Stories

Story: Soar Loser

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

May 19, 2024

Acts 2:1-21
John 15:26-27, 16:4b-15

The koa’e kea is a distinctive bird, with its bright white wings and body set off with deep black feathers, and that amazing long trailing tail. It’s distinctive, but it’s not unique to Hawai’i Island or to the Hawaiian Islands. You’ll find white-tailed tropicbirds (to use their English name) flying above and feeding in the warm waters of both the Pacific Ocean, the Indian Ocean, and even the Atlantic Ocean. Although they fish for food in the sea, some of them like to nest on the cliffs of Kilauea. Quite a few of them like to relax by soaring on thermals. That’s the warm air that rises from the black rock of the volcano summit.

One day a visitor to the islands who was knowledgeable about birds was standing at the crater rim and saw the koa’e kea soaring on the thermals. “Look at that,” he said to someone standing nearby. “Those are white-tailed tropicbirds, and they’re quite a ways inland. How odd for a seabird.”

“And it’s even stranger,” said his equally knowledgeable companion. “They’re soaring. White-tailed tropicbirds don’t soar.”

“It’s very odd indeed,” agreed that man and that woman, and they went on to talk about something else.

I’m sure such conversations happen often at those overlooks, but I suspect that more often nobody comments on these things at all. And it is true that koa’e kea don’t soar very much in other places in the world. They’re strong, agile fliers, to be sure, but most white-tailed tropicbirds don’t live where there are steady, reliable rising thermals.

So this wouldn’t have mattered if a koa’e kea hadn’t overheard, and become very concerned, that by soaring on thermals she was doing The Wrong Thing.

So she stopped.

Oh, she’d still fly around the summit craters, and she wasn’t so silly as to leave her nice spot on the cliffside. But when she flew she beat her wings quickly and steadily, the way she flew in all the other places she went.

Since she’d stopped soaring, I guess you’d have to call her a soar loser.

And nobody noticed.

I suppose it wasn’t that big of a difference to spot, but her family didn’t, her husband didn’t, her friends didn’t. Maybe they thought she had somewhere urgent to go. I don’t know.

It was a really young koa’e kea, one who’d been flying for less than a month, who said something.

“Why don’t you soar?” she asked one warm afternoon after they’d returned from successful fishing in the ocean.

“White-tailed tropicbirds don’t,” she said in reply, beating her wings in steady time.

They flew side-by-side over the summit for a while, and the younger one looked at other koa’e kea soaring nearby.

“It looks to me like they soar,” she said.

“They don’t soar in other places in the world,” said the older one, maintaining her wingbeats. “I heard some people discussing it, and people would know.”

“OK,” said the youngster. “But those birds are there. We’re here. I think we can do things differently here.”

The older one said nothing. She just flew along. Until, in a minute or two, her wingbeats stopped, and she held them out straight and firm.

Side by side, the young bird and the older bird soared.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, in full. In worship I tell them from memory, with a little improvisation added. So what you read here and what you see in the video will not be the same thing.

Photo of a koa’e kea (white-tailed tropicbird) soaring over one of the Kilauea craters by Eric Anderson.

Story: Attempt to Deceive

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

May 12, 2024

Acts 1:15-17, 21-26
John 17:6-19

As I’ve said before, the ‘amakihi likes to eat lots of different things. I think it’s fair to say that the ‘amakihi likes to eat, and fortunately for the ‘amakihi, it has a wide range to its taste. Nectar is always good, and so are bugs and spiders, caterpillars, tree sap, fruits and berries. It will even eat pollen sometimes, which people with pollen allergies will find truly mysterious and a little uncomfortable.

But there was one ‘amakihi who didn’t eat nectar from ohi’a trees.

If that seems weird to you, it seems weird to me, too. There are a lot of ohi’a trees on the mountain slopes, and they have a lot of flowers. It’s a great food source for ‘amakihi and ‘apapane and ‘akepa and lots of birds up there. They’d happily perch near those flower clusters and merrily feed on the nectar while this one ‘amakihi watched.

He watched, and he felt sorry for them.

