christianity

Story: One Might Know

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

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.

Looking Carefully

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments


For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.’ What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. – Acts 17:23

Not looking carefully, I typed “Kiijubg” as first word
for the title of this poem/prayer.

It’s not a word I’ve seen before; I’d struggle to define it,
and truthfully it’s definitely not the word I meant.

But Shaw once wrote that when a thing is funny, search it for a hidden truth
(and promptly replied to himself that it takes all the fun out of it).

That fierce and fascinating man from Tarsus, though offended
by the shrines to idols all about, found one shrine

Which honored Agnostos Theos (perhaps); enough to base
a sermon on, to find a common root within a verdant forest

Of complex and disparate devotion,
and twist a cord to complement relationship

Between the human children worshiping the God of Jacob,
and the human children worshiping Olympians.

If Paul had looked less carefully, perhaps his ire for idols
would have leapt to his lips.

Instead his plea for understanding fell on ears
which heard. Some scoffed, it’s true,

But if he’d launched into a diatribe against the shrines,
what could they do but scoff and turn away?

For anger, like a hand misplaced upon the keys,
makes meaningless its words, however filled with hope.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 17:22-31, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Sixth Sunday of Easter.

The image is a photo of the “Altar of the unknown god” ca. 90-110 CE, discovered on the Palatine Hill in Rome (not Athens) in 1820. Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=56294298. The inscription can be translated, “Whether sacred to god or to goddess, Gaius Sextius Calvinus, son of Gaius, praetor, restored this on a vote of the senate.”

Flexible Hope

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments


“But filled with the Holy Spirit, he [Stephen] gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God.” – Acts of the Apostles 7:55

I wonder about Stephen, what he knew
when he was brought before the council of
the priests. Did he expect they’d hear him out?
Or see the door as gateway to his grave?

Oh what a fool he was to speak the words
he did if he had hope they’d hear him as
they’d heard out the apostles not so long
before, and waited on the signs of God.

Yes, “stiff-necked people” echoed Genesis,
and all he said about the troubled times
of their ancestors had been said before
by those who crafted First and Second Kings,

But telling those in power that they lived
just as their grim progenitors had done,
as faithless slayers of the prophets, roused
their wrath and spurred them order his death.

Now, if he had a hope of being heard
he spoke the ravings of a fool, and died
for it, but if saw the writing on
the wall, he spoke a liberated word.

Without a hope of living through this trial,
his mind and tongue could speak his fearless truth,
his soul adjust to choose another hope,
one which did not rely on human beings.

“I see the heavens opened and the Son
of Man, who stands there next to God,” he said,
and as they dragged him to his death, he found
that hope is flexible enough for all.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 7:55-60, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Fifth Sunday of Easter.

The image is The Martyrdom of Saint Stephen by Bernardo Daddi (ca. 1337-1338). Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=73011620.

Gate

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“So again Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.'” – John 10:7

It’s not your most compelling image, Jesus. In
a section where you said, “I am…”
three times, how many hold this one in memory?
To say the truth, I barely do.

And yet a gate is comforting. It guards a home,
a sheepfold, or a soul from harm.
It’s hardly perfect, since a thief may climb the wall:
They’ll have to work to work their ill.

The beauty of a gate is not protective force,
but its capacity to swing,
admitting those outside who’ve recognized the voice
and come to claim their place and home.

You tell us you are gatekeeper and gate. May we
remember that the gate is you,
and when we close it, we usurp your power, your
authority. and you yourself.

May we have faith and wisdom both to hold the gate
wide open for the gathering flock
and only close it in the most compelling circumstance,
then open it with welcome love.

A poem/prayer based on John 10:1-10, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday of Easter.

Photo of a gate by Eric Anderson.

Story: Surprise

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

April 5, 2026

Acts 10:34-43
John 20:1-18

Sometimes a bird on the mountainsides just takes a liking for a particular ohi’a tree. I don’t know whether the nectar tastes better, or if you get a particularly crunchy kind of bug, or if there’s something else that gets a bird excited.

This is about an i’iwi who had a favorite ohi’a tree.

He like other trees as well. When the mamane were in blossom, he’d happily sip from those flowers as well, but as far as he was concerned there was nothing better than his favorite ohi’a tree. The flowers were the right color red, he thought, and they’d get that lovely gold tip as they blossomed. Sometimes there weren’t any flowers on it, of course, but that just meant he’d develop an appetite as he waited for them to bloom again.

It was his favorite tree.

