Stories

Story: The Generous I’iwi

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

October 13, 2024

Job 23:1-9, 16-17
Mark 10:17-31

I’iwi are not known for their generosity. They tend to chase other i’iwi away if one comes too close, and they have an expansive notion of what “too close” means. They’re willing to put up with other birds, most of the time, but if there’s an ohi’a tree full of flowers to be sipped at, well. Then things can get exciting, and they’ll chase the ‘apapane and the ‘amakihi away.

One day an i’iwi was perched in a tree and saw a family of four humans come along. They stopped for a moment nearby and the big humans gave the little humans the last two cookies out of a little bag. The littlest human, a boy, took big bites. The next-littlest human, a slightly older and taller girl, nibbled at her cookie, enjoying its sweetness.

When the little boy had finished his cookie, the parents announced that it was time to keep walking, and their son burst into tears. He was tired. He didn’t like walking. Most of all, he was still hungry, because he hadn’t had enough cookie.

But there were no more cookies in the little bag.

Big sister – who wasn’t that much bigger, remember – looked at her cookie. More than half of it was left. Without a word she broke it in half and gave a piece to her little brother. He stopped crying – mostly, he snuffled some more – but the two of them finished their cookies together, and then the family moved on.

The i’iwi was impressed. Half a cookie had done so much good for the little boy, and also for the parents who wanted to comfort him but couldn’t. Half a cookie wasn’t a big thing, but it made a big difference.

The i’iwi decided that he’d make a difference, too. Not with cookie halves, which he wasn’t going to eat anyway, but with ohi’a flowers. He’d bring those to the hungry birds of the forest.

If he could figure out how.

An i’iwi’s long curved beak is pretty good for sipping nectar, but it’s not that good for snipping flowers from branches or carrying them. His first few experiments showed him that he damaged more flowers beyond use than he actually carried. He managed to get one blossom in his beak, however, and flew off to find a hungry bird to give it to.

After a few minutes, he found a section of the forest where the trees weren’t blossoming much, and then he found a sad-looking ‘apapane perched on a leafy, but flowerless, branch. He landed and carefully placed the flower on some leaves before he said, “Here. You look hungry. Take a good sip.”

The ‘apapane looked surprised and then puzzled, but said, “Thank you,” before dipping her beak into the flower. Sadly, there wasn’t much nectar to be found. Much of it had dried out when it was plucked from the tree and carried through the air.

“I’m sorry,” said the i’iwi. “I’ll go get you another one.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier,” asked the ‘apapane, “to show me the tree you found it on?”

“Why, yes,” said the i’iwi. “It would. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Cookies don’t grow on trees. Sometimes if you want to share, you have to divide them up. But sometimes if you want to share, you can bring your friend to the flower, not the flower to the friend. However you share, though, remember that small things can make a big difference, and that giving to someone goes a long way.

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory – memory plus improvisation – so what you hear will not match what you’ve read.

Photo by HarmonyonPlanetEarth – I'iwi|Pu'u o'o Trail | 2013-12-17 at 12-43-196 Uploaded by snowmanradio, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30241883.

Story: Follow the Leaders

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

September 29, 2024

Numbers 11:4-6, 10-16, 24-29
Mark 9:38-50

It’s a funny thing about people. Sometimes people choose leaders without getting them ready for leadership first. You’ve probably seen it in school sometimes. The teacher asks someone to lead the class in a song or a reading, but it turns out they hadn’t learned it yet.

That can be pretty embarrassing.

As it happens, it’s not just humans who do such things, although it turns out that for a lot of those creatures, a school is also the place to do them. A school of ta’ape, or “Bluestripe Snapper,” selected a relatively young fish to be the leader of their school one season. He was pretty big, he seemed pretty smart, and as far as anyone could tell without asking, he seemed to know what he was doing.

He… didn’t know what he was doing.

The first hour was a disaster. He tried calling out from the front of the school, “Everybody turn right!” And everybody turned right. Everybody who heard him. That wasn’t all that many of them. It was a big school, and his loudest voice didn’t carry all the way to the back, or even to the middle. Fish swam off in all sorts of different directions. It was quite a muddle.