“Poor birds,” he told himself, “to be so desperately hungry that they’ll feed on ohi’a. I feel really sorry for them.”

Why, you ask, did he feel sorry for them, eating ohi’a nectar? Well, I’m afraid it’s because one day when he was young, and before he’d actually sampled any ohi’a nectar, he perched near an i’iwi. I’iwi can be kind of mean sometimes, and they will chase ‘amakihi away from a tree they want to feed at. This i’iwi, however, was feeling rather full and didn’t want to get up off his perch and chase this young ‘amakihi away. He decided to try words instead.

“Planning to feed at this tree?” he asked the young ‘amakihi.

“Oh, yes, uncle,” said the ‘amakihi. I’m afraid the i’iwi wasn’t happy to be called “uncle” by an ‘amakihi.

“You should search somewhere else if you want something good,” said the i’iwi. “This is a bad tree.”

“Ohi’a is bad?” said the young ‘amakihi.

“I’m afraid so,” said the i’iwi. “The nectar is sour, except when it’s bitter. When it gets old, it’s really bad. It will keep a bird going, of course, but nobody eats ohi’a nectar until they’re desperate.”

“Really?” said the ‘amakihi.

“Really,” said the i’iwi. “You can trust me. Go find something else you’ll like better. I’m sure it will be better for you, too.”

Misled by the i’iwi, the ‘amakihi avoided ohi’a from that day on. Eventually his mother noticed, and he told her the story.

“So one i’iwi told you this story, and you never checked it with anyone else, or tried ohi’a yourself?” she asked him in surprise, “even when so many other birds eat its nectar every day without signs of complaint?” Put that way, it did sound a little odd.

“Come along, son,” said Mother firmly. “You need to try what you’ve been avoiding, and see what you think yourself.”

Of course he found it delicious, which was a good thing to learn. But he also learned that some birds, and some people out there, will lie to you when it serves them, and sometimes you need to test their stories with the ones who love you and with your own experience, to learn the truth.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them from memory – well, lack of memory plus improvisation. The video does not match the text you’ve just read.

Photo of an ‘amakihi in the midst of ohi’a blossoms by Eric Anderson.

Story: Fed Up

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

May 5, 2024

Acts 10:44-48
John 15:9-17

The noio (the English name is “black noddy,” but I like the Hawaiian “noio” better than “noddy”) – the noio was fed up. By which I mean that she was wet, and cold, and hungry. She circled over the ocean croaking unhappily as she looked for small fish and squid. She saw some. She swooped along, dipped her bill, then splashed into the water, and…

Missed.

For the eighth time.

Her mother was circling nearby as she lifted herself back into the air with her cold, wet, wings.

“That looked really good,” mother said. “You might try coming in behind the fish, so it’s less likely to dodge.”

That’s when she yelled at her mother.

She yelled about being wet. She yelled about being cold. She yelled most of all about being hungry. She yelled about being taught to do something that was plainly impossible. She yelled about being the most ignored daughter in her generation. She yelled that her mother didn’t love her. At all.

Then she flew back to the nest, because really, where else could she go?

She plopped herself down on the nest hard enough to make her feet uncomfortable. Her mother hadn’t flown back with her. She sat in the nest and cried with all the frustration of being young, and trying to do something that’s not easy, and failing, and being wet, and cold, and uncomfortable, and not being sure her mother loved her.

She was shivering and her eyes were closed when the nest rocked with someone landing in it. Whoever it was drew close and put their wings over her. Gradually her feathers dried and she started to feel warm. She was still hungry, though, when she opened her eyes to look at her mother.

But it wasn’t her mother. It was her father.

“Where’s mother?” she asked. “I thought she’d come here.”

“She had something to take care of,” said father.

“Did you hear what I said?” asked the daughter.

“Everybody heard what you said,” said father.

“Did I drive mother away?” asked the daughter.

“I don’t think so, but we’ll see,” said her father. She closed her eyes.

A little while later, the nest rocked again as another bird landed. Father’s wings lifted away from his daughter, and she opened her eyes again to see her mother.

