Author: Rev. Eric Anderson

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).

Story: Special

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

May 4, 2025

Acts 9:1-20
John 21:15-17

I was on Kauai in March at Ha’ena Beach. It’s a special place, even though the day I visited it was, let’s face it, raining. Come to think of it, it was Hilo weather. I probably should have left that at home.

While I was there I saw three birds that were very special to me, because I’d never seen them before. Two of them don’t live on our island.

While I was there, I didn’t see them talking, but perhaps, just perhaps, they had a conversation after I left. It might have gone like this:

“Who was that guy with the camera?” asked one of the koloa, a Hawaiian duck.

[There are a pair of koloa flying in the upper photo.]

“He took a lot of pictures of me,” said the male white-rumped shama, showing off his long blue-black tail.

[The male shama is posing at upper right.]

“You posed,” said his wife, whose tail was much shorter and whose feathers were gray rather than deep blue.

[The female shame is at lower right, and also posing.]

“He took all of our picture,” said the ‘alae ‘ula (Hawaiian gallinule) from the swampy ground where he had been feeding and, as far as anyone could tell, not noticing.

[The ‘alae ‘ula is at lower left.]

“He took my picture the most because I’m special,” said the male shama. “I mean, look at these feathers! Look at this tail! Wouldn’t you take my picture if you could?”

The other birds had to admit that they probably would.

“You see?” said the shama. “I’m special.”

“Yes, you’re special,” said the female shama, “but I’m special, too. You’ve got more spectacular feathers than I do, but try and lay an egg without me.” The female koloa quacked her agreement before her husband could protest.

“You’re all special,” sighed the ‘alae ‘ula. “I wish I had your feathers, shama, or your black-barred wings, koloa. I’m afraid I’m not special. He took my picture and then went away.”

The other four birds were rather uncomfortable about this, because it was true. I took the ‘alae ‘ula’s picture and went away.

“It was raining rather hard,” said the shama, who stayed beneath leaves while it happened unlike the koloa or the ‘alae ‘ula.

“It was,” said one of the koloa. “Perhaps water doesn’t roll off of him…”

“…Like water off a duck’s back?” laughed her mate.

The birds had a good laugh, and then the shama said seriously, “’Alae ‘ula, you’re very special. There are so few of your kind in the world.”

“That’s a tough way to be special,” said the ‘alae ‘ula, and it’s true. It is tough being in a small group in a big world.

“There’s only one you,” said a koloa. “That’s true of me, and all of us. There’s only one. You’re special, each and every one of you.”

The ‘alae ‘ula nodded solemn gratitude to each of the other special birds, and went back to feeding.

Like each of them, each of us – each of you – is unique in the world, precious, and special.

Even if water doesn’t necessarily roll off you like water rolls off a duck’s back.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory plus improvisation. What you have just read is not identical to the way I told it.

Photos of (clockwise from upper left) two koloa in flight, a male white-rumped shama, a female white-rumped shama, and an ‘alae ‘ula by Eric Anderson.

Certainty

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’ He asked, ‘Who are you, Lord?’ The reply came, ‘I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.'” – Acts of the Apostles 9:4-5

He knew. He knew for certain, Jesus,
that your followers were wrong,
and more than wrong, were spreading tales
that would do violence to souls.

He knew for certain, Jesus,
so he brought force to body and to soul.

He knew. He knew for certain, Jesus,
until a light his eyes could not endure
cast him from beast to ground,
his certainty undone to hear your voice.

He knew for certain, Jesus,
that he’d persecuted you.

He knew. He knew for certain, Jesus,
that he had heard your voice,
and knew your will and way:
certainty anew.

He knew for certain, Jesus,
so he proclaimed you.

May I, like he, receive a thorn in flesh
or soul to keep me from elation,
from certainty that could transform
glad proclamation to sad persecution.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 9:1-20, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Third Sunday of Easter.

The image is The Conversion on the Way to Damascus by Caravaggio (ca. 1600-1601), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15219516. This is one of my favorite paintings.

Sabbatical and Ordained Geek

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments
Sunrise behind a palm tree.

