Stories

Story: Worthy Birds

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A small green bird perched on a larger tree branch.

June 21, 2026

Genesis 21:8-21
Romans 6:1b-11

During the summer, some of the birds in the Hawaiian mountain forests like to gather into flocks. You’ve probably seen flocks of mynas around Hilo, and one evening I saw a big flock of cattle egrets, which was impressive, and I’ve also seen flocks of seven or eight nene flying about. Did you notice that those flocks have something in common?

They were all made up of the same kind of bird. Mynas with mynas. Cattle egrets with cattle egrets. Nene with nene.

The mountain birds do their flocks differently. They gather birds of different kinds together, so you’ll have ‘apapane (probably the biggest number), ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, i’iwi (not all of them are solitary and territorial), and even mejiro. The funny thing is that the birds in these flocks don’t entirely share the same diet. Some of them mostly eat nectar and may eat a bug or two from time to time. Others, like the ‘alawi, don’t eat nectar at all and rely on bugs and caterpillars.

So when an ‘alawi joined the flock, one young ‘apapane got huffy about it. “What use is an ‘alawi?” he asked a friend. “They’re not like us. They won’t help us find flowers in blossom.”

“They’re good at finding bugs,” said his friend. “Just watch.”

“I like nectar better than bugs,” said the first bird, and while she watched the ‘alawi hunt along a tree branch – and find some tasty caterpillars – he flew off somewhere else.

“I don’t think we should allow them in the flock,” he told someone else on another day, who ignored him.

You see, the flock was having a rough time. It had been dry on the mountains, and the trees weren’t flowering much. That meant that nectar was in short supply, but it also meant that the bugs who ate the nectar weren’t available, either. The birds didn’t know where the bugs were, and they didn’t know where the flowers were, and they were feeling the pinch.

“Look at that ‘alawi,” said the grumpy ‘apapane again. “He can’t even find the bugs I don’t want to eat.” The other ‘apapane gave him a sad look and flew off without a word.

“What use is an ‘alawi to any of the rest of us,” he asked one morning amidst a group of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, and a haughty i’iwi. “Let’s get rid of this one, I say. There will be more for us.”

“Oh, be quiet,” said the i’iwi. “We flock together to help one another. That doesn’t mean that every bird has to be helpful every day, or even every season. Heaven knows I haven’t helped anyone find any flowers this year, and neither have you, ‘apapane. Let the ‘alawi alone. He’s just living his life, the same as you.”

“When is he going to prove his worth?” demanded the ‘apapane.

“When are you going to prove yours?” replied the i’iwi.

There was silence for a moment, and then the rustle of wings. The ‘alawi, who they hadn’t noticed at the edge of the group, had taken off.

“For pity’s sake, you’ve offended him,” said the i’iwi, and flew off after him. The other birds followed, including the arrogant ‘apapane, who really hadn’t intended the ‘alawi to hear him.

To everyone’s surprise, the ‘alawi led them, straight as an arrow, to a grove of ohi’a trees in full blossom. Plenty of the nectar-feeding insects were there, too. They sent a couple birds back to fetch the rest of the flock, and then settled in for the best breakfast they’d had in days.

The ‘apapane hopped over to the ‘alawi and said, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

The ‘alawi turned him a bright eye and said, “I didn’t hear anything. I just realized I could smell flowers on the air.”

He hopped over to a neighboring branch and plucked away a tasty spider. “But don’t worry,” he told the ‘apapane. “You’ll show your worth someday, too. Not that you have to, of course.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

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

Photo of an ‘alawi (Hawai’i Creeper) by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Merciful Myna

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

June 14, 2026

Exodus 19:2-8a
Matthew 9:35-10:8

This may sound a little bit odd to you – it sounds a little bit odd to me – but one of the mynas that lives near our church decided to listen to the sermon. Without falling asleep, which is a nice trick. And as you know, I’ve been talking about God’s mercy recently.

This myna woke up one morning and decided, “I’m going to be merciful today.”

The problem was, how could a myna be merciful? He thought about it while he had breakfast, and he couldn’t think of a thing. Mercy would be something like rescuing stranded sailors from a disabled ship. He couldn’t do that. Mercy would be something like healing a bird with a broken wing. He didn’t know how to do that, and there was also the fact that none of the birds around him had a broken wing. He was smart enough to abandon the notion that he could break their wing and then fix it.