“Why didn’t you come right back?” she asked her mother.

“Because it took some time to get you this. Those were sneaky fish you were trying to catch, daughter.” And mother served up some food, and daughter ate, and so she was fed, rather than fed up.

“I guess I’ll try again tomorrow,” said the daughter.

“Maybe they’ll be slower tomorrow,” said the mother.

“Will you help me learn?” asked the daughter.

“Of course,” said the mother, “because I love you.”

And her daughter gave a noio smile and said, “I know. I love you, too.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time (it’s the text you’ve just read) but I tell them from memory, anticipating some new creation as I tell them. So what I’ve written and what I say in the moment are not, cannot be the same.

Photo of a noio in flight by Eric Anderson.

Story: Sometimes It’s Simple; Sometimes It’s Not

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

April 28, 2024

Acts 8:26-40
1 John 4:7-21

The i’iwi eats nectar. Human beings tend to complain about a diet that is mostly liquid, but we might complain less if it was mostly nectar. I’iwi don’t complain about it. Their long curved bill works really well for getting nectar from flowers that other birds like the ‘apapane can’t reach.

I’iwi have a neat trick for feeding from some flowers which open down. One will hang below the flower and poke its beak up into the nectar reservoir. There are other birds on the island that do this, but the i’iwi do it most often.

One young i’iwi came to believe that, because this was a hard-won skill, she had to use it all the time. On every flower. Whether they opened downward or upward.

Believe it or not, it sort of worked. It worked very well on those downward flowers, of course. That’s why i’iwi developed that technique.

It worked on sideways facing flowers, though it was more of a strain to get her neck into the right position. She kept at it, though. If she was going to do something, she’d do it right. And as with many things, constant practice meant that she did, indeed, get better and better.

It was more of a struggle, though, with flowers that opened upward. A lot of ohi’a blossoms, for example, open upward, and i’iwi sip a lot of ohi’a nectar. Still, ohi’a is a pretty open flower, without a lot of petals to get in the way. She managed.

Then there were the flowers with upward petals and, well, those didn’t go well at all.

Her mother came for a visit one day as she was flitting about from tree to tree. She didn’t say anything when she hung upside down for downward facing flowers. She didn’t say anything when she reached up for sideways flowers. She opened her beak but didn’t say anything about the ohi’a flowers she sipped from beneath.

But when she tried to get at a big hibiscus blossom from underneath, she said, “What are you doing?”

“I’m eating,” said her daughter.

“No you’re not. You can’t get at the nectar in that flower from down there.”

“Sure I can. It’s just a matter of technique.”

Mother watched daughter struggle to get her curved beak around the petals and to the nectar at the flower’s center. Eventually the younger bird, with a glance at her mother, perched just above and to the side and took a good long sip.

“You don’t always need to come at things from underneath,” said mother.

“Isn’t that the i’iwi way?” asked her daughter.

“The i’iwi way is to fly, eat, deal with the neighbors, get a good sleep each night, and be the most stylish birds on the mountain,” said her mother. “Nothing says you have to do something the hard way all the time.

“Sometimes things are simple. Sometimes they’re not. Doing simple things in a complicated way doesn’t get you fed, or flying, or sleeping. Doing complicated things in a simple way doesn’t get any of those things done either.

“When it’s simple, do it simply, daughter. Save the complicated techniques for when it’s hard.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, and tell them from memory – which means that I improvise at the same time.

Image of an i’iwi feeding upside down by Bettina Arrigoni – Iiwi | Hakalau NWR | HI|2018-12-02|13-43-26-2, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=75174870.

Story: Rolling Stone

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

April 21, 2024

Acts 4:5-12
1 John 3:16-24

It looked like any other stone that had been tumbled around in the ocean. Not very big. Not very solid. In fact, it was noticeably speckled with holes. The edges of the holes had been smoothed by sand and water moving over it. Eventually, the waves had flung it up on a beach.

And the waves had grabbed it again, so many times, the stone simply couldn’t count them. Not that stones count that well anyway. It had been swept away in the receding waves, then tossed back by the flowing waves, then undermined by another wave going, and pitched up the beach by another wave coming. It was kind of dizzying.

