an i’iwi. We’ve all eaten things we’d prefer not when times are lean, and we’ve all found that some of them tasted better than we’d expected. You’re just as much as i’iwi as anyone, youngster,” she said, “even if you eat things I’d rather not.”

“You, however,” she told the grumpy bird, “have taken it upon yourself and yourself alone to say what makes an i’iwi and what doesn’t. That’s something an i’iwi may do and remain an i’iwi, but they should not do it. The forest is hard enough with wind and rain and dry times. We do not need to make barriers for one another.

“You are an i’iwi. But you have not behaved like an i’iwi should. Make your apology to your cousin, and never let us hear you have done this again.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full each week, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story you just read is not precisely the way I told it.

Photo of an i’iwi by Eric Anderson.

Story: Rules for Love

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
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 / 3 Comments

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.