“That wouldn’t be merciful,” he said to himself, and he was right.

While he was thinking, one of the other mynas jostled him and he hopped back and said, “Pardon me.” The other myna said nothing, just kept pecking at the ground.

A few minutes later that same myna bumped into another couple mynas and a screeching argument began. Our myna stopped thinking about being merciful and hopped over to calm them down. The bumping myna wanted to yell some more, but was persuaded not to. The bumped mynas wanted to whack him with their wings, but some gentle tones calmed them down.

“How am I going to be merciful?” he wondered.

A little later, he noticed a house finch hopping nervously about at some distance from the myna flocks. She looked hungry, but the ground she was on had already been picked over by hungry mynas. “Hop over here,” he suggested, and she gratefully did, and began to enjoy her breakfast.

“How am I going to be merciful?” he wondered.

A cat wandered along to the edge of the grass, and the mynas, finches, and sparrows didn’t notice until he spotted it and screeched, “Into the air, everyone! There’s a cat!”

They all took to their wings and settled again in branches and on roofs as the cat pretended to just be going from here to there, thank you, and walked away. Some of the other mynas wanted to peck and annoy the cat, but our wanting-to-be-merciful myna persuaded them not to.

The whole day went like that. He tried to think of ways to be merciful, and he didn’t think of a single one.

As the sun was setting he found an auntie and poured out the whole story to her. “You want to be merciful,” she said. “Don’t you think you were merciful when that bird bumped you and you didn’t get into a fight? Don’t you think you were merciful when you calmed the other birds down? Don’t you think you were merciful when you invited that finch to feed, or when you warned everyone about the cat?

“Mercy can be big and grand, nephew. Mostly, though, it’s small things that matter a lot. You won’t always get thanks for it; some may not even notice. But it’s mercy all the same.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full in advance, but I tell them from memory and inspiration, so the story you read does not precisely match the way I told it.

Photo of a common myna by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Sorry I’iwi

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 7, 2026

Hosea 5:15-6:6
Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

Last week an oma’o had to learn that he couldn’t judge an entire species of bird because of the bad behavior of some of them. Specifically, he had to abandon his idea that all i’iwi are evil.

It’s a pity that this week’s story is about an i’iwi that, well, had the bad habit of behaving badly. This was one of the i’iwi that would have given that oma’o some support for his mistaken belief.

In the defense of this i’iwi, he knew he was over the top. Mind you, he firmly believed that the right way to be an i’iwi, and not just an i’iwi but a honeycreeper, and not just a honeycreeper but a bird, was to protect the things he thought were his from anyone and everyone. What did he think was his? Well, any ohi’a tree in blossom. Any mamane tree in blossom. Any koa tree in blossom. Actually any blossom that might have nectar.

The photo up there isn’t a great one, but it’s two i’iwi, and one of them is trying to frighten the other one away – successfully, I might add.

This i’iwi was quite good at frightening other birds away. ‘Apapane? Fly away! ‘Amakihi? Get going! Oma’o? Take off!

As for other i’iwi? Well, there’s a reason I chose that photo. He’d chase them away, too.

If all that sounds pretty evil, well, there is something I haven’t mentioned yet. He had the bad habit of bullying other birds. He had the good habit of apologizing. He realized, a little deeper in his heart, that they weren’t his blossoms, they were the flowers of the tree and offered for everyone. After he’d chase a bird away, especially an i’iwi, he’d perch on “his” tree and call out, “I’m sorry! I overreacted there! Do you forgive me?”

He’d keep calling that until the other bird, especially if it was an i’iwi, said, “Yes, I forgive you.”

But if that bird or any other bird returned to “his” tree, he’d chase them again.

Fortunately he had the good sense not to chase his i’iwi grandmother, so when she settled down next to him one day he simply greeted her and didn’t flutter his wings at her.

“Grandson,” she said, “you’ve got to stop apologizing when you don’t mean it.”

“What do you mean, Tutu?” he asked. “Of course I mean it.”

“If you apologized and meant it,” said Tutu, “you wouldn’t chase the bird away the next time. Or any other bird. An apology doesn’t mean anything if you keep doing the thing you’re apologizing for.”

“Are you saying I should stop saying I’m sorry?” asked her grandson.

“I’m saying you should stop doing the things you apologize for,” said his grandmother. “You being sorry doesn’t do anybody any good. The other birds feel bad for being chased. You feel bad for doing something you’re sorry for. So change the thing that makes you both feel bad.