It was also kind of musical. The stone had a lot of company rolling around in the waves, and they rattled against one another as the water pulled away and they rolled together. The music they made, of course, was rock and roll.

If they’d named themselves as a band, I suppose they’d have been the Rolling Stones.

Those days had been exciting, not as exciting as the day it was flung as a hunk of liquid rock into the ocean, but it had been rhythmic and musical and, of course, rock and roll.

With time, however, the beach had grown. New stones, new sand, and new rocks came in with the tides, and the beach expanded further out from where the stone would rest from time to time. Eventually the waves never reached it at all. The stone felt somewhat lost and sad. It felt small. It felt unimportant. It was surrounded by plenty of other stones, but what were they to do except bake in the sun and drip in the rain?

That’s when a seed found its way to the beach, and tumbled down into the space between this stone and the next. It took a rest for a while, and the stone, which had hardly noticed it, forgot all about it – until it began to sprout. A root went down. A shoot came up.

“What are you doing there?” asked the stone.

“I’m growing,” said the plant which had been a seed.

“Why grow next to me?” asked the stone.

“Why not?” asked the seed.

“I’m small and unimportant,” said the stone. “I don’t even make music any more.”

“If you were bigger,” said the plant, “I could never get around you. If you were bigger you’d keep me away from the light. If you were bigger, I’d never find the rain. For me, right now, you’re the most important stone in the world, because you’re here and you’re being exactly what I need.”

The stone started to feel better, but then said, “I’ll still miss the music.”

“Hold that thought,” said the plant.

When it grew tall enough, the wind blew through its leaves with a whistling tone. Below it, the stone’s heart sang.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them from memory during worship – and make changes as I do. In this case I think all the puns made it into the story when told.

Photo of stones on the beach in Pohoiki by Eric Anderson.

Story: Perfectly Picky

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

April 14, 2024

1 John 3:1-7
Luke 24:36-48

I believe I mentioned a few weeks ago that if there’s something edible up in the ohi’a and koa forests – bugs, berries, fruit, sap, nectar, caterpillars, and so on – there’s an ‘amakihi eating it. They’re not picky eaters. They’re enthusiastic eaters.

Except for one young ‘amakihi. She was perfectly picky.

I don’t know how it got started, but I do know that early on she’d only eat bugs that she’d seen fly. I guess that meant they were fresher, somehow? Which meant that she would no longer eat the crawling bugs or the caterpillars, and there would be no spiders in her diet.

I know. You’re thinking, good choice. Along with you, I am pretty happy not to eat bugs at all. We are people, though, and not ‘amakihi.

Then she wouldn’t eat tree sap that came from cracks in the bark. I know – again, it sounds like a good choice for a human. But if you’re not going to eat tree sap that comes from cracks in the bark, how are you going to get to it at all? An ‘amakihi beak isn’t a good shape for making holes in bark. She’d removed another entry from her diet.

Then she decided not to eat fruit or berries unless it was perfectly ripe. That cut out a whole lot of fruit that was almost ripe, and it cut out a lot of fruit that was just past ripe, all of which feed other ‘amakihi perfectly well.

Her family started to notice that she was maybe getting a little thinner.

When she decided that the only nectar she’d sip would be from perfectly formed ohi’a flowers, that really did it. Go up to the ohi’a forests and you’ll find plenty of flowers on the trees. But are they perfectly formed into red puffballs? Not exactly. Some flowers show just a few scarlet tendrils. Some form ovals or just plain look squashed.

She wouldn’t eat from them. She wouldn’t even eat the flying bugs that landed on them.

She was hunting through an ohi’a tree that was bright red with blossoms – but very few of them perfect blossoms – when the branch jumped with another bird landing. She looked up and saw her grandmother watching her. Grandmother watched her pick over a big bunch of lehua, sip from none of them, and hop over to another, and sip from none of them.

“What are you doing, granddaughter?” asked grandmother.

“Eating,” said the picky ‘amakihi. “I’m hungry.”