Fortunately, he was a smart ta’ape, and one thing about being smart is knowing when you need to learn something. Clearly there were things he needed to learn about leading the school, and he needed to learn them quickly. So when the school was feeding quietly on some beds of algae, he sought out some of the ta’ape kupuna and said, “I need some help. How do I get the school to follow?

The kupuna were gracious. One or two of them did think he might have learned this before, but they kept quiet about it. They told him the secret.

“You need to choose fish to lead with you.”

“The school is too big for one fish to lead,” they said. “As you’ve found, it can’t be done by one fish. So you appoint other leaders, and space them throughout the school. The ones closest to you listen for what you’re doing, and the ones farther away listen for what they’re doing. When you turn, they turn, and the other leaders turn, and the school turns.”

The leader was relieved. He didn’t have to do this alone. He would have help. He promptly asked as many of the kupuna as were willing (some of them thought it was time for some new fish to learn) to become the other leaders, and he found a few more fish and taught them what. They needed to know.

The next time he directed the school toward clearer water they turned in a flash. He laughed for joy, and so did the other leaders, and so did the whole school full of fish, because he’d led them all in joy.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory. And sometimes I don’t remember the names of the fish.

Photo of a ta’ape school by Tchami – Bluestripe Snapper, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=34504430

Story: Everybody’s Songs

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
An 'apapane, a red bird with black wings, singing in tree branches.

September 22, 2024

Jeremiah 11:18-20
Mark 9:30-37

Everyone thought she was one of the best singers among the ‘apapane. Her notes were clear, her improvisations were delightful, and she had the breath to sing long bubbling musical runs. Other ‘apapane used to listen for her in the mornings, and if they heard her, they’d take off in her direction.

It turned out that she used to sing loudest and longest when she found a grove of ohi’a with lots of blossoms, so everybody who flew into the neighborhood got a good meal. She’d sing, however, even in a tree between flowering times. When she did, the other ‘apapane – and the akepa, and the ‘alawi, and the ‘amakihi, and even the i’iwi – settled into nearby trees to listen.

It was like having a great concert every day.

She couldn’t help noticing that a fair number of birds got a free lunch, or breakfast, or dinner out of her songs. At the start she didn’t mind – she was pretty flattered that everyone flew to hear her sing – but as time went on it started to rankle. “Can’t they find their own trees?” she grumped to her brother one day, and if he had anything useful to say, she didn’t listen.

Then she had a bad scare. She’d landed on a branch near to the ground, which she rarely did, and began to sing. Suddenly the branch heaved with a heavy weight. She fluttered into the air, taken by surprise, and only then noticed the hunting cat which had leapt onto her branch and only just missed her.

She flew higher into another tree, whistling with alarm, and watched while the cat climbed back to the ground and disappeared into the forest.

The next day the sun rose, but her voice didn’t rise. The day grew brighter, but nobody heard her song. Other ‘apapane and ‘amakihi and mejiro and the rest begin to sing, but she remained silent.

She found a place deep within some leafy ohi’a branches and hid from the world.

They noticed that she wasn’t singing that day, the other birds did, but they mostly thought she’d gone to another part of the forest and would be back soon. But one day became two, and two became four, and four became over a week and nobody had heard her song. They began to look around, hoping to find her well, and terribly afraid that something bad had happened.

 Her mother found her – mothers often have a talent for finding their children – still huddled in her ohi’a tree, silent and afraid. She told her mother about what had happened with the cat.

“I don’t want to sing ever again,” she said.

“Your songs are beautiful,” said her mother. “Everybody loves you for them.”

“Everybody follows me because they think they’ll eat well,” said the daughter. “Somebody else can do that. Not me.”

“Listen for a moment, daughter,” said the mother, and the two were quiet. The forest, however, was not. The calls and songs of the forest birds sailed out over the trees.