I think you know, however, that sometimes trees in the ohi’a forest die. Sometimes the wind blows them down. Sometimes an earthquake from the volcano shakes the soil loose beneath them. Sometimes an eruption knocks them down. And sometimes, I’m very sad to say, they get very sick very quickly. Their leaves fall and, all too often, no leaves grow ever again.

The i’iwi’s favorite tree got sick.

He didn’t notice at first. He noticed it didn’t have any blossoms, of course, but that wasn’t unusual. A tree can’t bloom all the time. But then he noticed that some of the leaves were browning and dropping away. It looked like the tree was trying to grow new leaves, but there didn’t seem to be a lot of them. The i’iwi realized that the tree was in bad shape.

He shouted out his frustration to the world.

He carried on with living. But he decided it would make him too sad to see his favorite tree get sick and maybe – probably – die, so he spent his time in other parts of the forest. There were good trees there. None of them were his favorite tree. None of them could ever be his favorite tree.

One day, however, the forest’s blossoms were scarce in the groves he’d been browsing. The pattern of flowers led him, tree by tree, toward his favorite tree. He didn’t really want to go there, but if that’s where the nectar was, that’s where the nectar was. Eventually he found himself flying right toward his favorite tree.

It was covered with bright red ohi’a lehua.

Imagine his surprise. He was sure the tree was dead, but it had survived, and it had even thrived. He flew around it, singing for joy. He settled onto a branch and lowered his long curved beak into a flower. The nectar tasted like heaven, even better than before, he thought.

This story is about Easter, but it’s not about mistaking who’s alive for someone who is dead. No. this story is about Easter because it’s about surprise. That i’iwi knew, knew to his soul, that his favorite tree was no more. Jesus’ friends and disciples, Simon Peter and Mary Magdalene, they knew that Jesus had died – as he had.

Both a Hawaiian bird and Mediterranean human beings learned that the world has more surprises in it than they’d imagined. An ohi’a that got better. A Savior who rose again to new life.

Happy Easter!

by Eric Anderson

Regrettably, there was a technical problem this morning, and the story was not recorded.

Story: All the Things

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

April 5, 2026

Acts 10:34-43
John 20:1-18

You’ve heard, I know, that there are some birds that winter with us here in Hawai’i, and that they fly to Alaska for the summer. Those birds might prefer to fly on a big jet, like you and I, but they use their own wings, even though some of them are pretty small birds. The kolea are the best known, but we’re also saying farewell to hunakai, ‘ulili, and ‘akekeke in the next month or so.

An ‘akekeke getting ready to fly looks like, well, it looks like an ‘akekeke does most of the time. It hops around the sands and stones and grasses near the ocean looking for crabs, worms, small fish, and basically anything it can eat.

A little flock of ‘akekeke noticed, however, that one of their number never seemed to pause much. Oh, she’d rest when she needed to, but the rest of the time her beak was pointed down, following her eyes constantly searching out the next worm, or small fish, or crab. She’d pause when she’d really filled herself up, but even with that she was hunting far more than her family or friends.

“What are you up to?” they asked her.

“I’m getting ready for the big flight,” she said.

“We all are, but we’re not eating all the time. You’re eating all the time. Why?”

“I want to make sure I can get all the things before it’s time to go,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” they asked her. “You can’t eat all the things. There’s too many things to eat to do that. And where would you put them?”

“I know,” she said, “but I’m going to look for as many as I can find, and who knows? Maybe that will be all the things.”

Why do I tell you this story? Well, it’s because out there along the walkways of the church there are Easter eggs. Some of them are ones you colored yesterday, and they look amazing. Some of them have sweets in them, and the sweets (not the plastic eggs) taste amazing.

What’s important, however, is that we find all the things. All the dyed eggs. All the plastic eggs. All the eggs you can use to make egg salad. All the eggs that have goodies in them.

Be like the ‘akakeke this morning. Find all the things!

by Eric Anderson

I tell two stories on Easter Sunday. I told this one just before the keiki began the annual Easter Egg hunt, where it is really important to find all the eggs. For the record, they did!

This story was not recorded.

Story: The Colt

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

March 29, 2026

Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 21:1-11

Today’s story doesn’t take place in the forests of Hawai’i. Nor does it take place in our time. It starts in a small village not far from Jerusalem, and it takes place on a day we’re familiar with because we celebrate it each year.

Surprise! It’s Palm Sunday.

He was a very young donkey. He’d only lived in one place, and he’d only really experienced one other creature, and that was his mother. He drank his milk and experimented with grass and hay and basically thought that life was pretty good, if a little dull.