“Eating what?” asked grandmother, who hadn’t actually seen her granddaughter eat anything.

“Nectar,” said granddaughter.

“Where?” asked grandmother.

“From the good ones,” said her granddaughter. “I only eat from the perfect flowers, Tutu.”

Grandmother looked at the tree full of blossoms and didn’t see many perfect ones. “You won’t find many perfect ones, granddaughter,” she said. “Not here, and not anywhere.”

She watched the picky ‘amakihi skip perfectly good (if imperfectly formed) ohi’a flowers for a little longer and said, “I think you should eat from some of the imperfect ones, young one.”

Granddaughter, who was annoyed, poked her beak toward a flower that basically had two red tendrils and no visible nectar, and said, “You mean like that one?”

“No, child,” said grandmother. “Not like that one. There’s nothing there. But the question isn’t whether a flower is perfect or not. The question is whether it feeds you.”

The picky ‘amakihi thought about this a while. And she really was hungry. With a glance at her grandmother, she put her beak into a bright red ohi’a flower which, to be honest, wasn’t perfect, and fed.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them in worship without notes. As a result, they change in the telling.

Photo of an ‘amakihi feeding at imperfect ohi’a flowers by Eric Anderson.

Story: Missed Lesson

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

April 7, 2024

1 John 1:1-2:2
John 20:19:31

Most of the birds of our island fly by themselves, or in a loose flock. Around Hilo we’re mostly likely to see a pair of finches or a larger group of mynas flying together. Myna flocks tend to be rather chaotic, with birds crossing back and forth and no real attempt to build a formation and stay in it.

There’s an exception to that, and it’s the nene. I’ve mentioned nene school to you. I haven’t told you about the origin of nene school, which goes back so far that nobody really knows when it started. The nene don’t, and if the nene don’t, I certainly don’t.

The problem was that the nene liked to fly together and chat while they flew. They make that “Ne. Ne,” sound as they go. In the days before the foundation of the nene school, however, the cheerful “Ne. Ne,” would be interrupted by screeches and cries to veer off, and sometimes by the distressing sounds of wing feathers scraping over one another, and then the groans of pain and, of course, angry squawks of denunciation.

The problem, of course, was that nobody knew, when flying together, what any other goose would do, so they were making goose guesses. Actually, since there’d be more than one goose guessing, there’d be geese guesses. If one was young, you’d have gosling guesses. And if you had a visiting goose, there’d be guest goose guesses.

When one of these geese guesses was wrong, you’d get geese gripes.

When they founded the first nene school, everybody was eager to take part, and everybody came to the first class. And the second. And the third.

But one goose guessed wrong about when the fourth class was being held, and he missed it. He did show up for the fifth class, and, well, he made more goose guesses that goofed. The nene flying that day lost feathers, altitude, and tempers.

The teacher took him aside when class was over. She didn’t ask him why he’d missed the previous class. She just told him that what he’d missed, he’d have to learn.

“This is why we started this school in the first place,” she said. “We’re learning to fly together, to fly the same speed at the same time holding the same distance. We’re learning to be predictable and trustworthy in our own flying so that we can trust what the other nene will do. No more goose guessing.”

So he stayed and flew, and this time he learned the things he’d missed from the previous lesson, and he learned the things he’d missed from the lesson he’d just taken but hadn’t learned anything because his goose guesses had gone so goofy.

There are plenty of things in our human lives that we do separately, each in our own way. But there are also lots of things that we do together. We need to know what our fellow Christians are going to do, and they need to know what we’re going to do, so that we make things happen together.

It goes better than geese guesses.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time (it’s the text you just read) but I tell them from memory without notes. And so they change in the telling.

Photo of nene in flight by Eric Anderson.

Story: Unbelief

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

March 31, 2024


Isaiah 25:6-9
John 20:1-18

In the gospel stories about Easter, there’s a common theme. It’s unbelief. People heard – from angels, initially – that Jesus had risen from the dead, and… they didn’t believe them. Later people heard from other people that Jesus had risen from the dead, and they didn’t believe the people. I guess that makes sense. If you don’t believe angels, how likely are you to believe people?