“You already know that you don’t need to chase everyone away. Work on that. Make everyone see that you’ve apologized by not repeating the thing you’ve said you’re sorry for.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

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

Photo of two i’iwi by Eric Anderson.

Story: Those Birds

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

May 31, 2026

Genesis 1:1-2:4a
2 Corinthians 13:11-13

A lot of the honeycreepers in the mountain forests have brightly colored feathers. I think I’ve mentioned that before. The ‘apapane and the i’iwi are bright red and black. The ‘amakihi and the ‘akiapola’au are bright yellow. The ‘elepaio has these fascinating speckles in its feathers, even if they aren’t all that vibrant.

And then there’s the oma’o. The oma’o is basically gray. Gray head. Gray wings. Gray belly. Some brown in the back, but basically gray.

This oma’o felt perfectly fine about that. He didn’t see the need to show off his feathers. He was content to sing out with a good song when he felt like it, and to eat the berries and bugs he found. All in all, he felt pretty good about the world.

Except for the i’iwi.

He couldn’t help but notice that some of the i’iwi in the forest had some bad habits. They didn’t like other birds nearby when they were feeding. They didn’t like other birds nearby when they were singing. They didn’t like other birds nearby most of the time. If an ‘apapane settled nearby, they’d chase her away. If an ‘amakihi perched in a neighboring tree, they’d chase him away. Sometimes it felt like the most common sound in the forest was the wingbeats of an i’iwi chasing another forest bird.

Some i’iwi live alongside other birds without feeling the need to chase them away from flowers in blossom, but the oma’o didn’t actually notice that. It’s the noisy ones that get attention in the forest just as it is among people. The oma’o’s eye passed right over inoffensive i’iwi as their aggressive cousins chased ‘apapane and ‘amakihi away.

“I’iwi are evil,” the oma’o announced one day after one had bullied three ‘apapane, an ‘amakihi, and a confused ‘alawi (who doesn’t even eat the same food as and i’iwi) out of the neighboring stand of ohi’a trees. “Something should be done.”

“Like what?” asked his sister, who was perched nearby.

“I don’t know,” said the oma’o, “but look at what’s happening. What kind of world is that for ‘apapane and ‘amakihi to live in?”

The sister said nothing then, but she did some thinking. Could an entire kind of bird be evil? Could a combination of feathers and beak and diet and song make you automatically harm others?

She perched near her brother a couple days later and asked, “How are you different from the i’iwi?”

“That’s simple,” he said. “I’m not evil.”

“Okay,” she said, “but you’re alike in a lot of other ways. You’ve got feathers, and you fly. You’ve got a beak and feet that can wrap around a branch.”

“They’re nothing alike,” he protested. “My beak is straight and short; the i’iwi has one that is long and curved. I’ve got gray feathers; they’ve got red and black. I eat berries, they eat nectar. Most of all, I don’t chase other birds.”

“Do you think their red feathers make them chase other birds?” she asked. “The ‘apapane doesn’t. Or their curved beak? The ‘akiapola’au doesn’t. Or their diet of nectar? The ‘amakihi doesn’t.”

She looked him in the eye. “Isn’t it true that you don’t chase birds because you choose to? Isn’t it true that some i’iwi choose to, and some don’t? Isn’t it true that you and I have more in common with an i’iwi than we do with a nene, who doesn’t bother much of anyone at all?”

He had nothing to say.

“We’re all birds of the forest up here,” his sister told him. “We choose good and bad. I’iwi aren’t just evil. They’re our cousins, too, sometimes for better, and sometimes for worse. We can only encourage everyone to be better to one another.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

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

Photo of an oma’o by Eric Anderson.

Story: Whatever It Was

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 24, 2026

Acts 2:1-21
John 20:19-23

I don’t know what it was that he found in the tree. Maybe it was a collection of seeds. Maybe it was some burrowing insects. Maybe it was material for a nest. Whatever it was, he was the only house finch to know about it, and as far as he knew (or I know) the only bird in the neighborhood to know anything about it.

“Wow!” he said to himself, but not very loudly. He had already decided what to do with it all, you see (whatever it was). He had decided to keep it to himself.

“I’ll be really happy with all this,” he told himself, and he didn’t tell anybody else.