On that day, however, a couple strangers came by and began to untie his halter and his mother’s halter from the fence. “What’s going on?” he asked his mother, who understood human language better than he did.

“These men say that the Lord needs us,” she said with some surprise.

“What does that mean?” he wondered, and his mother didn’t know, either.

Mystified, they followed the two strangers to a group of strangers. They put cloaks over his mother’s back and over his back, and then one of them sat on his mother while his friends cheered.

“What’s going on?” he asked his mother in some fright.

“They’ve asked us to carry Jesus to the city,” said his mother. “Just walk by me and everything will be fine.”

Off they went. One of the men led his mother along the road, though she seemed to know where she was going anyway. He trotted alongside – his legs were shorter than his mother’s, so he had to go faster to keep up.

As they made their way down a hill, other people began to gather along the road. They began to shout at Jesus and his companions. Some of them took their cloaks off and laid them on the road in front of the two donkeys. Others had taken branches from the trees and were waving them in the air as they shouted. Some of the leaves covered the road and the cloaks, and as the donkeys’ hooves stepped on them, they made a lovely scent rise.

“What are they saying?” he asked his mother, a little frightened by all the shouting.

“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord,” said his mother with wonder in her voice. “And they’re calling, ‘Help us! Save us!’”

The little donkey didn’t know how they were going to do that. He didn’t even know how he was going to help his mother carry Jesus. Abruptly, he knew that the thing he wanted most in the world, in fact, was to help his mother carry Jesus. He nuzzled up to her side.

“Let me help,” he said plaintively.

She said nothing at all, because Jesus reached over and rested his hand on the little one’s head. Just his hand. It didn’t weigh much at all. Jesus even scratched him behind the ears a little. But he proudly carried that hand along the way, through the city gates, and up the streets as the crowds grew and kept calling out in joy and with need:

“Help us! Save us! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (and a certain amount of improvisation). The story as you read it is not necessarily as I told it.

The image is The Entry of Christ into Jerusalem by Master of Maderuelo (12th cent.) – photographed by Zambonia 2011-09-29, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17158568.

Stones

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments
Gray stones.


“Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, ‘Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.'” – John 11:39

The first stones were the threats,
the stones they reached for when you said,
“The Father and I are one.” They called
it blasphemy, and well, it would be
if it weren’t true.

Given the risk of stones, which thrown,
break bones, returning to Judea
to heal your friend whose illness was
not to the death would make no sense,
at least if true.

But Lazarus was dead and in the grave
when you decided to return. Dear Thomas
pledged to join you in your death
if stones were cast. I’m sure he thought
he told the truth.

They came to you to weep. They came
to tell you just how much they trusted you.
“If you had been here, Lazarus would not
have died.” Your tears proclaimed your love
for Lazarus in truth.

“Remove the stone,” you called, despite the stink.
“Remove the stone,” you called, though they recoiled.
“Remove the stone,” you called, and Lazarus emerged.
“Unbind him now,” you called: he lived
in truth.

The stones they feared remained upon the ground.
No stones would break your bones, though one would seal
your tomb like Lazarus’. You there, as here, proclaimed
“I am the resurrection and the life”
in truth.

A poem/prayer based on John 11:1-45, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fifth Sunday in Lent.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: Visible

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

March 15, 2026

1 Samuel 16:1-13
Ephesians 5:8-14

‘Apapane depend on finding flowers for their nectar, and also to find the bugs that they eat, because those bugs tend to like eating the nectar. For an ‘apapane, a grove of ohi’a in blossom is like a long buffet table with all the variety they could ask for. When the trees where they are aren’t blooming, they’ll search about to find some that are.

One ‘apapane turned out to be really good at finding trees in blossom. His friends and family grew to depend on him. He’d fly about early in the morning, find a grove of lehua, and summon the rest of the flock. They’d all descend on it and merrily feast on nectar and bugs until they set off to find another good spot.

One day, as this ‘apapane was making his morning search for nectar, he found two places before he headed back to his family and friends. One of the spots was barely okay. It would do if nothing else was available. The other spot was amazing. Every tree was just dripping with blossoms. A flock could spend a couple days and not visit every flower.

He could just about taste the nectar. He started flying back, and as he did, a thought crossed his mind. What if he led everybody back to the first spot, the one that was just okay? If he did, he could go to the second spot and have it all to himself.

He got back to the flock and said, “I’ve found something! It’s not great, but it will do until something better comes along.” So they followed him – to the first little grove.