January 28, 2025

On February 1st, I begin a three month sabbatical, a time to lay down my responsibilities as Pastor of Church of the Holy Cross UCC in Hilo, and to use the time to learn, to renew, and to take on some projects that I haven’t been able to accomplish amidst the daily tasks of ministry. I described my sabbatical objectives in today’s edition of What I’m Thinking embedded above; there is a transcript available here.

What, if anything, does my sabbatical mean for Ordained Geek?

I will be posting less material here. The weekly #lectionprayers are a part of my sermon preparation process. With no sermons to write for three months, I don’t plan to compose those poem/prayers. Likewise I don’t expect to write new stories for worship during this time. Again, I prepare those for worship services I won’t be leading in February, March, and April. The stories and the poem/prayers will certainly return in May, when I resume both my preaching responsibilities and my preparation practices.

That doesn’t mean I’ll have no posts during that time. I may share a story or two that I haven’t before. There are some stories I’ve written elsewhere, or never actually written in full, that I want to consider for the collection which is one of my sabbatical objectives. I anticipate posting them here to help me review them.

I also expect to write some other reflections. I have committed myself to commenting on injustices when I see them, and I already see them. It’s possible that I may turn to poetry for those, and it’s possible that I will write additional essays. One is taking shape in my head, and I expect to post it before long.

I may also prepare some other pieces arising from my sabbatical experience. I didn’t do that when I last took a sabbatical in 2014, but in those days I worked in electronic communications. I had to set much of that aside in order to find refreshment in the time. That’s less true now, so we’ll see how that goes. Besides, I rather hope to share a few photos from my travels around the Hawaiian Islands.

It is also vaguely possible that I’ll write and share new songs during this time. It’s not a part of my sabbatical plan, but I hope that some of my refreshment may come through music. If so, I may post them here.

And finally, I will commit to a Lenten discipline of some kind. I don’t know what it will be, but the chances are good it will be visual (for me, that usually means photography). If it makes sense, you’ll probably see the results here.

You’ll see less from me these three months, but there will be new things coming during that time, and certainly once May has arrived.

Thank you for your encouragement and support!

Story: The ‘Apapane Army

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments
Two birds with bright red feathers on their heads sitting on a branch, with a third bird flying up toward them from below.

January 26, 2025

Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10
Luke 4:14-21

‘Apapane are not generally aggressive birds. They tend to be the ones that fly away from other, touchier, birds. Once in a while, though, ‘apapane will flock together and this discourages the bullies (which are mostly i’iwi, I’m sorry to say).

One year, an ‘apapane got an idea.

First, he gathered as large a flock as he could. There were dozens of birds, maybe a hundred birds. No i’iwi would threaten them, he knew.

Second, he chased away all the non-‘apapane. ‘Apapane will flock with ‘amakihi and ‘akepa sometimes, but not in this flock, no. He made sure that for every bird he chased away, he invited two or three more ‘apapane to join. The flock got bigger.

Third, he set his ultimate plan in motion. He called them into a stand of ohi’a bright with blossoms. “These are our trees, ‘apapane trees,” he told the gathered birds. “We will keep them for ourselves and only for ourselves. We will chase away the i’iwi so they never bother us again. More than that, we will chase away the ‘amakihi and the ‘akepa and the ‘alawi and anyone else who tries to steal our nectar. We will be the grandest birds in the forest.”

Sure enough, that’s what they did. They chased the other birds away from the trees they called theirs. They soaked up the sunlight, they reveled in the nectar, they crunched up the bugs.

The ohi’a forest, however, changes. The grove that is bright with blossoms today goes to seed tomorrow. The trees they had claimed for their own went from flower to seed. The ‘apapane began to get hungry.

“Do not fear!” he called. “It’s time to go get other trees.”

With that, an ‘apapane army took to the air. They flew to another stand of blossoming trees and they chased away all the other birds. Except for one. One bird remained perched in her tree, sipping from one of the bright red blossoms.

An i’iwi.

“Get out,” ordered the leader of the ‘apapane army. “These are our trees. ‘Apapane trees. You are not welcome.”

The i’iwi took another sip. “And what will you do if I don’t go?” she asked.

“We’ll mob you,” said the ‘apapane. “You’ll never have any peace.”