Having decided this treasure (whatever it was) was his, he settled into a nearby branch to protect it. He made sure he had a good lookout on the whereabouts of other birds, but he also made sure that he wasn’t too obvious. If other birds noticed that he wasn’t going much of anywhere, they might get curious. Not to mention if a cat noticed him staying still, the cat would get interested for different and more dangerous reasons.

So he perched on his branch, ducking down from time to time to avoid notice, and guarding his treasure. He only snuck away briefly to get water and eat. If you’re thinking, “Ah, ha! His treasure wasn’t food!” all I can say is, what if he wanted to avoid birds noticing that he didn’t have to go anywhere else to eat?

He kept guarding whatever it was.

One of his sisters finally noticed that she wasn’t seeing him in the usual places. She got worried, of course. When a brother goes missing, sisters get worried. She looked about for some time before she finally spotted him just before he ducked his head down out of sight again.

“What are you up to?” she asked him.

“Nothing,” he lied.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “Have you been in this same spot all day? Why would you do that?”

“It’s a fine spot,” he said. “You should find one of your own.”

“What are you up to?” she said, and flew a little closer. Then she saw it.

Whatever it was.

She was impressed. “I can’t believe you found all that,” she sighed.

“It’s mine,” he told her. That surprised her. She didn’t think of him as that kind of bird.

“All right, it’s yours,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?”

Now, for the first time, he thought about it. His day in one spot in the tree hadn’t been all that great. He’d never really eaten or drunk quite enough, so he was uncomfortable. He was worried about cats. He hadn’t spoken to any of his friends or family until his sister came along. He hadn’t even seen when the finch races had taken place a short distance away.

“Keep it,” he said, but he didn’t put much heart in it.

“You can, I suppose,” she said, “but it seems lonely and uncomfortable to me. Wouldn’t things go better if you shared it?”

He thought some more. Then he nodded.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll stay here a bit longer to protect it, while you fly around and tell everyone about it. Then we can all share in it.”

And that’s what they did. They all shared it.

Whatever it was.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full in advance, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation). The story as I’ve written it is not the same as the way I told it.

Photo of two house finches by Eric Anderson. I don’t actually know that one of them is guarding anything at all.

Story: Bully’s Progress

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

May 17, 2026

1 Peter 4:12-14, 5:6-11
John 17:1-11

He was a year or so old, and he wore the red and black of an adult ‘apapane. He still thought of himself as young and growing and learning, and truly he was all of those things.

He was also the target of a bully in his generation and his neighborhood, and that wasn’t such a good thing.

There are, I’m afraid, bullies among the ‘apapane sometimes, as there are among the i’iwi and the ‘amakihi and, as I’m sure you know, among human beings. Like other bullies, this ‘apapane bully didn’t have much if any real reason to dislike our young and learning ‘apapane. He’d just taken it into his head that this was a good bird to pick on, and pick on him he did.

The bully would squawk at him when he saw him, and he’d call him names which I’m not going to repeat, because I don’t want you to go up to the mountain forests and start bullying ‘apapane. Sometimes the bully would dive at him while flying, and sometimes he’d dive at him when he was quietly perched in a tree. Worst of all, if the bully found him feeding on an ohi’a lehua, he’d land next to him and startle him away from his meal.

That’s pretty much what you’re seeing in the photo, isn’t it?

Our young and learning ‘apapane didn’t really know what to do about it. Not all, but all too many of the other birds in his flock and neighborhood seemed to egg the bully on. When he squawked, they’d stay silent. When he called him names, they’d laugh. When he swooped, they’d giggle. And when he drove him away from a meal, the most they’d do was cluck softly. The thing they simply wouldn’t do was help.

“What am I to do?” he asked his auntie one day. “Nothing stops this bully. Not soft chirps, and not loud protests. He’s pecked me more than once, and I’ve never pecked back, and if I even show signs of it he pecks harder. Nobody helps. Why? And what can I do?”

Auntie said, “I’ve seen more than a few bullies in the flocks, and there’s always someone they pick on worse than anyone else. It’s always bad and it’s always wrong. I’m really sorry it’s you.

“The other birds, I’m sorry to say, are afraid of the bully. They know that if it’s not you, it’s going to be somebody else, and that somebody will be one of them. It’s not very caring and it’s not very brave, but it’s what a lot of birds do.”

“So what do I do?” asked her nephew.