“Listen to that,” said mother. “It’s everybody’s song.”

“Won’t they attract cats?” asked the singer.

“They might,” admitted her mother, “but there are ways to sing beyond their reach. Mostly, though, realize that it’s your voice, and your melodies, but it’s not really your song. It’s everybody’s song when you share it, greater and more wonderful than you know.

“What do you think, daughter? Can you sing with everybody’s song?”

In answer, the young ‘apapane opened her beak and sang.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them in worship from memory and from improvisation. What you’ve just read will not match what you watch.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: Celebration Songs

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 7 Comments

September 15, 2024

Isaiah 50:4-9a
James 3:1-12

He was her brother. She was his sister. They’d been raised in the same ‘apapane nest up in the ohi’a forest. They’d been fed by the same parents. They’d learned to fly together. They’d learned how to forage in the trees together. They both wore bright red feathers and black wings with white feathers underneath. They were…

Completely different from one another.

He was a complainer. No ohi’a blossom ever had enough nectar. No bug was ever crunchy enough. If he ate a caterpillar, it wasn’t soft enough. The sunny days were too hot. The rainy days were too… well, too wet.

Worst of all, in his opinion, were all the other birds. I’iwi were too obnoxious. ‘Amakihi were too yellow. Mejiro were too green. ‘Akepa were too orange, unless they were female ‘akepa, in which case they were too green. ‘Io were too hungry.

I grant you that, since ‘io like to eat ‘apapane, he may have had a point with that last one.

His sister, on the other hand, was a celebrator. She savored the taste of the nectar in the smallest ohi’a blossom. She enjoyed the crunchy bugs and slurped down the soft caterpillars with the same enthusiasm. She let the rain cool her and she spread her wings to dry in the heat of the sun.

As for other birds, well. She sang with other ‘apapane, chirped with the i’iwi and the ‘amakihi and the mejiro and the ‘akepa and everyone else she met. She was sure there something good to say about the ‘io, but she’d have to find a safe way to chat with one to find out what it was.

Her brother perched in an ohi’a tree dripping with blossoms and moaned. His sister sang joyful songs in a tree with a single flower. Her brother insulted birds that came by about their feathers, their songs, and their diets. His sister complimented their flight and their colors and their voices.

Now, not every day is a good day for an ‘apapane. It can get pretty cold on a rainy night, and they’ve got to watch out for hunting ‘io. Sometimes lots of trees are in blossom, and sometimes there’s just a few. She wasn’t always happy. Sometimes it took time to find food, or a dry place, or to get through a long cold night.

But in the good times, on the good days, she celebrated the good things, whatever they were. Other birds joined her to share in the nectar or the sunshine and always in the joy of being in her presence.

Her brother went through bad times with grim satisfaction that all his woeful predictions had come true once more. And when bad times turned to good, he… sat glumly in the tree and complained about the nectar, and the bugs, and the sun, and the rain, and the way that nobody seemed to want to be around him.

He made his bad times harder, and his good times glum. She made her good times better, and her bad times easier. Given the choice, my friends, I think I’d rather be like her.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory. And I improvise. So what you’ve just read will not match the way I told it.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: Ours. Not Yours.

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Two mynas in the grass.

September 8, 2024

James 2:1-17
Mark 7:24-37

I don’t know what I did to offend a couple of our local mynas, but I have clearly disturbed one or two them. They screech at me as I’m walking along outside the church buildings. Maybe I’m breathing too loudly for them?

Mynas are somewhat quarrelsome among themselves, and when nesting spots are scarce they’ll chase anyone and everyone away, but they typically share feeding spots with anyone around. Kolea, saffron finches, house finches, doves, and others eat their seeds and bugs alongside flocks of mynas.

One mynas flock, however, chose a feeding spot to be their very own, and only theirs. They wouldn’t accept other birds in it. They screeched at them, they advanced threateningly at them, and if they didn’t take the hint they’d jab at them with their beaks.

“No finches allowed!” they’d screech, and then, “Get out of here, dove!”