“But if I let you chase me from every tree with flowers, I’ll never have any peace, either,” said the i’iwi. “If I can’t have peace I might as well have nectar. And,” the i’iwi looked over the ‘apapane leader’s shoulder at the birds behind him, “I’m not sure if you’ve got a mobbing flock back there.”

One of the birds swallowed hard and hopped forward. “We’re not bullies,” he said. “It’s one thing to keep bullies away. It’s another thing to make other birds hungry.”

“Keep your place!” whistled the leader. “This is my decision! Mine alone!”

And that’s where the ‘apapane army broke up. There were birds who wouldn’t be bullies, so they flew away. There were birds that wouldn’t be servants, and they flew away. And there were birds that had had enough of army life, and they flew away.

Only three birds remained: the i’iwi, the ‘apapane leader, and the first ‘apapane who had refused to be a bully.

The ‘apapane leader asked the i’iwi, “So now you’ll bully us?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “There’s plenty of nectar in the forest. Eat your fill.” The ex-leader stared at her a moment before flying away himself.

“Would you like some nectar?” the i’iwi asked the ‘apapane who wouldn’t be a bully.

“I would. Thank you. Thank you for everything,” he said, and side by side they sipped from the bright red flowers.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory plus improvisation. What you have just read is not identical to the way I told it.

Photo of three ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

New Year’s Resolution: No Regrets

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments
The 1943 booking photos of Sophie Scholl. They show three views of a brown haired young woman: in profile, face front, and from a quartering side.

January 24, 2025

People who know me well may sigh at the title of this essay. They’d be right. Regret is a familiar presence in my life. I replay most of my disappointments in my memory quite often. I don’t “solve” them. I don’t develop theories about how I might have influenced a different outcome. I just… regret them.

Those who know me well might encourage me to shed regret, but neither they nor I expect me to do so.

I hope to prevent regret. Well, no. I hope to prevent one kind of regret.

In 1946 the Rev. Martin Niemoller addressed the Confessing Church in Frankfurt, Germany. In his speech he confessed the failures he and other church leaders had made as the Nazis consolidated their power in the 1930s. Later, his words were set poetically. This version is displayed at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, DC:

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

Niemoller’s confession is a sigh of regret for his silence.

I pledge that I shall not regret my silence.

I believe that the return of Donald Trump as President of the United States marks the end of this nation’s republican form of government. I do not believe that there will be another Presidential election, at least one in which anyone other than a single candidate can possibly emerge as victor. Frankly, I’d love to be demonstrated wrong about this, but the evidence is grave. In 2021, Mr. Trump’s words inspired thousands of people to invade the seat of the legislature as they were counting votes: the signature activity of a republic. With his first-day pardons of those criminally indicted and convicted, he has demonstrated that he will not tolerate limits upon his claims of power. Instead, he will promote those who support him with words, and also those who support him with violence.

How will this be accomplished? I do not know. I can think of more than one way, and I will not write them here. I don’t need to give anyone any ideas.

Already the President and his supporters have called for the punishment of a religious leader who dared to ask him – ask him – to act with mercy. The President himself insulted the Right Reverend Mariann Edgar Budde, Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, DC. One of his followers, a member of Congress, called for her to be “deported.” Others have decried the use of a religious setting to make “political” statements, as if Christianity had no connection to, and no obligation to call for, mercy.

Let me be clear. Christians, and Christian leaders, have an obligation to call for mercy. They have an obligation to call for justice. They have an obligation to speak for those at risk of harm. Niemoller knew it – too late. Bishop Budde knew it, and spoke the truth of the Gospel.

May she inspire me.

In the weeks I have been considering this essay (it is weeks in the writing), I had initially intended to take as a guide the example of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, another of the German Confessing Church leaders but one whose words landed him in prison. He was executed after he was implicated in the 1944 assassination plot in which a bomb injured Adolf Hitler. Earlier than most, Bonhoeffer spoke against German violence against Jews, and passed up several opportunities to leave Germany for safer posts in England and the United States.

I will not leave.

More recently, however, I have reread the story of Sophie Scholl, a twenty-one year old university student executed by the Nazi German government for “treason” in February 1943. She and other students published The White Rose, naming the government’s sins and urging resistance. Caught after only seven months, she and two others, one of them her brother Hans, were executed within days.

They spoke out, and they paid the price.

I will speak out.