“You continue to be a kind, sensible, and caring bird,” said Auntie. “You help your flock to find food and sing songs and keep away from predators – even the bully. It takes time, and sometimes a long time, but the flock usually realizes that they are a flock, and a bully is just a bully, and when they realize that, the bully loses his hold on everyone, including you.”

“So I just wait?” asked our young and learning bird.

“You wait, and you show the rest of the flock what a good ‘apapane is,” said Auntie. “One of these days they’ll choose you.”

It took longer than it should have, but Auntie was right. The bully lost his power in the flock, and they stopped giggling and they stopped allowing him to pick on the other birds.

Among people, bullies can seem awfully strong, and they can be. Most of the time, communities figure it out and act to end the bullying, but it can take much longer than anyone thinks it should. We are also held in the heart and mind of God, who tolerates no bullying at all. So summon all your courage and summon all your heart, and remember that God wants you to be the best person you can be, and not to be like those who bully you.

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 completely match the story as I told it.

Photo of two ‘apapane by Eric Anderson. In fairness, there’s no reason to believe either one is a bully.

Story: One Might Know

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 10, 2026

Acts 17:22-31
John 14:15-21

This story didn’t take place on our island, because although one of the birds in it lives on Hawai’i, the other doesn’t. I took this picture on Kauai, though both birds also live on O’ahu.

The one on the left, swimming in the water, with its red beak and red on its forehead, is an ala’e ‘ula, or Hawaiian gallinule. The one on the right, standing on long thin pink legs with white and black feathers and a very long straight black beak, is an ae’o, or Hawaiian black-necked stilt.

Both of them like to search for food in roughly the same kinds of places: relatively still and shallow water, like old fish ponds or coastal marshes. They don’t eat the same food, however. The ala’e ‘ula likes plant roots and seeds and shoots, and enjoys a snail or two. The ae’o mostly looks for fish, but will snap up water insects when it finds one.

Actually, the ala’e ‘ula will eat those insects, too, but neither of them is so fond of a diet of bugs to get very upset about it.

On this day the ae’o was getting somewhat upset, but not about bugs. It was fish. He couldn’t find many. Oh, one or two swam his direction, but where were the rest of them? He was getting hungry, and he was also getting irritated with the world. Being hungry does that to some people, and to some birds as well.

“Where are the fish?” he squawked in frustration.

“You can’t find fish?” asked an ala’e ‘ula a short way away.

“No, I can’t, and is that any of your business?” he said rudely.

“No, I suppose not,” said the ala’e ‘ula, who’d been feeding quite happily on roots and shoots and therefore wasn’t hangry with the world. “Would you like me to tell you if I find some fish?”

“You do what you want to do,” said the ae’o irritably, and as the ala’e ‘ula swam off to another section of the fishpond, grumbled to himself, “It’s not as if you’ll be of any help.”

It wasn’t very long, though, before the ala’e ‘ula swam back toward the hungry, grumpy ae’o. “Say, friend,” he said. “Take a look over there. There’s a good sized school of fish milling around eating flies.”

“How would you know?” demanded the ae’o, who couldn’t make out the flies on the water from where he stood.

The ala’e ‘ula shrugged. “One might know if one looks under water,” he said. “I was pulling up a root and there they were, all around. When I got my head out of the water I saw the flies swimming on the surface.

“I suppose you could make a meal of the flies if you have to,” he said thoughtfully, “but I imagine you like the fish better.”

“One might know,” muttered the ae’o as he stepped over to where the ala’e ‘ula had been, “but one probably doesn’t. More fool I.”

Then he saw the milling flies, and he saw the ripples where the fish had risen to the surface. He saw the water swirl as they swam beneath. In a moment he was there, and dipping his beak, and catching his fish, and feeling better than he had all day.

“I guess one might know at that,” he said when the ala’e ‘ula found him again shortly after.

“One might know,” said the ala’e ‘ula.

“Even better,” said the ae’o, “one might share what one knows. And the world gets a little bit better than it was.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them in worship from memory and improvisation. The story as written and the story as told are not identical.

Photo of an ala’e ‘ula (Hawaiian gallinule) and an ae’o (Hawaiian black-necked stilt) by Eric Anderson.

Story: Courage

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment
A bird with black feathers and a white bill, with a white forehead shield, swimming in gray water with droplets visible on its back.