Once there was an ‘apapane who didn’t believe in love.

If that seems hard to believe, well, it was hard to believe. He had been raised with two sisters by attentive parents who fed them well, kept them warm in the rain, and taught them all to sing. They flew with him, they brought him to good trees to find bugs and nectar, and they kept him company when the nights got long and lonely.

But he didn’t believe in love.

You might be thinking that his sisters teased him all the time and that’s why he didn’t believe in love. It’s true. They teased him. But not much, really. More to the point, the teasing didn’t bother him. He teased them back and they all would laugh at the silly things they’d say.

Still, he didn’t believe in love.

“You’re just taking care of me because it keeps the family going,” he told his parents, who really didn’t know what to say about that.

“You’re just good to me because you expect I’ll be good to you,” he told his sisters, and he was good to them, but as he said, it was because he expected them to be good to him.

I suppose it might have been because nearly the entire time since he’d cracked the shell that the skies had been gray, the winds had been cold, and the rain had plummeted down.

I sometimes find it hard to believe in love after too many days of cold, grey, windy rain.

He and his sisters had put in a hard day of nectar- and bug-seeking. There might have been ohi’a flowers in blossom, but they were hard to see in the grey light. The bugs were hiding from the rain, not even troubling to go find nectar to eat. The three siblings huddled for the night on a branch, cold, wet, and hungry.

He was grateful for their warmth but he still didn’t believe in love.

When morning came, he blinked his eyes to an unfamiliar light. The clouds had cleared overnight, and the wind gently rustled the leaves. He and his sisters, all three, stared at the golden light of the sun rising over the trees. As it got higher, the ohi’a blossoms opened in scarlet and gold glory. As it got higher, its warmth dried their feathers.

“Wow,” said the sisters. “What a difference that makes.”

“More than you know,” said their brother. “It’s like a completely different world.”

“Is this a world where you can believe in love?” asked one sister.

He thought about it for a while.

“You know, I think it might be,” he said.

They helped one another get their drying feathers into shape – that’s kind of an ‘apapane hug – and flew off into the sunrise over the glorious bloom of ohi’a.

As they flew, they sang together. You know what they sang?

“I think I believe in love.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them from memory – memory plus whatever I feel like saying in the moment.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: Risky

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

March 31, 2024

Isaiah 25:6-9
John 20:1-18

You and I are familiar with mynas. They’re all over the place, for one thing. And they have a habit of shrieking at us for no particular reason. Here at Church of the Holy Cross, we’re also used to picking up after them because they try to build nests under the eaves and they’re remarkably bad at doing it.

You and I aren’t so familiar with the Manu-o-Ku, known in other parts of the world as the white tern. They tend to be a little bigger than a myna with longer wings. The myna has brown feathers with black feathers on the head and that distinctive yellow mask around the eyes leading to the bright yellow beak. The Manu-o-Ku is all white except for black eyes and a straight black beak. They don’t live here on Hawai’i Island, but you’ll find them – and mynas – living on O’ahu.

Two mynas were watching a manu-o-ku family prepare for laying an egg, and they were pretty critical about it. I may think mynas build messy nests, but the mynas were surprised that the manu-o-ku didn’t build a nest at all. “Where is the egg going to go?” asked one. “They haven’t done anything about a place to keep it from rolling away,” said the other.

The manu-o-ku ignored all this – they heard it, of course, because mynas aren’t usually quiet. They just flew from branch to branch, checking things out, and didn’t fetch a single piece of grass to build a nest.

Finally they settled onto a spot where a branch forked. It made a little spot with a hollow, like the bowl of a spoon – a very shallow spoon. I don’t think I’d have noticed it, but the manu-o-ku did. Somewhat later, the mynas returned to find that a single egg rested in that little depression, and that the father and mother manu-o-ku were taking turns keeping it warm.

“I’m shocked,” said one of the mynas. “I am, too,” said the other. “That egg is going to fall off.” “And if the egg doesn’t,” said the first, “the chick will.”

The manu-o-ku heard this and said nothing.