To be honest, I doubt that my words will have much influence. I doubt that my words will dissuade the administration from its administration of evils. I doubt that my words will prevent the dissolution of the republic. I even doubt that my words will annoy them enough to bother to silence me.

Nevertheless, I will speak out.

No regrets.

The image is the booking photograph of Sophie Scholl, taken in 1943 by an unknown German police officer – Stadtarchiv München[1]; Quellen zur Weissen Rose, 20.2.1943[2], Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=114539963.

The Year of the Lord’s Favor

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“[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.

Story: Small Differences

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

January 19, 2025

1 Corinthians 12:1-11
John 2:1-11

The akiapla’au is a small bird. It has a unique beak, with a short lower beak, and a longer top beak that hooks down in front of the lower beak. It may look odd, but the lower beak can drill into tree bark after bugs and grubs, and the top beak hooks them to draw them out.

If that seems strange, just imagine that you had to chase the chocolate chips through a cookie, and you might think a double-purpose beak sounds pretty good.

An akiapola’au is a small bird. It isn’t any bigger than a saffron finch or a yellow-beaked cardinal. There aren’t very many of them, either, perhaps about 1,900 here on Hawai’i Island. There aren’t any anywhere else in the world.

I think they’re pretty wonderful and pretty special.

A youngish akiapola’au, however, wasn’t certain about this. I don’t know whether he knew that birds like him live only on this one island, but I’m certain he knew there weren’t a lot of them around. Think about how you know so many of the people of Hilo, and how many of them you call “auntie” or “uncle.” After a couple of years, he knew pretty much every akiapola’au there was, and he called a lot of them “auntie” or “uncle.”

“There aren’t very many of us, and we’re very small birds,” he said to himself one day. “How will we ever make a difference in the world?” He had dreams, he did. He wanted to make the world better. He wanted someone else to benefit because he lived. He wanted to love the world somehow.

“But how?” he asked himself. “I’m too small to move anything bigger than a caterpillar with this beak of mine. And if we gathered all of us together and flapped our wings as hard as we could, what could we akiapola’au do but make a light breeze that the trade winds would blow away?”

It made him sad.

“Auntie,” he asked one day, “how can I make a difference?”

“What makes you think you don’t?” she asked.

“I’m too small to move anything,” he said, “and there aren’t enough of us together to make anything different.” Sadly, he dug out another little worm, hooked it with his upper bill, and ate it.

“What did you just do?” asked his auntie.

“Nothing,” he said, startled. “Well. I ate a worm.”

“Look at that tree over there,” said his auntie. “What do you see?”

“I see a sick tree,” said the younger akiapola’au. “It’s had so many caterpillars and worms that it’s fading. It might be dying.”

“What about this tree?” asked auntie.

“This tree is doing better,” he said.

“Why?”

“It doesn’t have so many worms and bugs,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because… I’m not sure. Is it because we’ve been eating them?”

“It is. And not just us. Other birds do the same. Between us, we’re helping this tree stay healthy.”

“But that’s just one tree,” he protested.

“I feed from lots of trees, and you know you do, too,” said his auntie. “That’s still a difference.

“You and I are small in the world,” she told him, “but these trees have better, stronger lives because of us. We make a difference for them, and they make a difference for us. For that matter, they make a difference for all the creatures of this forest. Our small difference contributes to everyone’s lives. You make the world a little better every day.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory supplemented by improvisation. The story you just read will not match the way I told it.

Photo of an akiapola’au (though it’s not a good one) by Eric Anderson.

Concerned

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

“And Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, what concern is that to me and to you? My hour has not yet come.'” – John 2:4

Now if I take a bird’s eye view of the world,
or if I try to see the Universe as from
the eye of its Creator, I have to ask,
What concern are we to You?

“What are humans that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them?”

Other folk of other faiths discerned
their deities to be… not unconcerned,
but distant, focused on their own affairs,
but pleased by scent of sacrifice.

So when the hosts ran out of wine
what person would not ask, “Are we
concerned? We brought our contributions
to the feast. What more can we do now?”

How many deities would ask,
“What prayer is this? Do I make up
your deficits, the failures in your plans?
Take care of it yourselves, as you can do.”