May 3, 2026

Acts 7:55-60
John 14:1-14

The ala’e keokeo – also known as the Hawaiian Coot, and I guess it is pretty cute – lives along the shorelines, particularly enjoying the old fishponds built by the Hawaiians because the edges are rich in the water plants they like to eat. “Ala’e” means forehead, and “keokeo” means white – so the Hawaiians certainly called it by its appearance.

One young ala’e keokeo liked a lot about his life. He liked the sun, and he even liked the rain when it fell. He had brothers and sisters and parents and aunties and uncles in plenty, and even when they were teasing one another he liked them. He liked swimming in the fishpond, even if he didn’t have webbed feet like a duck. He liked the foods he ate: seeds, stems, and roots for the most part. There was only one problem.

He was afraid of the water.

Does it seem odd that he liked swimming but was afraid of the water? Well, it did to me, too. What he was afraid of was putting his head in the water. Plenty of people don’t like that, either. They’ll step into the water up to the shoulders, but put their head in? No.

That was his feeling about it. Put his head in the water? Absolutely not.

To be truthful, he could get along with his head firmly above water. The plant seeds he ate waved over the water, so that was OK. He could pull on stems from above, too. The only time it became a problem was with roots, and wouldn’t you know it?

One of his favorite foods was the root of a pond grass that he absolutely could not pull up from overhead. He tried and tried, and he could not do it.

He resigned himself to a life without his favorite root, but it turned out he didn’t have to. It turned out that when it came time to find someone to build a nest and hatch chicks with, she was a generous and compassionate bird. She didn’t tease him about not diving, the way his cousins did. Instead, from time to time she dove down and brought one or two up, and gave them to him.

He loved her for it.

When she laid their eggs, she stayed with the nest continuously for the first couple days – it would take them a while to learn that he could keep them warm, too. She got hungry, and he went back and forth from the grasses to the nest bringing her seeds and shoots.

As he set out for another foraging trip, he overheard her sigh, “I’m so hungry for a root or two.” She didn’t mean him to hear her, and he didn’t let on that he’d heard. That trip, though, he made sure to find some of those plants as he plucked seeds and shoots.

The next trip, he returned to that same spot. He looked at the water. It was fairly clear. He could see the bottom of the pond and knew just where the root would be. He closed his eyes and held a memory of his wife in his mind – then he dove into the pond.

He wasn’t good at it, because diving takes practice, but he did it, and he did it again until he gripped a root in his beak. He brought it back to the nest, where his wife gasped to see it.

“Here you are,” he said. “I knew you’d want one.”

“Thank you so much,” she told him. “This was so good of you.”

“I wanted to do it for you,” he said. And then he went back to do it again.

Sometimes courage comes from what we need, and sometimes it comes from wanting to do something for someone we love. Love can help us move through the fear and help us do amazing things for one another and for God.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation). The story as I wrote it and the story as I told it are not identical.

Photo of an ala’e keokeo by Eric Anderson.

Story: Good Advice

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
An 'elepaio: a small bird with mottled brown and cream feathers perched on a branch.

April 26, 2026

Acts 2:42-47
John 10:1-10

What do you need to know if you’re an ‘elepaio? It helps that most of the ‘elepaio are very curious, so they tend to ask themselves the questions and then find out the answers. Is it sunny on that side of the tree? Are there bugs to be had in that stand of koa over there? Can I catch a bug in mid-flight?

One young ‘elepaio was having some difficulty answering his questions, though. He was a bit overwhelmed with options. There were so many bugs flying around him, and how was he to know which ones were OK to eat, which ones were OK to eat but tasted bad, and which ones tasted the best? The world swirled with possibilities as the insects danced around him in the air and on the branches and on the leaves.

“What should I eat?” he chirped aloud, and a somewhat devious ‘amakihi heard him.

I think I’ve told you that most birds are basically truthful. Telling lies often means that you deceive yourself as much as anyone else, and a bird can’t live on lies in the mountain forests. This ‘amakihi, however, thought he might amuse himself (in a cruel way) with this young ‘elepaio and keep some of the tastiest insects for himself at the same time.

“Don’t you know, young one?” he called in his friendliest voice.

“Not really. There’s so many choices,” said the ‘elepaio.

“Let me sample them for you,” said the ‘amakihi. “That will help, won’t it?”

Honestly, the ‘elepaio thought that suggesting which ones to try would be more help, but before he could say so, the ‘amakihi had plucked a big spider off a tree branch.