As they settled in to sip nectar and hunt bugs, he quietly flew away to the second spot and drank nectar until he overflowed.

The next day he did it again. He found two spots, and led his friends and family to the one that wasn’t as good, while he snuck off to the better one. The next day he did it again. And again.

One of his friends noticed that he wasn’t finding good groves the way he had before, and then also noticed that he went missing shortly after leading them to iffy trees. So when he slipped away she followed him to the heavily flowered grove he’d found and not shared. As he took his first deep sip of an ohi’a blossom, she landed next to him.

“Is this what you’re doing now?” she asked. “Being selfish?”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” he demanded.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I do know what you’re doing. What you’re doing is showing your friends middling spots while you save the good spots for yourself.”

“What are you going to say to the others?” he wanted to know.

“That depends on what you do tomorrow,” she said.

Early the next day, he flew off to seek for ohi’a groves. His friend watched him go, and she watched him come back. The flock followed him to a stand of ohi’a trees, and they were covered in bright red blossoms.

He perched next to his friend.

“Better?” he asked.

“Better,” she said. “I’m glad to know you’re not selfish at heart.”

“How do you know that?” he asked. “Can you read my heart?”

“Of course not,” she said, “but what you do reveals your heart. When you act selfishly, you show a selfish heart. When you share, you show a sharing heart.

“Of the two,” she added, “I prefer the sharing.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

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

Photo of an ‘apapane in ohi’a blossoms by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Fast and the Futile

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A bird in flight, wings spread wide. The bird coloring is mostly brown.

March 1, 2026

Romans 4:1-5, 13-17
John 3:1-17

Saltiness, sweetness, bitterness, and sourness. Those are the four senses of the human tastebuds. I’ve told stories about the first three over the last three weeks. Shall we go for sour?

Let’s go for sour.

He was the fasted akekeke in his generation (the English name is ruddy turnstone, and there is some reddishness in their brown feathers, and they do turn stones when looking for food). Yes, the fastest akekeke in his generation, and everybody knew it.

After hatching and fledging he’d quickly begun winning races among his siblings and cousins and friends in Alaska. They’d made a short journey to the shoreline where they’d munched on crabs and fish and snails before making the long flight to Hawai’i. That had been his first time, so even though he could fly very fast, he stayed with the other birds and they arrived on the island together.

But as spring approached and the return to Alaska, he started to think about winning.

“I’m going to win the race,” he announced to his friends and cousins.

“What race?” they asked.

“The race back to Alaska,” he said. “I’m going to win.”

“There’s a race?” they said, and they looked at one another in confusion.

“And I’m going to win,” he said firmly, and leaped into the air to practice.

“What are you talking about, son?” asked his father later on. “What race are you flying in?”

“The race to Alaska,” said the young bird. “I’m going to win.”

“But there’s no race,” said his father. “We just fly to the same place.”

“What good is that?” said the fastest akekeke in his generation. “There has to be a race. And I’m going to win.”

And that was that. His father, his mother, his sisters and brothers, his tutus, his cousins, his friends: Nobody could convince him that there wasn’t a race, that there wasn’t anything to win.

“I’m going to win the race,” he insisted.

When the day came for the akekeke to begin their flight to Alaska, he was among the first to take to the sky. He pressed on hard, and rapidly drew to the front of the flock, then beyond it. He was the fastest flyer in his generation, after all.

It wasn’t long before he couldn’t make out the other birds behind him. He was alone in the sky. He was confident, though, that he knew where he was going, and he was also right. He did. It was a long tiresome journey, but he made a successful landing on the Alaskan shores and began hunting for food.

He’d won.

But as he satisfied his hunger, he realized that another hunger remained unsatisfied. He’d won, but there was no celebration. There was nobody there. He was the only akekeke on a long empty beach. He was lonely. It was a sour victory.

It took quite some time before the other akekeke began arriving. It took longer for his father to find him. “How was your race?” he asked his son.

“The flight was all right,” he said, “but you’re right. It wasn’t a race.”

“The victory wasn’t what you thought?” said the father.

“It was sour,” said the son.

“How about now?” asked the father, “with everybody else here?”

The son looked around at the busily feeding akekeke, and the sourness subsided. He felt good again.

“Everybody is in the same place,” he told his father. “We’ve all won.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation. On this day, for example, one of the youngsters raced up to the front, which was a little unfortunate given the theme of the story.

Photo of an akekeke in flight by Eric Anderson.