About a month later, the egg hatched, and the newborn chick’s feet were able to easily hold onto the forked branch of its nest. The parents brought fish and squid from the ocean to feed it. “That will never work,” said the mynas to one another. “That chick is doomed for sure.”

But it wasn’t. It took its first flight. It stayed nearby and the parents continued to bring it meals. It learned to catch its own food. It took to the skies.

“That shouldn’t have worked,” said the first myna. “It was an awful risk,” said the second.

“It’s a good thing that it worked, then, isn’t it?” called one of the manu-o-ku, and flew away in a flurry of white feathers.

You know, Jesus took a risk when he taught people to love one another, because some people don’t want to do that and they got angry about it. He took a risk when he loved people enough that he didn’t act violently when they came to be violent to him. He took a risk by going to the cross, and that risk took him to the grave. If you want to make things better, those actions shouldn’t work.

Jesus rose from the dead, and suddenly all those actions did work, all those risks of love and of peace and of death itself. It was more precarious than a manu-o-ku egg on a branch, but on that Easter Day love won, and it will always win.

By the way, we have taken a risk this morning. We’ve placed Easter eggs around the church and in a moment we’re going to ask you to find them. The risk is that if you don’t find all the real eggs, in a couple of days of sunshine they’ll get really warm and smelly. So help us out here. Make something good happen for yourself and for all of us. Find those eggs. It will be an Easter risk that worked.

by Eric Anderson

There is no video of this story, which I told before the young people headed out for their Easter Egg hunt. For the record, all the colored boiled eggs were retrieved.

Photo by Duncan Wright – USFWS Hawaiian Islands NWR, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1167986

Story: Independent

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

March 24, 2024

Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29
Mark 11:1-11

The ‘amakihi aren’t the most social birds in the world. They often forage by themselves, with their mate, or with a few family members. When the hatchlings have left the nest they sometimes join loose flocks of other ‘amakihi, ‘apapane, ‘akepa, and so on. But not always.

One young ‘amakihi took this a little further than most. He announced to his family and friends that he didn’t need anybody.

If you looked at things a certain way, that seemed true. An ‘amakihi doesn’t need a lot of help to find food in the forest. They eat pretty much anything. They’ll eat nectar. They’ll eat fruit. They’ll eat bugs. In fact, mostly bugs. If it’s edible on the mountain, the chances are that an ‘amakihi is eating it.

Although they will fly above the trees, the ‘amakihi are very nimble fliers. They can stop dead in the air, which is quite a trick. They don’t worry too much about the ‘io or the pueo. If they’re above the trees when they spot one, they can dip back into the trees pretty quickly and the ‘io doesn’t have the turning ability to keep up through the branches and trunks. It’s a careless ‘amakihi that becomes somebody else’s meal.

So the other ‘amakihi weren’t entirely surprised when the young one announced, “I don’t need anybody!”

“No help to find bugs?” asked one.

“No need!” he said.

“No help to find water?” asked another.

“No need!” he replied.

“No company?” asked his mother.

“No need!” he announced, but maybe a little too quickly and a little too loudly.

“All right,” said his grandmother, and the little group of his family and friends flew away and left him there alone.

It was fine for a day. He ate well. He kept an eye out for ‘io. He had good places to rest.

It was fine for a second day. He found an ohi’a grove nodding with blossoms.

It was starting to feel not so good on the third day. He hadn’t made his way through all the ohi’a yet, but he felt heavy and kind of sad. The sweetest bugs didn’t cheer him up.

On the fourth day he realized he was lonely.

He sat and sang a sad little song, one you don’t often hear from an ‘amakihi.

The branch he was sitting on bounced down and up, and he turned to see his mother perched there. She listened to him finish his sad little song. Then she waited.

“I think I need somebody sometimes,” he said.

“I’m not surprised,” she replied.

“Really?” he said.

“Everybody does. We don’t live by bugs and nectar alone.”

The two of them flew back to find the rest of the family and a less lonely future.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance (it’s what you just read) but when I tell them it’s a time of re-creation, not recall.

The photo of an ‘amakihi is by Eric Anderson.