“Oh, this isn’t very good,” he said, as he polished it off and laughed to himself because it was, in fact, delicious. “Stay away from these.”

“Okay,” said the ‘elepaio as the ‘amakihi plucked at another bug.

“Try one of these,” said the ‘amakihi. “They’re very good.” Which they weren’t, in truth, and small besides.

“Okay,” said the ‘elepaio, and he didn’t really think the bug tasted as good as other bugs, but maybe he hadn’t developed an appreciation for fine bug dining yet.

This went on for an afternoon, as the ‘amakihi enjoyed tasty bugs and recommended the sour bugs to the ‘elepaio. Eventually the ‘amakihi flew off with a cheery, “I’ll help you some more tomorrow!” and the ‘elepaio went to find his family.

“Grandmother, when will I learn to like the tasty bugs?” he asked her when he found her?

“The what?” she asked, and he explained the helpful ‘amakihi whose suggestions hadn’t tasted all that good to him.

“Oh, grandson,” she sighed. “I wish you’d come to me or another of our family with that question. The ones who know and love you are the ones who’ll give you the best advice. We care about you. We’ll do the best we can. We don’t know everything, and sometimes we’re wrong about things, but we’ll tell you the truth as we know it.

“I’m afraid this ‘amakihi told you a lot of things that aren’t true. And you’ve had a sour afternoon because of it. Here. Try this,” she said, and she plucked one of those spiders off a branch, and sure enough, it was delicious in his beak.

“Two things, grandson,” she told him. “The ones who know and love you will give you the best advice they can. More than that, remember: you’re an ‘elepaio. When you don’t know, try it for yourself. That’s what we do. We look at the world, we ask questions about it, and then we try to learn what’s true.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them during worship from memory (plus improvisation). The story as I wrote it does not match the story as I told it.

Photo of an immature ‘elepaio by Eric Anderson.

Story: Seeing Further

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

April 19, 2026

Acts 2:14a, 36-41
Luke 24:17-35

The ‘apapane was young. He didn’t have his red and black feathers yet. That was OK. He knew they’d come. He was content even with the somewhat odd look of red patches on his mostly white chest. He’d be wearing red and black soon.

It was also OK that he’d learned to fly and fly pretty well. There had been some awkward moments in the learning, even one or two painful moments when he’d misjudged a landing, but all in all, he was content with his feet and his tail and his wings.

What he wasn’t happy about was the local ohi’a trees.

He wasn’t very old after all, and he’d never seen the cycle of the ohi’a trees before. As far as he knew, ohi’a trees wore their red flowers all the time. That was his experience. But now whole groves in the forest had no flowers, and he thought that was awfully careless of them.

“Where will I find flowers?” he wanted to know.

He followed the flock to find them, of course, and each day they found plenty to eat, whether it was ohi’a nectar or bugs and caterpillars in the trees. But why weren’t all the trees in flower? That was how he remembered it. Wasn’t that how it should always be?

“Why aren’t the trees in bloom?” he asked aloud one day, and his grandfather overheard him.

“They can’t always be in bloom,” said grandfather, who had seen a few seasons and knew that flowers come and go.

“Why not?” demanded the grandson, who couldn’t think of any reasons why the world shouldn’t run the way he wanted it to run.

“Because otherwise we don’t get new trees,” said grandfather.

The grandson thought this sounded ridiculous and said so, but he followed his grandfather as they flew over to an ohi’a tree that was definitely bare of blossoms. They landed near the end of a branch, where there was a cluster of short brownish stalks. The grandson recognized that they had formed from a cluster of flowers.

“The flowers have died,” he said. “So what?”

“Look closer,” said grandfather, and he did.

One or two of the brown stalks had opened, revealing tiny flecks. “Those are ohi’a seeds,” said grandfather.

“They’re tiny,” said the grandson.

“They are,” agreed grandfather, “but if one roots in the right place, it can become a great tall tree. In another place, it becomes a shorter tree. Both of them will blossom many times. And both of their blossoms will fade and become these seed pods. Then the seeds blow away on the wind and new trees rise up.

“You can’t just look at what’s in front of you, grandson. You also have to look ahead to what might be, can be, or will be. Today’s flowers fade so that tomorrow’s flowers will bloom. Today’s seeds fly so that tomorrow’s trees can grow.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

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

Photo of a juvenile ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.