“Kolea go home!” they said, which seems pretty unfair, and “No room for cardinals here!”

It was pretty ugly, and pretty selfish.

It was also remarkably foolish.

You see, having chosen their ground, they’d also chosen to protect it. There’s a limit to how much ground a flock of mynas can protect, and in this case, it wasn’t big enough for them. Ordinarily, when a patch of land gets picked over for seeds and bugs so there’s not much left, they’d move on to another place. The old place would get some rest for new seeds to form and new bugs to move in. But they’d picked their ground, and they weren’t moving, and the seeds began to get scarce and the bugs harder to find.

Even with the spot limited only to mynas, it wasn’t quite enough.

If they hadn’t driven other birds away, they might have noticed when other birds started looking somewhere else, and they might have followed them to a better spot. They didn’t. If they hadn’t driven other birds away, they might have moved about more freely themselves. They didn’t. If they hadn’t driven other birds away, they might have given their chosen piece of land some time to pause and replenish.

They didn’t.

The flock began to dwindle. One day a myna flew away because she was hungry and there wasn’t enough there. The next day two mynas flew away. The area they could protect got smaller, so even with fewer mynas there still wasn’t quite enough food.

When the flock got down to two or three hungry birds, they looked at one another on the thin grass of their chosen ground, and said to a curious nearby kolea, “This is ours. Not yours.”

“You can have it,” said the kolea. “I’ll be better elsewhere.”

And you know what? The kolea was absolutely right. He did much better elsewhere than these stubborn mynas did in their chosen spot.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. Therefore the story you just read will sound different from the one that I told.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: Dirty Finches

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Two saffron finches in the grass.

September 1, 2024

James 1:17-27
Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

Saffron finches don’t fly about in larger flocks like mynas, but they certainly do gather in small groups to feed and chirp and, one assumes, share the news of the saffron finch world. One little group was having a problem with not one, but two, of their members.

The first one who bothered them was, well, unwashed. Routinely. A finch is going to get dust and bits of grass and, I suppose, the occasional bug wing on their beak and face, and he did that. They’ll also get dirty feet and, if they’re hopping about on muddy ground, get dirty feathers. He did that, too.

Most saffron finches find ways to wash it off. They’ll clean with beak and toes and let the rain wash them off when they can. On a gray day a saffron finch is a pretty bright sight. But not this guy. Somehow a rain shower left him muddier. If he pushed bug wings off his head he’d get dirt in the feathers.

He was a sight, let me tell you.

The other troublesome bird was clean and bright. He not only got himself clean, somehow he avoided most of the dust and dirt that the other birds had to deal with. And… he let you know it.

“Are you going to clean those feet?” he asked. “There’s a bug wing on your beak,” he said. “Can you believe it? You’ve got a speck of mud on your feathers,” he commented.

He went on and on about the finch with the dirty feathers. “Look at that, he’s a disgrace,” he’d say, and “I’m so glad I’m not like him.”

They say “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me,” but you know? Words hurt. And nearly every bird in the little flock of saffron finches felt the sting, with our dirty finch feeling it the worst.

What to do?

They got together, the other finches. They talked it over while the dirty finch and the absolutely clean finch were elsewhere. They come up with some possibilities. They made some decisions. They got ready to offer some options.

They called the whole flock together, including our two problem finches, and said, “We’ve got to see some changes here. First,” they said to the dirty finch, “we’re going to give you some help, because clearly you need it. We’ll help you with the preening and the cleaning and make sure you stay both healthy and show off your bright feathers.

The dirty finch, who thought he was going to be kicked out of the flock, chirped a grateful “Mahalo!”

The absolutely clean finch huffed, “I can’t believe you’re going to put up with him and his filth. You’re as bad as he is.”

“What we’re not going to put up with,” said the spokesfinch, “is your bullying any longer. You’ve been hardest on this finch here, but you’ve been at all of us at one time or another. Yes, your feathers are always immaculate, and no, our aren’t always at their best. But your tongue is never at its best, and that needs to change. Now.”