As deity, as human being,
what else could Jesus say but this:
“This is not our concern. The things
I have to do come later and much larger.”

A mother’s love is such a funny thing.
One moment she protects her child
from senseless obligation, then the next
she thrusts them forward: “Go on, give.”

He said that they were not concerned,
but his mother thrust him forth,
and then he was concerned. They filled
the jars. They served the wondrous wine.

Was he concerned? He was, for host’s
embarrassment, but more for human souls
who languish in uncertainty and fright,
to lead them to a life beyond imagining.

“What are humans that you are mindful of them?” Still
we cannot fully clarify the poet’s ancient cry,
except to say, that Jesus is concerned, God is concerned,
the Holy Spirit is concerned:

For us.

A poem/prayer based on John 2:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday of the Epiphany.

The illustration is from JESUS MAFA. The Wedding at Cana, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48305 [retrieved January 17, 2025]. Original source: http://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr (contact page: https://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr/contact).

Story: Nene Students

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment
A photo of a nene, a wild Hawaiian goose, standing by a pond facing away.

January 15, 2025
(for a meeting of the Hawai’i Conference Committee on Ministry)

Nene School was in session. There was a new teacher that year, but he was getting help from a more experienced nene. She had been his teacher some years before. And because he was new, he had a relatively small class. Just three students.

Two of them were siblings, a brother and sister. The third was immediately interested in Food Identification part of the curriculum – Nene School basically consists of Flight and Food. The new teacher thought he’d be a good student, but mostly he was hungry. Time after time the teacher would have to rush over as the student reached out for yet another inedible item.

It kept him hopping.

He hoped that the brother and sister would be good flight students, since they’d already learned to fly together. His hopes were dashed, however, the first time they took off for basic formation flying. Honks of “You’re took close!” and “Get away from me!” resounded over the rocks and forest. He could barely be heard over them to try to coach them into position. Eventually there was a collision, and the two bruised siblings settled down to the ground to continue their recriminations.

The teacher could feel his teacher’s eyes on the back of his head, watching him as his class turned into a full-fledged disaster – that’s a disaster with feathers on. Or fluttering down from the sky because they didn’t stay on.

This went on for a week, and things didn’t get better. The hungry young nene never seemed to listen or retain what he’d been told. The siblings fought on the ground, climbing, cruising, descending, and on the ground again. The watching teacher said nothing. The young teacher got desperate.

As the class ended with more flying feathers, more angry honking, and a certain amount of vomit from an ill-considered berry, he burst out in fury: “You are the worst nene I’ve ever met! You’ll never learn! I’m sorry you were ever hatched!”

Shocked, the students flew away.

He turned to find his teacher standing right behind him. He couldn’t read the look in her eyes. “What?” he challenged.

“I’m disappointed,” she said.

“I’m disappointed in them, too,” he growled.

“I’m disappointed in you,” she said.

“What?”

“Haven’t you noticed that the siblings have been carefully listening to every word you’ve said about finding food? Haven’t you noticed that they never ask you twice about it? That they’ve learned so much in just a week?”

He hadn’t noticed.

“Haven’t you noticed that the third one sticks right by you in flight? He was awkward the first day, but he’s been right off your wingtip ever since. Haven’t you noticed?”

He hadn’t noticed.

“When they come back tomorrow, what are you going to say?” she asked, and then left him to consider.

The next morning, the three students stood anxiously before their teacher. They almost hadn’t come back. The older nene had persuaded them to come.

“I’m very sorry for what I said yesterday,” he said. “I had no business saying any of that. You’re here to learn, and I haven’t been teaching you very well.”

“Youngster,” he said to the hungry student, “I want you to keep an eye on the brother and sister here. They’ve done really well at learning what’s good to eat and what’s not. You can trust what they do.”

“And you two,” he said to the siblings, “can learn a lot from this youngster here. He’s been keeping good formation on me since the second day. Watch him. He’ll show you what to do.”

I won’t tell you that things went absolutely smoothly after that – there were still ruffled feathers and feelings, and the hungry student only gradually gave up whatever looked good at the time – but I will say that the students learned. All the students. One of whom was the teacher.

by Eric Anderson

I wrote this story as the opening devotional for a meeting of the Hawai’i Conference UCC Committee on Ministry Chairs.