The absolutely clean finch was speechless for a moment (which was a good thing, if you think about it), and then he burst out with a harangue that few have ever heard. I’m afraid he didn’t learn his lesson, and I’m afraid he couldn’t stay with that flock.

When it came down to it, the things that make a finch dirty from the outside are things they could help with. But the things that make a finch dirty from the inside, all the harshness and bullying, those are the things that have to go.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory – memory and inspiration. What I’ve written does not match how I tell it.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: Rocky the Honu

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

August 25, 2024

Psalm 34:15-22
Ephesians 6:10-20

A newly hatched honu isn’t very big. Two or three inches long. They spend their time feeding on the seagrasses in which they hide in the shallows of our island.

A kupuna honu is a lot bigger, up to four feet long and weighing over 300 pounds.

Our honu today was bigger than a hatchling and smaller than a kupuna. He was maybe a foot long, had well developed flippers and tail, and enjoyed both swimming in the ocean waters and in the shallows near the beach. And, like all honu, he liked sunning himself on the rocks or the sands.

But… he was worried about manō. Sharks. A good size tiger shark could be a real problem. He kept a wary eye out for manō as he swam along the reef, and he listened intently for the sound of water passing over their sleek fins. He had a good strong shell, he knew, but… well. Who could tell if that would be enough?

One day, though, he got an idea. He’d just seen a wave move some rocks up and down the beach. What if he could find some way to attach rocks to his shell? Corals and opihi and, for that matter, the sea grasses he liked to eat managed to stick to things. What might give him an extra shell?

I still don’t know what he found to do it, but he did find something sticky, and he covered his shell with it. Then he went to a beach loaded with loose stone, moving back and forth with the waves. As they went clattering down the beach, they stuck to his shell, and suddenly he was the best armored honu in history.

He rested on the beach for a while, delighted with his success. He napped in the sun. The rocks actually made him just a little warmer as the sun warmed them, which was really nice. When he woke up, he was hungry. So he started crawling down the beach into the surf.

He was surprised to find it really difficult to move along. The stones on his shell weighed him down, and his flippers strained to push him along. “It will be better when I get into the water,” he thought.

He was wrong.

As difficult as moving along the beach had been, swimming was worse. The stones dragged him right down to the sea floor, and he struggled to swim back up to breathe – honu aren’t fish, you know. They breathe air. Every time he caught a breath he’d be back under a moment later. Honu can hold their breath a lot longer than I can, but this was not good. Not good at all.

He struggled back to the beach until his tail was in the water and his head out of it, with waves lapping at his shell as he gasped.

“Too heavy?” asked a passing ‘ulili.

“Too right,” said the honu, who started scraping the stones off. The ‘ulili used his long beak to help pray them away.

“Thanks for your help,” said the honu, and the ‘ulili replied, “I’m happy to help, Rocky.”

Rocky the honu laughed, and he wore the name the rest of his long life, but he never wore any rocks again.

Armor has its price, you know. Sometimes its protection is too heavy for living. Sometimes we do best by relying on what we can carry.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them on Sunday morning from (occasionally poor) memory and (occasionally creative) inspiration. What you’ve just read will not match what I said.

Photo of a honu by Eric Anderson.

Story: In Front of Your Beak

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

August 18, 2024

Psalm 34:9-14
Ephesians 5:15-20

The ‘elepaio had a problem. She was hungry.

This is not an uncommon condition for an ‘elepaio, or for that matter for any bird up in the forests of Hawai’i. They tend to be small birds, but the things they eat are also small, so they tend to eat often or, to put it another way, whenever they can. Kind of like a human child in the middle of a growing time.

This ‘elepaio, however, had a somewhat different problem. It wasn’t that there wasn’t food around. There was plenty. It was that, well, she liked to look ahead.

Again, plenty of ‘elepaio look ahead. They’re the curious birds of the forest. They check out the people moving through the woods, and they check out the trees – for food, generally. But they do it up close and personal. If you’re walking through the forest and an ‘elepaio wants to find out more about you, they’ll perch pretty close.

This ‘elepaio, however, had somehow got the idea that the way to learn what was happening was with the big picture only. She’d perch high in a tree, looking out over the slopes for signs of the insects that she ate. And… she’d find them. Sure. Bugs get around, and you’ll find them high in a tree. What you won’t do is see them in a distant tree. They’re small. They don’t move the leaves and branches. In fact, if you look at leaves and branches from a distance, you’ll pretty much see… leaves and branches.

She was so intent one day on looking for bugs in distant trees that she didn’t hear her mother land behind her.

“Child,” said her mother, “what’s the problem?”

“I’m hungry,” said her daughter, “and I’m having trouble finding bugs to eat.”

“Why do you think that is?” asked her mother, as she watched a bug walk along the very branch her daughter was perched on.

“I think it’s just hard to do,” said the young ‘elepaio, who now had two bugs crawling along in front of her.

“Could it be that you’re looking too far ahead?” asked her mother, who knew it was.

“I don’t see how it could be,” said her daughter, who was so still that one of the bugs was near to climbing onto her.

“Look right in front of your beak,” said mother, and her daughter looked. Then she looked again, and then she ate one bug, then the other, and found two more on a nearby leaf.

“Better?” asked her mother.

“Better,” admitted her daughter, “but shouldn’t we be looking ahead for things?”

“It’s useful to look to the distance,” said her mother, “because there are important things there, which might be bugs, or storms, or a hunting ‘io. But there are also important things right in front of you, like breakfast, and water, and the materials for a nest.”

“And someone to teach me to look there,” said her daughter.

“And someone to be with you and care for you,” said her mother.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, in full, but I tell them from a combination of memory and new creation. Therefore the recording does not match the text above.

Photo of an ‘elepaio by Dominic Sherony – Hawaii Elepaio (Chasiempis sandwichensis), CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=52150179.

Story: The ‘Apapane Bully

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

July 28, 2024

2 Samuel 11:1-15
John 6:1-21

Last week I told you a story about an ‘apapane who, when he was selected to lead a mixed flock of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, and ‘alawi, learned a lesson about proper leadership. He may not have liked learning it, but he learned it, and in just two or three days.

This week, I’m sorry to say, the story is about an ‘apapane who didn’t learn that lesson in their week as leader, and… Well, maybe I should just tell the story.

He was big for an ‘apapane (not so big for an ‘io). That made him bigger than pretty much all of the birds, especially the smaller ‘akepa and ‘alawi. Other ‘apapane tended to hop or turn out of his way when he came to their branch or crossed his flight path. Even i’iwi, who tend to be the more aggressive of the forest birds, learned to recognize this ‘apapane and stayed out of his way.

It seemed natural that such a big, strong, confident bird should be selected as leader. Right? Leadership is what big, strong, confident people – er, birds – are for. Right?

It didn’t go well.

First of all, he didn’t really pay attention to the other birds. He’d just give orders. “Go find a better tree!” he ordered one bird, who was nearly caught by an ‘io that the leader hadn’t troubled to look for. “Let’s go!” he shouted when they headed to a new tree, but he didn’t bother to make sure that all the birds heard it. Half of them stayed behind. When he discovered that, he flew back to the old tree, screamed and shouted, and even beat at one or two of them with his wings.

Worst of all, he picked on the smaller birds. He’d find ‘akepa sipping nectar and he’d push them out of the way. He pecked at ‘alawi with his beak if they got close. And if they weren’t close, he’d hop over and peck them.

In short, he’d crossed the line from “leader” to “bully.”

Flock elders talked to him, and the next day went the same. His parents talked to him, and the next day went the same. Flock elders came in a group with his grandparents – always listen to tutu, right? – and it went exactly the same the next day.

The flock had had enough.

The last morning of his leadership, five flock elders perched before him. “Just so you know,” they said, “you will not be elected leader again.”

“How can that be?” he screeched. “I’m biggest and strongest. I’m made to lead!”

“We require leadership,” they told him. “We will not tolerate bullying.”

“You’ll do what I tell you!” he shouted.

“No,” they said. “Never again.”

Every single bird in the flock turned away from him. Not one turned in his direction. Not one followed his screeched orders. When he flew over to peck at an ‘akepa, ten other birds flew over and formed a living shield to protect her.

“You’ll be sorry!” he shrieked and flew away.

But as far as I know, that flock has never been sorry that they know the difference between leadership and bullying, and that they insist on leadership, and send bullying away.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I writes these stories in advance, then tell them from memory on Sunday morning. It’s a different medium, and the results differ, too!

Photo of an ‘apapane (who is not, as far as I know, a bully) by Eric Anderson.

Story: ‘Apapane Leadership

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

July 21, 2024

Jeremiah 23:1-6
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

After the eggs have hatched and the chicks have learned to fly, many of the birds of the ohi’a and koa forest will come together in mixed flocks of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, and ‘alawi. They stay together to find ohi’a and mamane trees in blossom, which would also have attracted some tasty bugs.

It was the custom of one flock on the slopes of Mauna Loa to select a leader each week to keep the flock together and organize a watch for dangerous or suspicious creatures like cats, ‘io, pueo, and, well, people. The leader would look around for trees bright with flowers and guide the hungry birds toward them, while making sure nobody got left behind. It wasn’t the easiest thing for a bird to do, but most of them handled it pretty well.

One ‘apapane had been eagerly awaiting his turn to be flock leader. He was no longer that young, having seen a few summers and winters. He was something of a silent critic of the weekly leaders, silently scoring them on his own checklist. That one didn’t spot the mamane tree in blossom as fast as he had. This other one had been slow to get the birds moving. And this other one hadn’t properly spotted the watcher birds for ‘io. They’d spotted the hawk in plenty of time anyway, but it hadn’t been right.

At last came the week when the birds in the flock chose him as their leader for the next week. He was proud. He was excited. He was also… going to do something fairly complicated for the first time, and he was absolutely convinced that he knew exactly what should happen.

The result, the next morning, was a lot of birds screeching at one another, with their purported leader screaming the most and the loudest. He screeched at the ones who were supposed to be watching when they perched on a branch other than the one he’d selected. He screeched when they were ready to head to a new set of trees, and screeched when one or two birds headed off in the wrong direction. He screeched when a bird remained behind, and nearly pecked his tail as he flew right behind him to get him to the rest of the flock. He screeched when it was time to nap. He screeched when it was time to settle down to sleep.

When he turned about, one of the older birds, an ‘apapane kupuna, was perched behind him. He opened his beak to screech at her, but shut it quickly. He knew better than to screech at her.

“What have you been doing?” she said, “and don’t screech at me.”

“I’ve been leading,” he said, “like I’m supposed to.”

“You haven’t been leading like you’re supposed to,” she said rather severely. “You’ve been driving like you’re not supposed to. You’ve had birds who know perfectly well what to do confused and upset. Some of them went hungry today. While you were chasing that one bird there were two others that set off in the wrong direction and I had to go get them.”

“They should have listened to me!” he said.

“How could they,” she asked, “when you didn’t give them a clear direction?”

He was silent for a moment.

“You’ll try it again tomorrow,” said the kupuna ‘apapane, “and tomorrow you’ll plan, and you’ll chirp softly, and you’ll listen to the birds who know what they’re doing, and you’ll keep an eye on things and let other birds know when there’s a problem that they can help you with.”

“Be wise,” she said, “and attentive, and assuring. That will keep the flock with you, and fed, and comforted, and safe.”

Oh, it took some work, I tell you. But she was nearby the next day whenever he opened his beak to screech, and only one or two screeches got out. The day after he didn’t screech at all. By the time his week as leader was over, they followed him gratefully and gladly. Because he learned from his mistakes, and he learned how to lead.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full and in advance, but I tell them from memory and from improvisation. What you hear in the recording is not what you read above it.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.